Natasha Finlay

Nothing evokes emotion like scent.

The nightclub smells of smoke and sweat. The air stuffy and fetid. He leans against the bar, slowly sips his scotch and scans the room. It’s full of beautiful women, all scantily clad in sequins and Lycra. They stink of sex. An earthy, pungent smell. His stomach roils; he swallows hard to stop himself from retching.

The crowd sways. Glasses clink and laughs are heard over the thumping beat of music. The bar is long and busy. He’s perched himself down one end. Not too far away that he can’t see the room. But not centre stage either. He doesn’t want to look too obvious.

Lustful glances come his way. He’s not impervious to them. A single person in a nightclub must understand that they are sending a message. With his tall, lithe stature and dark eyes, he knows he’s good looking. He plays the mysterious card well. And he’s available. But only to the right person. And she has to be perfect.

He closes his eyes and takes a long, deep inhale. There’s the sickly-sweet smell of pleasure, the metallic smell of eagerness, the vinegary scent of jealousy. All infused with the background reek of arousal. None of these are the scents he’s looking for. What he’s searching for is elusive and sublime.

There is a bouquet of heaven that is the smell of fear on a woman. Tonight, he wants to capture that piece of heaven, just for a moment.

He sees a group of men wearing tight shirts that stretch taut over their gym-ified biceps. They’ve surrounded some women they’re trying to impress, passing the champagne bottle between them. One of the women giggles, she trails her hand over her cleavage.

Tricks are everywhere. The girls wear their luring charms. Some of them try to hide them under their clothes, but he can still feel their presence. The companies who market them say they can attract anyone you set your mind to; a potential partner is unable to resist. It’s a false promise. They don’t work on him, of course. He’s completely immune to them.

‘You look lonely, handsome. Did your girlfriend leave you all alone tonight?’

She’s standing too close. Her painted lips curl into a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. She smells grubby, like clay.

 His nose crinkles and he fixes her a cold glare. ‘Go away.’

She recoils, looks surprised. Seems she’s not used to being rejected. Her eyes flash with wounded anger and she saunters off, glass in hand.

This is tedious. Maybe he should give up. Maybe tonight’s not his night. His work is complicated, so precise. Tonight, he’s just not feeling it. Impatience will lead to mistakes. That was the error he made with the first girl. He moved on her too quickly, she didn’t even know what was happening before he’d snapped her neck. He’d got her home, they were kissing, then she was dead. There was no fear. It was such a waste.

He did better with the second one. He used his hands on her throat that time. But he misjudged her. She fought. He laughed at her for thinking that she could possibly match him. But then her stiletto heel struck his head and he felt warm blood dripping to his mouth. For a moment he went dizzy before finishing her off. He scented her fear, but it was contaminated by the acidic odour of anger. The whole moment spoiled. What he was looking for was pure and untainted. Terror, perhaps.

Next time will be different. He’ll choose her carefully. He will not rush. Once completed, it will be worth the wait. There is nothing more intoxicating than the euphoria of that scent. It’s the drug he’s spent his life chasing. He’d caught a hint of it at places, a remnant of horror leftover from some event, but he’d never enjoyed the complete and pure experience. This gift of scent was born to him for a reason, so he will indulge in it. It starts with finding the perfect girl.

He closes his eyes again and takes a long inhale. Underneath the rancid stench, he catches something. It’s breezy and honeyed—a complex aroma. There’s a floral base, with notes of spice and sweetness.  It floats delicately beneath the fetid smell of the club. His heart skips as he scans the room. Where is she? He inhales again. The smell is to his right.

She’s standing in the corner, dressed in oversized clothes that hide her body. He stares at her and breathes deeply. She smells divine—there’s doubt, self-consciousness, a tinge of embarrassment—a beautiful bouquet. She must feel the weight of his gaze, because she glances up and catches him staring. He doesn’t look away. His breath quickens. She has strawberry blonde hair, tied up in a haphazard ponytail. She’s not wearing make-up. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and looks down, pulling on her shirt. She glances back at him, a rose blush coursing over her cheeks. It reaches right up to her ears. He feels a throbbing ache deep inside.

She’s perfect.

He has to plan next steps. The friend she’s with is bopping to the music, champagne glass in hand, wearing a skimpy red top. They couldn’t be more different from each other.  He moves towards the friend, smooth and confident. The friend’s name is Martina. She flicks her hair and smiles at him from under her eyelashes. They flirt. He asks Martina if she’s here alone and she gestures roughly to her fat friend hiding in the corner playing on her phone.

‘This is Wendy.’

‘Hello, Wendy.’

Wendy smiles politely and shrinks back into the corner. This might be more challenging than he expected. But he has all night. He’s patient.

The next round of drinks is on him, and he brings one back for Wendy.

‘What do you do for work, Wendy?’

‘I work in a nursing home, for elderly people with dementia.’ She gulps her wine and fidgets with her plump fingers.

‘My mother died of dementia a few years ago. I took six months off work to care for her. Your work is really tough.’ The lie rolls so easily off his tongue.

She looks at him, wide-eyed. Now he has her interest. They chat about his fictional mother and his fantasy caring role. Martina stands facing him, her shoulders edging in front of Wendy, sticking her chest out. She smells foul; he tries to ignore her. Wendy says something about the tiring nature of her work.

‘Is that your excuse for not going to a gym, Wendy?’ Martina gives a cruel scoff.

Wendy recoils and steps backwards. Oh God, she smells like heaven. There’s shame, embarrassment, self-loathing. It lingers in the air. A backdrop of earthiness, a hint of moss, topped with vibrant citrus. A chypre perfume. Glorious. His heart skips. A smile of joy creeps over his lips. But Wendy is shrinking away. He has to bring her back.

