We called them “The Demon Children.”
That’s what they were; four college girls who lulled you into a false sense of security before they completely destroyed your apartment.
They would enter my nightmares, not letting me have an ounce of time where their reign of terror did not control my life. Even upon moving out after the end of the school year, they refused to stop harassing me and my other sane roommate, Samantha, for months. Though their constant text harassment and childish passive aggressive notes were terrible, the real nightmare was the series of events throughout the year that I was forced to psychologically and economically pay for.
Sharing an apartment between six girls is tough, especially when it is a three-bedroom apartment. Sharing the tiniest room is even harder, especially when you have barely met your roommate and she insists on taking up 75% of the room, leaving your bed partially in a closet.
Over the course of nine months with the four Demon Children, my anxiety shot through the roof. On a regular basis, I was subjected to text harassment for hours so that I would follow their chore chart and clean up after their parties. I had to pay hundreds of dollars in damage for incidents including them flooding the apartment (and most of my stuff) by forgetting to turn a sink off, turning the heat off for the winter and bursting our pipes, and having a fire extinguisher stolen during a party they threw against my other roommate Samantha and I’s wishes.
Multiple times Samantha woke up to loud sex happening in the shower that shared a wall with her bed at 3 a.m., and once walked in on one of our roommates blatantly having sex on the couch at around midnight on a Saturday. Despite all the weird goings on that we dealt with while we lived there, the weirdest happened on a Saturday night about three months into our lease.
That Saturday night, after the Demon Children went to one of their massive blow out parties, I decided I did not want to be there when they came home.
By this point, I was experiencing high levels of generalized anxiety on a daily basis and the less time I spent around my roommates, the less anxiety I would have to deal with. Samantha’s sister and her friend were in town (who I love and adore and are the least intrusive guests possible), so the apartment was feeling a bit crowded. On top of that, the Demon Children would get black out drunk on a weekly basis and were not pleasant to be around when they came home.
I opted to stay with my boyfriend for the night, planning to come back early to make myself breakfast and head to work for my double the next day. I was hoping the Demon Children would still be sleeping by the time I got home and that I could get through this weekend without having a panic attack.
I walked into the apartment to change and everything was quiet and perfect. I sat down at the table with my breakfast, languishing in the peacefulness that I rarely was able to experience anymore.
As I took a bite of my perfect breakfast sandwich, my roommate Rachel, one of the demon children, screeched into the room. “There is POOP in the shower.” I laughed. “THERE IS POOP IN THE SHOWER,” she screamed, waking up Taylor in order for someone to experience this horror with her.
Taylor fake-gagged and complained that she wanted to go back to sleep, but camped out in the living room to see what was going to happen.
Rachel dragged me into the bathroom so I could see the crime scene. Someone had leaned over the edge of the bath tub, as if it were a toilet seat, and left the biggest pile of shit I had ever seen in my life. It ran down the side of the tub and clogged up the drain. Then, the criminal had taken a pad, wiped him or herself with it, and thrown it on top of the pile of shit. I ran to my bathroom to throw up the breakfast sandwich I had just eaten.
Now, I was pissed. Someone shit in my shower, ruined my breakfast, and ruined my peaceful morning. Rachel and Taylor started deciding who was to blame for this situation, and who would clean it up.
I sighed, grabbed my bag to go to work, and told them I wouldn’t be back until midnight, so I couldn’t help. Before they could pin the crime on me, I high tailed it out of the apartment so fast that I’m sure there was a trail of dust in my wake.
Throughout my shift, I received numerous text messages from them about helping to clean the bathroom and interrogating me on my whereabouts during the incident. I got a video of Rachel and Taylor laughing as they shoveled the shit out of the tub and bleached it. They put on gloves and trash bags over their hands and literally scooped the poo into their hands and into a trashcan. It was revolting.
As I returned home that night, the culprit had already been chosen. Samantha’s sister’s friend was to blame, according to the Demon Children. They were upset that they had to clean someone else’s poo. Weren’t they martyrs? Samantha argued with them about the logistics, but gave up. It wasn’t worth the emotional warfare they would reign down upon her. I stayed in my room as they yelled.
Of course, the Demon Children told everyone they knew and the shit in the shower became the next anecdote for how selfless they were. No one that entered our apartment was able to leave without giving accolades to the Demon Children after they recounted their tale of cleaning literal shit out of their bathroom.
Months later, I was helping Samantha move out and the shit in the shower was brought up. I knew that her guest hadn’t been to blame, but I was still confused who could possibly have shit in our shower and not owned up to it. Samantha laughed. She knew who it was, she said.
Rachel, who we had known could sleep walk, was clearly the culprit. Several times, unbeknownst to me, Samantha had watched as Rachel slept walked and peed, showered, and changed her clothes without remembering. This was usually after she had a few drinks. Once, she even peed on Samantha’s bed and Samantha cleaned it up without so much as an acknowledgement or even a thank you.
She hypothesized that Rachel, who we knew had blacked out the night before, was sleep walking and had to go to the bathroom. Thinking she was on the toilet, she sat on the edge of the tub and did her business there. Then, she took her own pad, wiped, and went back to bed. Samantha suggested it to her once, but Rachel had a complete meltdown and accused her of being a bitch.
I left that apartment with my head held high. I officially wasn’t the crazy person in the apartment. The Demon Children were, and for proof I knew one of them had shit in the shower. Samantha and I are now best friends and constantly talk about how lucky we were to escape that apartment alive.
Got a terrible roommate story? Send your pitches to firstname.lastname@example.org with the subject line "Worst Roommate Ever."