The Tenants
All New York apartments have roaches. ALL of them.
Welcome to Beach Reads for Goth Kids, my summer series of sweaty horror stories, best consumed with a tiny paper umbrella. All summer long, I’m sending out short stories that pack a pulpy punch. Think creatures of the week, heatwave madness, and things that go bump in the backyard.
Oh, and they aren’t really for kids, just the misunderstood goth teen who lives inside us all.
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This week, just when you thought it was safe to go back into the rental market, we present The Tenants.
“Do you get roaches, living above a restaurant?” The woman asked Theresa.
She was dressed in a crisp black collared shirt and her hair was pulled into a smooth ponytail. Theresa was surprised to see someone so slick in her building’s dingy fluorescent-lit stairwell, even more surprised to be interrogated.
“I’m sorry?”
“I’m a broker, I’m renting 4A for your landlord. Are there roaches in this building?”
“Oh.” Theresa paused, frowning. “Hm. Come to think of it, I’ve lived here — wow, almost ten years—and I’ve never had a single roach.”
The broker titled her head.
“I guess that’s sort of weird for New York, huh?” Theresa said.
“I’ll say.” The broker took her phone out of her pocket and started typing.
“Good pest control, I guess. I’ve never really thought about it,” Theresa said as she headed up the stairs. “You know, I’ve never seen a broker here before. Buildings like this—I didn’t think you were interested in these kind of apartments.”
“Neighborhood’s changing,” the broker said. “New York is like that— one day you’re bottom of the heap, the next day you’re the hot new thing. Building must be special, if the landlord has managed to keep out all the bugs.” She handed Theresa a business card. “Call me when you’re moving out.”
“Yeah,” Theresa said, stuffing the business card in her pocket. “Good luck,” she said quietly, as she heard the woman’s heels clicking away on the stairs.
That night, standing in her open window, Theresa worried over the conversation. Her building was an old, unkempt walk-up with rusty fire escapes and a square of dirt out front where a tree once stood. Her block was the kind where the rodents were bigger than the bodega cats, where trash day was every day and never, a forgotten address in a city of glitter. It shouldn’t be worth anything to a broker.
Outside, a siren screamed into the night. Change meant rising rents and greedy landlords, brokers’ fees and neighbors who complained about your music.
The ground-floor tenant was the greasiest of greasy spoons, the kind of place where your scrambled eggs dripped when you picked them up off the plate. So why couldn’t it give her a couple roaches? A handful of shiny brown guardians, scuttling around the stairwell to spook the brokers. Where were they?
On the windowsill, an old snapshot of her Edwin squinted through a dusty frame. Edwin had never lived in this building; he couldn’t explain to her why there weren’t roaches. He couldn’t lie in bed next to her, bodies radiating heat on top of the sheets, and make a plan for how they would figure this out.
She looked out her window at the silvery sky, yellow windows dotting the building across the street. She imagined the roaches living everywhere else in New York, in much nicer places. Did brownstones have roaches? Did penthouses?
Ten years ago, Theresa had been one of two—a fraction of a person carried along by the movement and buoyancy of someone else. Now she felt stuck in wet cement. Change was circling. She knew she had to move her feet.
The next afternoon, picking up her mail, she ran into a neighbor. She had seen him around but never said anything more than hello. In her experience, the younger neighbors didn’t really want to know you.
She thrust a hand toward him, the other holding a stack of junk mail.
“Hi, I’m Theresa. I’m in 3A.”
“Oh, hi. I’m Winston. 2B. Nice to meet you.” He shook her hand but he didn’t smile.
“I was just wondering, do you ever get roaches in your apartment?”
“Roaches? No, never. Why? Do you have roaches?”
“No, I don’t,” Theresa said quickly, worried she might be seen as the filthy neighbor. “There was a broker in here yesterday, and she asked me about roaches.”
“A broker?” Winston asked, skeptical.
“I know.”
“That can’t be good news.”
Theresa raised her eyebrows in agreement. Winston continued.
