A Certain Place in Hell

If enough sinnin' is done in the right direction, I suppose. This was described to me in much the same way as I tell it now. Except without the pronoun issues. Fuck pronouns.

It is a well furnished house with many rooms, perhaps endless rooms. Naturally, when one finds themself on the couch of one of the rooms, they will stand and begin to explore the others. There are things to look at, things to touch, though nothing of particular or lasting interest. But every now and then, at least three or four times per room, the individual will catch upon the edge of a smell. They will lean closer to what they think is the source and breathe deep, filling their lungs like a ship taking on water. Every smell is of something known or familiar; perhaps from each sin that brought them there; or perhaps each individual's house, world, hell, is layered over every other, and the smells are the ghosting presence, trails, of their unfortunate comrades. Either way, all that matters is that the source, the thing itself, is not to be found in any of the numerous (or infinite) rooms of the house and, worse yet, each eager breath eats away the smell until it too is gone, the empty room is yet emptier somehow, and the individual, dragging a hand over the counter top in a strange daze, passes like a ghost or a smell into the next room.