Two per cent DEAD

Frightful behaviour continues to haunt me. Every waking moment I am gripped with a chilling sensation, as if the tip of a knife has pricked my spine or my recent Instagram post has received less than 100 likes within the hour. 

First, the incident, and now this. Reader, the acts committed within my apartment ought to remain unspeakable. Atrocities akin to those you read in fables, and more vile than the horrid thoughts percolating within your mind. Woe is me. 

It is hard to live with a demon. They’re much more resilient than vampires or werewolves — I took to a diet of garlic bread dipped in garlic aioli and replaced all our Ikea cutlery with my grandmother’s ancient silverware. But my monstrous roommate wolfed down my bread and complimented my dessert forks to no end. 

I studied, sat and Netflixed with bated breath, fearful this vile gremlin would strike once more. But I was met only with pleasant dinner conversation and an exceptionally clean bathroom. The toilet paper was even restocked. 

I let my guard down. 

Just for one moment, I slipped. I misstepped. I skipped down the hall with a cheeriness demanding disruption and was met with catastrophe on a Monday morning. 

My hand on the fridge door,  my mind flashes back to a day not long ago, when terror overtook me, when I lost everything. I press my lips into a smile. Everything has been fine. Everything will be fine. What could possibly go wrong? 

I reach one hand into the fridge and grasp the carton. A scream leaves my lips as I lift the happy-cow-adorned everyday delight — my two per cent milk — and freeze like a ghost if ghosts were frozen.