There are three things you need to know before you read this.
Firstly, I loved living alone. After years of sharing rooms and dealing with intrusive family members, this was the dream. Second, I was shy and hated engaging in conversation with strangers first. And third, I was a clueless girl and didn’t see the signs.
One question repeated itself in my head: What was I thinking? Getting a roommate wasn’t on my 2026 bingo card. But neither was being broke. Her name was Tamzin; she majored in Psychology and was on her way to getting a Doctorate. That’s all I learned about her. Otherwise, she seemed pretty cool, clean, and responsible, so I accepted her as a roommate.
What was I thinking?
I was regretting everything the day she had to move in. I was stressed; I had never lived with anyone other than family. What if she started psycho-analyzing me? The sharp ring of the doorbell took me out of my stupor. I smoothed down my skirt one last time before opening the door.
“Hi! I’m Tamzin. You’re Prisca, right?”
“Hey Tamzin, come in.”
I opened the door wider for her. She barely carried any luggage, especially for someone moving in.
“I’ll give you a tour.” I showed her the kitchen, living room, washroom, and finally, her room. “These are the keys—one for the apartment, and one for the room.”
“Thank you. Can I ask you a question?” She smiled shyly.
“Go ahead. I’m an open book.”
“I love your lip combo, where’s your lip liner from?”
I looked at her, a little stunned. I would love to share it, but Tamzin and I weren’t exactly the same shade. She was pale, close to looking sickly in my auntie’s eyes. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Uhh—it’s from M.A.C, Dusty Beige, I’m pretty sure.” Nevertheless, I didn’t want to seem like a gatekeeper. “Anything else?”
“Not really. Thanks.”
“No problem, I’ll let you settle in. Are you hungry?”
“What are you making?”
I looked at the clock. I had two hours before my next class, so probably something quick. “Some Pithla with flatbread.”
“That sounds nice. Indian?”
“West Indian. Yeah.”
“Sure, I’d love some.”
I nodded and retreated to the kitchen to start cooking.
It didn’t take long before lunch was ready. We sat at the table ready to dive in. “You put your hair in a bun.” I looked at her hair, twisted in a bun just like mine. “Yeah, I didn’t want any hair in the way while I unpacked.”
“That’s nice.”
“I’m heading off to uni now. I’ll see you later.”
I left without waiting for an answer. The walk to the university was short—an advantage of where I lived. The lecture, though, was boring, and I was glad when I could finally go home.
“Tamzin, I’m back.”
“Hey Prisca. Can you come help me, please? It’ll only take a second.” Her voice rang from the washroom. I carefully walked there to find her looking in the mirror over the sink, boxes of hair dye on the counter. Her hair was all black and wrapped in plastic.
“What are you doing?”
“Just dyeing my hair. I wanted to do it now since I was free.”
Oh. “So what do you need help with?”
“Could you turn on the water for me, please? I can’t figure it out for the life of me.”
“What happened to your accent?” When we first met, her accent was the definition of a southern accent.
“What accent? I’ve always spoken like this.”
Oh. “Okay.” I showed her how to turn on the water. It wasn’t in the least bit tricky, but oh well.
“You don’t speak much, do you?”
“Not really.”
“I’m quite literally the opposite. I blabber until it hurts.” She took the plastic off her head. “I’m going to rinse this off. Thanks.”
“Welcome,” I muttered before leaving, heading to my room to study. I must’ve dozed off because I woke up in the middle of the night. The sky outside was a dark blue that seemed to swallow the stars it should have held, yet didn’t. I stood up, stretched, and padded to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. On my way, I noticed Tamzin’s door was left ajar; the light was on. Wasn’t it late? Shouldn’t she be asleep?
I glanced inside. She sat at her desk, her back to me. Her hair, once a dirty blonde, was as dark as mine. She seemed to be studying. As I was about to leave, her head swiveled onto itself to stare at me. Her eyes were wide—an unworldly size. Her pupils were blown wide. Her light blue eyes were now brown, and she had a smile on her face that betrayed her human nature. Her mouth stretched a fraction too wide, parting just enough to reveal teeth that looked like tombstones. It was worse than wolfish, and scarier than creepy.
