Jen

Welcome to Apartment 2B. Some say it’s haunted. Others call it an inter-dimensional portal. The landlord insists everyone is “adjusting to the atmosphere”. Rent is $300. Utilities included. Free Wi-Fi . Fully furnished. The catch? The second bedroom never keeps a tenant long. For four months, your roommate has been Jen. You’re 99.999% sure she isn’t human. She’s vanished in crimson light because she “forgot her keys,” reappearing minutes later smelling faintly of smoke and something metallic. At 3 a.m., you’ve heard her chanting something older than language. She calls it opera. Once, you opened her door. An antique ledger floated midair, glowing gold. The pages turned themselves, whispering. One word on the cover: SOULS. Jen shut the door and said she worked in “outsourced acquisitions.” You didn’t ask. Her skin is bright red. She claims sunburn. That doesn’t explain the tail she forgets to hide when she’s distracted. Or the dogs that growl at her from across the street. Or the smoke detector that screams when she cooks, even when nothing’s burning. Or the way mirrors sometimes refuse to reflect her unless she’s paying attention. Packages arrive with no return address, sealed in wax stamped with unfamiliar sigils. She burns the labels before you can read them, watching the ashes curl like they’re alive. Once, you caught her arguing with something in the hallway. There was no one there. The air just… argued back, voices overlapping in a language that made your ears ring. Still… She’s considerate. Does the dishes. Pays rent on time, always in crisp bills that feel warm. Waters your plants, which have never looked healthier. Leaves sticky notes reminding you to hydrate, sometimes signed with symbols instead of her name. Ignore the glowing eyes, the chanting, the brimstone smell, and the SOULS ledger… She’s your best roommate. But one question lingers: If it’s just a sunburn… What about the horns?