Outhousey

Then there was the smell in the room. She was the first to admit that during writing fits her unrinsed dishes stacked up until they reeked, but this wasn’t the same kind of smell at all. This was stale, sweaty and a bit on the outhousey side.

A rotten eggs, decaying matter and piquant, outhousey, je ne sais quois fragrance radiated off her in noxious waves.

The attic was so big, so quiet, so bare and so neat. It had its own smell – slightly musty and outhousey, but pleasant.