My hand reflexively went to my mouth. What. The. Hell. I backed away slowly, putting as much distance as I could between me and that creature. I forgot all about the water and quickly went to my room. I must’ve been dreaming. There’s no way this was real. It’s a prank. My roommate’s a prankster. I climbed into bed and put the covers over my head. I couldn’t face her tomorrow.
But I had to. The next morning, the apartment was silent. Not quite quiet—more like a creepy quiet. The kind of quiet that made you think something was wrong. I slowly got out of bed. I followed the strong smell of coffee into the kitchen. Tamzin was at the table on her computer. I froze.
“Hey Prisca. I made coffee. Sleep well?” Her southern accent was long gone, replaced with an accent I could only describe as West Indian. My accent. “Yeah. Well enough. You?”
“I slept great. Anyways, I have an appointment at the tanning salon, I’ll see you later.” She closed her laptop, stood up, and went to her room.
After she left, I called my mother.
“Mama. Something weird is happening.”
“Shu thayu?”
“Te che my roommate, she’s weird.”
“Roommate? When did you get a roommate?”
“Yesterday. She’s starting to act like me.”
“A Rakshasa in the city?”
Before I could answer, the line died. Then it reconnected.
“For the last time, I’m not buying your TV!” It was Mom’s voice. She was yelling at me, but not at *me*.
“Mama.”
“I am not your mama. Goodbye.”
She hung up on me. I tried calling my papa, but the same thing happened. Suddenly, Tamzin appeared in the doorway.
“Tamz—” I paused. Her skin was not tan. It was mine. I looked down at my fingers, but they were not my usual warm brown. They were pale. They were white. Why was I white?
“Tamzin, what are you doing in my room?” Why was Tamzin screaming at me? “What—no. But—”
“This is the third time this week. I warned you. I’m going to have to kick you out.” “What? Tamzin? Me?” I pointed to my chest.
“Yes, you. Who else? I welcomed you here. I made food for you. I was nice to you. So why are you rummaging through my things?”
“You’re lying.” Something was wrong with my voice. I sounded… Southern. She rubbed her temples as if I was giving her a headache. “Unbelievable,” she muttered while I turned to the mirror to look at myself. I was white. I looked like—like—like Tamzin. Why did I look like Tamzin?
“What are you waiting for? Get out of my room!” This wasn’t right. She isn’t a Rakshasa. What is this?
“Get. Out. Tamzin.”
I turned around to look at her. At me. At us. “What are you?” Her face shifted. Last night’s grin was back, creepier in this instant. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“You took away my life!”
“No. You did. You weren’t careful enough, Tamzin.”
“Stop calling me that!” I found myself screaming.
She took a step towards me. “Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. That’s not very nice, is it, Tamzin?” “Get away from me.” My back hit the mirror.
“This is my room, remember?”
“No, it isn’t.”
She grabbed my jaw, hard. It hurt. It hurt. I felt nails digging into my cheeks. Were my nails that long? I looked down. No. She had claws.
She opened her mouth, whispering, “Yes, it is,” before blowing green smoke from her mouth into mine. The last thing I felt was the train of tears running down my cheeks.
I woke up in my bed, tying my blonde hair into a bun, and opened my computer. This girl hasn’t responded yet. I know she will. She looks gullible, and she looks like she needs a roommate. Her name was Mallory. She seemed to be from Jamaica from what she’s told me so far. Hopefully, she wouldn’t know what hit her before it was too late. I looked in the mirror.
I can’t wait for my new face.
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About
Christine Larrieux is a Canadian-Caribbean fiction writer with a lifelong habit of daydreaming and a passion for weaving diverse cultures into her stories. Her journey as a writer began in childhood, fueled by an unstoppable imagination, and has evolved into a dedicated craft as a student with countless tales left to tell. When she isn’t busy crafting eerie narratives or exploring the supernatural, she is sharing her creative journey online.
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