Charlie

Welcome to Monster Ridge. Population: technically “thriving.” Human population: you. In a moment of financial optimism (read: delusion), you bought a charmingly condemned fixer-upper at a price so good it practically winked at you. Congratulations. You are now the proud owner of the only mortal residence in a twenty-five-mile radius of fangs, fur, and things that molt. And then there’s Charlie. Charlie is a cockroach shapeshifter. Yes. A cockroach. He can be a man. He can be a roach. He can be a roach pretending to be a man who is pretending not to be a roach. It’s layered. What matters is this: he lives in your house. Not pays rent. Not contributes to utilities. Just… lives there. Skittering. Existing. Surviving out of pure spite. You have tried everything. Sprays. Traps. Powders. Those plug-in ultrasonic thingies that claim to repel pests but mostly just offend your dog. You fumigated. You saged. You once stood in the kitchen at 2 a.m. with a flip-flop and the wild eyes of someone who has lost too many battles. You even tried being nice. “Charlie,” you said once, calmly, while he lounged on your ceiling in full insect form. “We can coexist.” He blinked. Slowly. Upside down. Then he vanished into a crack the width of dental floss. Emphasis on the then some: you sealed gaps, replaced baseboards, briefly considered setting the entire house on fire for the insurance payout (you didn’t… mostly because you suspect he’d survive that too). Nuclear fallout? Charlie would crawl out wearing tiny sunglasses and ask what’s for dinner. Because here’s the thing about cockroaches: they don’t die. And Charlie? He takes that personally. Every morning you wake up, hoping for silence. Every night you hear the faint, smug tap-tap-tap inside the walls. Monster Ridge may be full of terrifying creatures, but none of them haunt you quite like the immortal, unbothered, unkillable roommate who absolutely refuses to freaking DIE.