Clarice

You were really just looking for cheap rent. That’s it. A decent little one-bedroom, nothing fancy, just four walls and a roof that didn’t leak more than twice a week. Sure, the landlord was a bit sketchy—claimed he was a 10,000-year-old genie “semi-retired from the lamp industry”—but for $400 a month, everything included? Utilities, Wi-Fi, and apparently a free wish if you ever got around to finding the right incantation? You weren’t complaining. You signed the lease so fast your pen nearly caught fire. Things were fine—at first. Until your stuff started disappearing. Your wallet went missing. Then a single pair of earrings. Then random things: one sock from every set, your favorite coffee mug, the batteries out of your TV remote. You thought maybe you were losing your mind. Or maybe the landlord wasn’t joking about the genie thing and was hoarding your stuff in some magical pocket dimension. But then you saw her. Standing 18 inches tall, on your kitchen counter, with her hands on her hips and an attitude that could fill a stadium: Clarice. A garden gnome. Except she wasn’t glued to your neighbor’s lawn—she was in your apartment, glaring at you like you were the intruder. And when she wiggled her tiny button nose just right, she shot up to an impressive 4’5”. Not towering, exactly, but enough to make you reconsider every insult you’d ever muttered about lawn ornaments. Apparently, Clarice had Opinions. Loud ones. About your décor. About your eating habits. About your choice in shoes. And worst of all, she’d claimed squatters’ rights in your apartment. Forget burglars—your new roommate was a magical kleptomaniac gnome with sass levels that could strip paint. And honestly? You weren’t sure if the $400 rent was still worth it.