The music stops. The lights of the club flick on. They’re pulled from the darkness into fluorescent light. A voice from the DJ box announces that they are temporarily interrupted while the police do a routine search. Men in blue suits swarm into the space and disperse amid the crowd. It’s a drug raid. Fuck.

How did he not know about this? This has ruined everything. He turns to Wendy, who’s looking around the room with curiosity. From the corner of his eye, he catches Martina slip a folded piece of paper into Wendy’s bag. Then she swivels towards the police, jiggling on her heels and biting a fingernail.

The police officers approach. He doesn’t know any of them. Damn it, why wasn’t he aware there was going to be a raid tonight? He takes a few steps away from Wendy and Martina. It looks like he was standing near them, not standing with them. His mind races as he weighs up his next move. Martina stinks with a plastic odour. It fills his nostrils and pisses him off.

He pulls out his badge and shows a constable. ‘Hey. I saw the girl in the red top slip something into her friend’s bag when she wasn’t looking. You might want to print test it.’

The constable straightens and looks him in the eye. ‘Oh. Thank you, sir. We’ll look at it. Sorry sir, we didn’t know you were working here tonight.’

‘I’m not working tonight. I just happen to be here.’ His fists clench. It’s all ruined now.

He makes for the entrance, flashes his badge to the officers standing guard at the door as he marches out.

‘Good night, Detective.’ They nod at him with respect.

On the footpath, he lights a cigarette. He always checks where the raids are happening. He always knows. How did this happen? That scent, God how perfect it might have been. Now it’s ruined; he’s lost her. She had an unearthly smell that was divine, nothing he’d experienced before. He won’t find another like her; he should just go home. But there’s a hunger now, eating at his insides. He can’t just pack it away. He lights another cigarette. There’ll be other places open. It’s not so late. Maybe he could try somewhere else.

‘Excuse me.’

He must have been standing there for a while. He turns around to see the police leaving and Wendy standing on the footpath.

‘You’re a police officer?’

‘Yes.’

She shifts on her feet and tucks her hair behind her ear. An oversized handbag is clutched across her chest.

‘Well, I just wanted to say thank you. They found drugs in my bag, but they print tested them and told me you saw Martina slip them into my bag. I don’t do drugs, ever.’ She’s looking at the footpath but glances up at him. ‘So, thank you.’

He nods. She gives a faint smile and backs away, turning and shuffling towards the taxi line. He watches her, assessing the situation at hand. The police saw him leave the nightclub alone. He knows how to be clean with a scene. His hands skim his pockets and feel the zip ties. Maybe it’s not all lost.

‘Wendy!’ he calls back at her, holding up his car keys. ‘Do you need a lift?’

She beams at him.

He’s got her in the car. It’s happening. He can barely contain his excitement, his breath hitches. She fumbles with the car stereo as they make awkward conversation. He can scent her nervousness. The car fills with the sweet breeziness of apprehension. The smell of fear is just behind it. His breath quickens, his mouth moist. But he stays calm, acts cool. If he moves too quickly, she might freak out and run off. He has to get her inside. They have to be alone.

The moon is full tonight. She leads him through the front door. She doesn’t turn on the lights, but he can make out the surroundings in the pearly glow. She turns and takes a step backwards to look at him. Her gaze exploring. He can scent her desire now and he’s tempted to recoil in revulsion. But he moves closer, she takes his hand and leads him towards the bedroom. She starts singing—a strange song that sounds vaguely familiar. It’s an odd thing to do but he’s not really listening, his excitement is hot and throbbing. With his other hand he reaches for his gloves.

She leads him into the bedroom and he does a double take. Its empty. There’s no bed, no furniture at all. How strange. She’s dropped his hand and is walking backwards into the room. Still singing as she slowly unbuttons her blouse. But her voice sounds different. There are multiple voices now, joining her song. He sees shadows move in the corners of the room; they look like faces.

The time to act is now. She’s nearly by the back wall. He goes to move, but his feet won’t work. They’re stuck. He looks down and sees that he’s standing on plastic. The floor is covered with plastic sheeting. Something’s wrong.

He goes to grab her, but his hands won’t move. He’s standing there, frozen. His throat dry and clenching. The shadows in the corners are moving closer. He recognises them. They’re the other girls he took, singing with her.

She picks up a blade. Not a blade—a sword, the length of his arm, that had been resting against the back wall. It glints and flickers in the moonlight. Somehow, she’s grown in height. She’s taller than him, so much taller. How did she get so tall? Her eyes have glazed over in a scarlet hue. His stomach drops. God, this is all wrong. How did this get so wrong? The creature before him is not human.

He tries to say, I’m sorry Goddess, please forgive me, but his tongue won’t work and his mouth won’t open. His heart exploding in his chest, his breath caught.

As she swings her arm above her head, with sword gleaning, he’s consumed by scent. A sensual base of amber and vanilla. Layered with delicate florals, laced with a fresh herbaceous note. It’s both delicate and rich, creamy and light. Perfectly balanced. Exquisite. His thumping heart aches. His eyes water and tears well. It’s the most magnificent and sublime scent he’s experienced. It’s everything he’s been searching for and more. It’s pure, unadulterated fear.

It’s his.

---

Natasha Finlay is a writer of dark fantasy, gothic fiction and horror, with a deep love for exploring the shadowy realms of the human psyche. Her novels and short stories blend mysticism with emotional complexity. When not writing, she’s completing a master’s degree in creative writing, and works as a psychiatrist. She lives in a rural property in south east Queensland with her husband, son and furry family.

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