For the first year or so, it smelled like the inside of an animal corpse, dipped in year-old taffy.

Once that dissipated, a horrid solid cloud - not unlike rusty vulcanized mothball mixed with vinegar and dried sweat - seemed to hover in the air for months.

Thankfully, the place has never smelled like fire, chemical or death.

Until Tuesday night.

I was just about to cook my mac n' cheese, when my roommate noted a foul odor emanating from either the basement, the bathroom, the couch or the fireplace.

My head hurt, so I assumed it was the stuff she uses as nail polish remover: some combination of battery acid, uranium and ether.

But this was different. It was thin and wispy yet thick like soup, the unsettling bouillabaisse of a gas leak. There was an undeniable haze in the living room, and my head was now screaming.

I began to feel faint and wondered if we were being slowly poisoned. What was it? Carbon monoxide? Radon?

I crept to the basement door to investigate, slowly turned the handle and ... BLUE SMOKE WAS BILLOWING UP FROM THE FURNACE!

No mistake about it, something was either on fire or on the verge of exploding. The cloud was dense now, and we paused for philosophical debate.

Should we call the landlord? The fire department? 911? What would it be like to actually call 911? Did this qualify as an emergency situation?

We were about to pass out, and we were 80 percent sure our home was about to combust. So my roommate made the call. We rounded up the dogs, fled into the icy night, and drove a few houses down the street.

There we stood, watching, saying little, waiting for the wall of flame to blow through the picture window. I had long imagined this scenario - diving down the hill as the fireball nipped at my heels, shielding the dog as shards of glass impaled my arm. I had my phone, my wallet, everything I needed to begin again.

No less than three minutes after we placed the call, the cavalry appeared, flashing red and blue beyond the Breakwater. Two trucks from Capital City Fire and Rescue. The firefighters jumped out with their axes, searching for a point of entry.

They disappeared into the apartment, radios squawking. Across the road, we felt like jackasses. We were almost rooting for some sign of flame to justify this response. Minutes passed, and still that chemical stew lingered.

Finally, they found the culprit. An exhaust pipe from the furnace was clogged with soot, reventing smoke, poison and ash through the basement and into the house. The CO accumulation wasn't lethal, but much higher than usual. No fire, but cause for alarm.

Worse, we had a carbon-based heater and no carbon monoxide alarm - a potentially fatal violation of AS 18.70.095 (a).

Thanks to all the people who came out that night, and deputy fire marshal Dan Jager, who hooked us up with two new smoke detectors and a set of 9-volt batteries.