One Look in the Fridge the Next Morning Made Me Pack My Bags After Renting a Room from a Sweet Old Lady.
Rachel thought a comfortable room rented by a kind old lady would be the ideal respite from her problems. The flowery wallpaper and pleasant smiles hid a harsher reality, prompting her to pack her things the next morning.
Desperate people cling to anything hopeful. I was there—my younger brother’s medical costs hanging over me, full-time school exhausting me, and late-night waitressing depleting my every vitality.
Getting into a university in a new location should have been exciting, but finding cheap lodgings was challenging. I found an advertisement for a lovely room in a sweet elderly lady’s house and felt saved.
Photos revealed a nice tiny house with flowery wallpaper and old furnishings and outrageously affordable rent. Ad: “Perfect for a quiet, respectful female tenant. No pets, no smoking.”
It was wonderful.
My landlord Mrs. Wilkins welcomed me with a grin and the scent of fresh lavender. She had beautifully pinned hair and looked like she should have been crocheting by a fireplace instead of renting apartments to struggling students.
“Oh, you must be Rachel,” she said, leading me in. “You’re prettier than I expected. Do come in, dear!”
She appeared to stare at me too long. “Tell me about your family, dear,” she urged, honey-sweet. Any siblings?
“My little brother Tommy,” I said. “He’s with our widowed aunt while I’m here. She looks after him while I study.”
Mrs. Wilkins’ grin tightened slightly. She said, “How convenient.” “And your parents?”
“They died in an accident last year.”
Oh, terribly sad. She whispered, “Come in,” as I followed her inside.
The home was fairytale-like. A geometric-patterned couch with flowery wallpaper sat invitingly in the living room with knick-knacks on the bookshelf. A fragrance of vegetable soup lingered from the kitchen.
She continued, “I made us some dinner,” guiding me to the table. “It’s been ages since I had company.”
I started “That’s very kind of you,” but she interrupted.
“Kind?” Her laughter didn’t reach her eyes. “Kindness is complex, Rachel. I may be too kind.”
I grinned to avoid the chill. “Thanks, Mrs. Wilkins. This area rocks.”
She repeated, almost silently, “Amazing.” “That’s one way to say it.”
I told life stories over hearty soup. She nodded sympathetically, occasionally rubbing my palm with a strong grasp.
“You’ve been through so much,” she whispered. “But you’ll be fine here, dear. I feel it.”
The tone of her promise like a threat.
“I hope so,” I said, feeling uneasy.
My first feeling in months was between safety and something else. Unnamed item. I slept well that night, but a tiny voice whispered: not everything is as it appears.
I got up early the next day, hopeful.
I gathered my things and proceeded to the kitchen, needing coffee before a hot shower, while the sun poured through the lace curtains.
Then I saw it. A four-foot list in large red letters read, ‘HOUSE RULES – READ CAREFULLY.’ It was attached on the fridge.
I froze.
I squinted and leaned closer as I read each rule:
1. No keys granted. Mrs. Wilkins only lets anyone in between 9 a.m. and 8 p.m.
2. The bathroom is always locked. Request the key from Mrs. Wilkins and return it promptly.
3. Always keep your bedroom door open. Privacy fosters secrets.
4. No meat in the fridge. Mrs. Wilkins is vegetarian and cannot eat meat.
5. You must leave the house every Sunday from 10–4. Mrs. Wilkins drinks “ladies’ tea.”
6. No guests. Ever. Not even relatives.
7. Mrs. Wilkins may enter your room at any time.
8. Mrs. Wilkins limits cell phone use to 30 minutes daily.
9. No music. Mrs. Wilkins like quiet.
10. You must get Mrs. Wilkins’ permission to cook.
11. You can only shower three times a week.
12. RESERVED FOR LATER
Reserved for later? I felt queasy reading every regulation. I finished with shaky hands. I got myself into what?
The sound of Mrs. Wilkins’ voice from behind startled me.
I spun and jumped. She stood with her hands clasped in front of her shirt, smiling serenely. She questioned, “Did you read the rules?” her tone sharpened. “Every. Word?”
“I…yes,” I stumbled.
Her grin failed to reach her eyes. “And?”
“They seem thorough,” I said.
Mrs. Wilkins approached. To say thorough is an understatement. These rules maintain order. Keep safe. And discipline.”
