text: Claire and I stood in the middle of “the storage unit”, as Claire kept calling it. I’m not prone to phobias, but believe me, it’s damn near impossible not to feel claustrophobic, when you’re surrounded by endless rows of precariously stacked piles of heavy objects, some of them looking alarmingly sharp, most of them looking as if they may tumble down any second. Packed to the brim. You’ve guessed it: this was no ordinary storage unit. Not something built to harbour a couple of forgotten moving boxes and great-grandma’s favourite rocking chair. This was a an industrial size affair, the floor about ten thousand square feet, the ceiling easily fifteen feet high. The biggest items stacked in here, as far as I could see, where a sofa comfortably seating a football team (reserve players included), a fossil collection in glass show cases that may or may not have once been the highlight of a museum exhibition, and something I can best describe as a moderate size harvester. Plus anything and everything imaginable in any type of household, from your run-of-the-mill seventeenth century French Sun King’s castle to a trailer park meth lab. Most of these piles seemed to defy gravity. Some reached up to the ceiling, packed so densely they seemed to be squeezed in here by force, or maybe the ceiling had been lowered, clamping down on them. A sight to behold, no doubt. Still, what truly overwhelmed me, was the stench. Foul. Aggressive. A combination of decay and something I can, bizarrely, best describe as “frenzy”. When Claire had opened the heavy metal shutter door to this place, it had been little more than a slight whiff. Then ever-increasing in strength the further we ventured inside. Where I was standing now, the stink was oppressive. Maybe an old bear was hibernating in here somewhere. Or rather, an old bear had been hibernating in here, many years ago, but sadly, hadn’t made it to the next spring. And nobody had found him yet. So what was this place, what’s the explanation for this jam-packed maze and the disgusting smell accompanying it? “Real estate storage”. Have I mentioned Claire’s a realtor? Well, she is, and a very successful one at that. Before I tell you how this adventure took an ugly turn, let me mention that Claire had warned me, asking me whether I had a sensitive stomach, telling me it might be best to skip our visit. Whereupon I had told her it wouldn’t be a problem. I even remember chuckling knowingly. As a coroner, I explained to her, I was used to stenches no storage unit could equal, let alone surpass. Well, I was wrong, and not just about the stenches. Back to the story. Apparently, “real estate storage” is a thing. When Claire first mentioned it, that didn’t exactly pique my interest. I imagined used yard signs with “for sale” printed on them next to a photo of Claire’s friendly, well made up face. A couple of boxes with old flyers maybe. What more could there be? So when she said, with that telling little smile of hers, that it was nothing like that, nothing at all ... I was hooked. In my defense, I’ve always been a curious person. In hindsight, that was probably my biggest mistake. That’s the thing about hindsight, though: as a rule, it comes too late. But what about the storage unit? What’s the explanation for the size of it, for this breathtaking, chaotic--for lack of a better word--collection? “Real estate home staging”. Any ideas what that entails? You do? You’re well ahead of me then. Little did I know you cannot expect to sell your house for a decent price anymore, unless you ruthlessly declutter it first. Sure, I understood the general idea: for a showing, avoid smelly socks on the bedroom floor and moldy pizza boxes in your teenage son’s room (or any other room, for that matter). Maybe even declutter your wardrobe and your kitchen cupboards. After all, you never know whether a potential buyer might be brazen enough to open them. What I hadn’t realized, was that it didn’t end there. Before your realtor sticks a “for sale” sign into your front yard, you’re expected to do the following: Scrub every surface until there’s nothing left to scrub, outside surfaces, inside surfaces. Everything. Everywhere. Depersonalise. Your favorite holiday snaps? Those cherished portraits of your grandchildren? Photos of beloved pets, who’ve trooped over the rainbow bridge long ago? Get rid. Any particular aromas, good or bad, scented plants and perfumes included? Get rid. Mismatched pieces of furniture, holding so many dear memories? Get rid. That collection of glass budgerigars made from special Czech crystal you inherited from aunt Marcia? Well ... you get the picture. The reason is simple, as Claire explained to me: the family who--you hope--will buy your old place, preferably well above asking price, has to envision themselves living there. Envision themselves . Not envision you . So “neutral” is key. Excellent real estate home staging, I’ve learned, goes even further: not only will Claire take all your unwanted, sale impeding clutter off your hands, she will also supply you with wonderfully stylish, perfectly neutral design objects. Anything that upgrades your simple family home to a professional interior-design showroom. And where does all the unwanted clutter go? Exactly. Right now, I was standing in the middle of one of those “declutter storage units”. Yes, there were more. Six in total. This was the biggest and the most impressive, though, Claire had assured me. There’s one more thing you should know: not only had Claire been an amazingly successful realtor for decades, she was also a hoarder. Which is why none of the stuff in here--while meant to be stored only temporally--got thrown out or auctioned off, when the owners didn’t come back to collect it. Everything stayed. Everything. So there you have it. The explanation. And after adjusting to the sight of this vast, bizarre collection, I thought nothing in here could surprise me anymore. That was my second mistake. Or maybe it was my third. I’ve lost count. I stared at the bloody knife and the severed hand, both sticking out of a pile of what looked like theatre props and costumes for a period piece, Henry the eighth maybe. I remember thinking Claire had probably seen it as well, assuming the hand was a theatre prop. An understandable mistake. I’d be a useless coroner, though, if I couldn’t spot the difference between a prop and the real thing. “Claire?” I called, softly. I couldn’t see her any more and turned around, slowly, looking for her, trying my best not to touch anything--neither the knife nor the hand nor anything else. In my mind, at that point, the biggest threat was still an avalanche of home-decorating junk toppling down on me. There was no answer. Instead, the overhead lights went out. In quick succession, I heard the metal shutter door being pulled down, followed by the eerie sound of the thick metal lock snapping into place. Then the click-clack of Claire’s high heels on the concrete floor of the deserted hallway, on the other side of the door. Then nothing. For a brief moment, the image of all the other doors to all the other storage units flared up in my mind’s eye, like a beacon of hope. Someone else would arrive soon, surely. Then I remembered what Claire had told me: she was the one renting all the units on this floor. I also remembered her jokingly mentioning that for the foreseeable future, there was no watchman. It’s hard to describe my next feeling. The one that came with the realisation of what it meant, that rash decision, when I had--readily, carelessly--agreed to leave my briefcase in Claire’s car. The briefcase with my smartphone in it. “CLAIRE?!” Silence.