It's no secret that my roommate and I don't like each other.
I found her a few months ago after my other roommate dropped out of school. I didn't vet her much, because I needed to find someone *fast* to cover half the rent. Of course I did a background check, stalked her social media, that kind of thing. But I'd only actually talked to her one-on-one for twenty minutes before she moved in.
She's mid-twenties like me, and very pretty. Perfect blonde hair and clear blue eyes. Perfectly applied makeup, from pink eyeshadow to skin that looked like it had been airbrushed on. Sparkly white teeth with a killer smile.
I think that's why I didn't spend more time vetting her. I assumed she must be okay because she *looks* okay.
I immediately regretted my decision.
Apparently, Emily is a "beauty vlogger." She doesn't have a real job—just sits in her room all day, trying out different makeup looks for her fans. I hear her up at all hours of the night, even, talking and giggling as she records.
But at least she pays her rent. So I didn't grumble as I cleaned up the foundation powder from our counter (seriously, what does this woman's skin really look like? She applies like a metric ton of foundation to her face every day.) I didn't complain when she woke me up at 2 AM with a fit of high-pitched giggles—or when I had to leave the windows open in freezing cold just to get rid of that horrible floral scent. She tried to befriend me at first, but after I sniped at her a few times, she got the message. We pleasantly ignored each other, as if an unspoken pact had been made. Things were actually fine.
That all changed on September 7th.
I was running late. I didn't let the shower water run for a few minutes like I usually do. I jumped right in—and as soon as my feet hit the ceramic, they slipped out from under me.
If I hadn't grabbed the curtain rod just in time, I would've cracked my head open.
"I'm so sorry. I'm trying out this new conditioner," Emily explained, when I told her. "It's super detangling. I never really noticed but I guess the bathtub does get kind of slippery. I'm so sorry."
She was being really nice about it, but I was furious. It was bad enough that she messed up the place with all her beauty gook. Now, it was a safety hazard, too?
"I can't keep doing this," I said, trying to keep my voice from rising. "You have to keep all your makeup in your bedroom. I'm sick of cleaning up all your messes. And you can't use weird shit in the shower that might kill me. Okay?"
"Okay," she said in a small voice.
Emily was really good about keeping her stuff out of the bathroom after that. The bathtub was never slippery, and I even noticed that cloying floral scent seemed to fade. I was happy, and even felt a little bad for yelling at her so much. She pays half the rent just like I do. Why do I get to say what comes into the bathroom and what doesn't?
But then it got worse.
On September 30th, I woke up early. Made my way to the fridge and, shamelessly, grabbed the milk to take a swig right out of the carton. Emily drinks fat-free, so the 2% is all mine.
But as soon as the milk hit my tongue, I began to sputter.
"Eugh! What—what *is* this?!"
The milk didn't taste just sour. It was acrid, burning my tongue and making my eyes tear.
I ran over to the sink and spit it out. It had a strange consistency—like it had been diluted with something clear and slightly viscous. Like spit or something.
Emily burst out of her bedroom. "What happened?"
"Something is *really* wrong with this milk."
"Oh my God, you drank the milk?"
A funny feeling settled in my stomach. "Why... why would I *not* drink the milk?"
"I told you! Last night! I asked you if I could use your milk carton for a beauty mask recipe. You said sure. So I poured the remaining milk into a cup--" she pointed to an aluminum-foil-covered mug in the fridge-- "and used the carton for the mask."
I cupped my hands under the faucet. Swished water in my mouth. Over and over until the acrid taste started to fade. She kept apologizing, but I could barely hear her voice over the faucet.
That night I couldn't sleep.
*I don't remember her asking me about the milk carton.* That thought pulsed in my brain well into the wee hours. I got up, turned the lock, and jimmied a chair underneath the doorknob for good measure.
And why my milk carton? She could've used a bowl, a bottle, a Ziploc bag. And I don't know what the hell she put in her beauty mask, but it sure tasted like poison.
I kept even more distance from Emily for the next few days, trying to figure out what to do. Kicking her out would most likely result in me having to move, too, unless I could find someone else to take her place within a matter of days. *And I'm probably just being paranoid.* She was a beauty vlogger, and making some weird-ass face mask sounds just like the kind of thing that would go viral.
That's what I told myself--until Friday happened.
I got home late that night, a little drunk. I unlocked the door, yawning, and stepped inside. Then I flicked the light switch.
It didn't go on.
*Dammit*. The bulb must've blown. The light was on in the main hallway, so it couldn't be a power outage. Still—the apartment was pitch dark. I fumbled through the darkness, my footsteps weaving from the alcohol, my hands stretched out in front of me--
They met something soft.
*What* is *that?*
I was standing in the middle of the main room. There was only the couch and TV in there. It should've been a clear shot to my bedroom door.
I squinted into the darkness. Nothing. But it was weird—I could tell something was there. By the way the hum of the fridge muffled right in front of me. How the slight variations in black and gray changed just two feet in front of my face.
*This is stupid.* I reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone, and hit the flashlight.
My heart dropped.
Emily stood right in front of me.
Just standing there in the middle of the room. At almost 2 AM. She faced away from me, towards the windows. Her blonde hair cascaded down her back, glinting off the phone's flashlight.
"E-emily?" I backed away. "What are you doing up so late?"
She slowly turned around.
She was grinning.
A wide, ear-to-ear grin. Her blue eyes sparkled in the light as she stared at me.
And then she giggled.
A low giggle in her throat. As if she were positively delighted that I'd just arrived home. It made her entire body shake—and that's when I noticed something glinting in her hand.
A knife.
I forced my legs to move. Forced myself to run towards the apartment door. But as soon as I took a step, I heard her lunge after me. Her fingers grabbed my hair—*tug—*and then I jerked forward with all my strength, ripping several out in the process.
I made it to the door and burst into the hallway. Ran down the stairs, screaming the entire time. Someone must've dialed 911 because minutes after I made it to the parking lot, red and blue lights were throbbing in the darkness, sirens wailing in my ears.
The police found Emily in the apartment. They arrested her and told me later that "Emily Ryan" was a fake name; though they haven't been able to identify her yet. However, she did admit one thing that chilled me to the bone.
Emily never had a beauty vlog.