“Safety?” I repeated.
“From chaos, dear,” she said. “Everywhere is chaos. Not at my residence. NEVER in my home.”
“Have you had bad experiences?” To seem casual, I asked.
Her chuckle was fragile. “Bad experiences? You have no idea.”
“My brother Tommy can’t visit?” I persisted, recalling my pledge to research housing choices for him.
“No visitors,” she reiterated precisely. ‘Especially not kids. They are unpredictable.”
“But—”
Mrs. Wilkins interjected, “No exceptions,” her grin frozen.
My lips dried as I nodded.
“I hope the rules aren’t too much for you, dear,” she murmured, her voice lovely again. “They’re vital to me.”
I mumbled, “Of course,” attempting to speak clearly. I get it.”
I didn’t get it. How could someone so compassionate expect anybody to follow such rules? No key? No privacy? A bathroom lock?
Her eyes never left me as I murmured about getting ready for the day and went to my room, feeling watched.
Mrs. Wilkins whistled a nursery rhyme-like song behind me.
Her footsteps stopped outside my door. Suddenly, they receded. Front door opened and closed. The rear greenhouse appeared modest from my view, but she was walking there.
This was my opportunity.
I leaned against the door, breathing shallowly. I had to go. I cannot continue living this way. not when I was already stretched thin.
I discreetly stuffed my clothing into my suitcase. My pulse raced with every floorboard squeak. I kept looking at the door, partly anticipating Mrs. Wilkins’ unnerving grin.
“You’re making quite a bit of noise,” a voice said via an ancient intercom I hadn’t noticed. Could you describe what you’re doing?
I froze. My pulse raced as I held a sweatshirt.
Mrs. Wilkins spoke sharply. Did you forget rule seven? Everything needs my approval.”
I sweated on my temples after packing my clothing. I collected my belongings, closed my bag, and tiptoed to the front door. I grabbed for the knob, but a voice stopped me.
“Leaving already, dear?”
I turned slowly. Mrs. Wilkins stood at the end of the corridor, calm yet alert.
“I, uh… I forgot I had an essential matter,” I mumbled.
Ah, I see. If you must go, leave. But remember: Everything is worth discussing.”
Though pleasant, her tone was unnerving. Her emphasis on “must” was challenging and daring.
I nodded immediately, opened the door, and entered the cool morning air.
I kept going till I reached a park a few blocks away. Sitting on the bench with my bag, I attempted to regain my breath. What now? I had nowhere to go or backup. I considered quitting and returning home, but I couldn’t. My brother needs me to succeed.
“Are you okay?” Voice pierced through my thoughts.
I looked up to find a boy my age. His black hair fell into gentle brown eyes as he held a paper bag and coffee.
“Not really,” I said.
His eyes were calculating as he observed me. “You appear to have escaped. Not simply a horrible morning, but something more.”
I tightened. “What makes you say that?”
He chuckled. “I have a sixth sense for fugitives. Call it talent. My name is Ethan.”
“Rachel,” I said.
He offered me the bag while sitting near me. “Croissant? You might need it.”
“Are you always so open to strangers?” I hesitated to eat the croissant. “Thanks.”
“Only those who appear to have a narrative. What’s yours?
I told him everything while eating. About Mrs. Wilkins’ strange restrictions and my lack of direction. Listening, nodding periodically, his gaze never left my face.
“Sounds rough,” he commented when I finished. “But something tells me this story has more.”
“You mean what?”
He inched closer. “People like that old lady? They have more than rules. Reasons exist. Dark reasons.”
We spoke for hours. Ethan worked part-time at a university café. I found an economical, close-to-campus shared apartment with regular regulations around sunset.
“I’ll help you move if you want,” he said, almost eagerly.
“Really?”
He responded, “Of course,” with a half-grin. “Can’t abandon you.”
I moved into my new house, found a better-paying work at Ethan’s café, and felt like I could manage life again after a few weeks. Ethan became more than a buddy as we got closer.
However, late at night, he would stare at me oddly. Almost admiringly.
“Do you ever wonder about Mrs. Wilkins?” he said casually.
“Not really,” I said. That was BS.
I sometimes think of Mrs. Wilkins’ odd abode. Wonder if she found another tenant. I got a chill when I remembered her last words: “Everything is always worth discussing.”
However, leaving that morning was the finest decision of my life.
