I think Granny's basement is infected with black mold. I have no proof because I'm too afraid to look.
When you go downstairs, you have to keep your mouth closed, or else it gets in your lungs, and then you're pulling a Bill the Cat to get the stench out of your throat.
My treadmill is down there. Bad idea.
Perhaps my grandmother is not really my grandmother, but a collection of mold spores held together with a rosary. This may explain why she has lived to 91 despite breast cancer, pneumonia, thyroid disease, Parkinson's, detached retinas, melanoma and those pins that are holding her arm together.
Perhaps that's why she claims she doesn't smell any mold.
One night I'll wake to find her hovering over me in my bed chanting "One of us, one of us" while tendrils of black mold try to wrap me in a cocoon, Body Snatcher-style.
I love all of you.