“You know, it’s weird,” he said. “My last apartment had so many roaches, and the ground floor was a bank! You would think—“
“Right? Living above that diner we really should have bugs.”
“It never crossed my mind but you’re right. Once you don’t have roaches, you sort of forget about them.”
“Is it possible the landlord has a great exterminator?”
“I guess. Weird that’s the only thing he gets right.” Winston turned to leave and then he stopped. “Do they spray in your apartment?”
“No,” Theresa said. “And I’ve been here ten years. Never seen pest control, never seen a roach.”
“Huh,” Winston said, and headed up the stairs. Theresa felt a prickle on the backs of her arms.
The apartment was hot, though the windows were wide open. Theresa felt slimy. She paced alongside the oscillating fan.
There was a pit at the base of her throat where she had been stuffing all her anxiety. Brokers fees, first-and-last, being pushed farther and farther from the only city where she had ever lived.
She tried to think about something else, but all that came to her mind was the question about roaches. Surely there were roaches. Surely this building was nothing special.
She opened the cabinet under her kitchen sink, shoving aside half-filled bottles of Comet and Windex. Using her phone flashlight she checked the far corners, hoping to find a long-dead roach, its curled legs pointed to the sky, to tell her everything was fine. New York apartments have roaches, they just do.
But while her corners were damp and stained, they were suspiciously empty of insects. Her hand trembled and the light bounced around the dark cabinet. New York apartments have roaches.
They just do.
Winston Thomas opened the door of his apartment to find a sweaty, shiny, pale woman in a limp dress. He recognized her from the mailboxes, but she seemed much older than he remembered. Her black hair was pulled into a messy bun and wiry grey strands stood out from the top of her head. Under her eyes he saw dark swoops, inverse crescent moons that made her seem dangerous.
“Hi,” he said, though it sounded like a question. “Everything OK?” He hated asking. The last thing he wanted was to be dragged into something weird.
“Hi. Winston, right? I’m so— Theresa by the way, you remember— I’m so sorry to bother you but— have you ever checked for roaches in your apartment?”
“What? No. I told you the other day, I don’t have roaches. What is going on?”
“No— I know— I just—are you sure you don’t have roaches? Like, sure-sure? Like, have you ever looked under your cabinets? Ever seen a dead one?” Her hands worried the hem of her dress, crumpling the fabric and revealing pale, dimpled thighs.
“No. I’m really, very sure. If you’re having problems you need to call the super.” He started to close the door, angling his body back inside. “I can’t help you.”
Her pallid hand hooked around the edge of his door. “Don’t you think it’s weird?”
He paused, thinking to himself yes, you are really fucking weird.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“That we don’t have roaches in this building. It’s weird. It’s not a nice building, and there’s that horrible restaurant downstairs. We should have roaches. New York apartments have roaches.”
“I think it’s great, actually,” he said. He didn’t want to be rude but he started to close the door again, the rectangle framing her getting ever smaller. “It’s a good building, don’t worry about it.”
“But, it’s not a good building Winston. It’s not.”
The latch clicked. Her fingers had left damp prints on the door and as they evaporated he thought of ghosts. He slid the bolt into place and paused with his ear near the jamb.
“They’re going to raise the rent,” he heard her say to the empty hall.
The knock on her door made Theresa jump. She tried to ignore it, chewing her lip and praying it wasn’t her landlord come to deliver a new lease. What if she didn’t open the door…? What if she never opened it again?
She heard a muffled voice through the thin walls. Then someone tried the doorknob, rattling it against the deadbolt and chain lock Theresa had installed. They were going to break in and haul her out. This was it.
Out of options, Theresa grabbed a knife from her kitchen drawer and held it behind her back. She wouldn’t stab anyone, only scare them. Wave a knife around so they would see she was a crazy old lady and never come back.
She opened the door with the chain in place, peering out through the crack. The knife felt light in her hand, too light.
Standing in the hallway was a young woman in yoga clothes and gold jewelry— small hoop earrings and a stack of gold necklaces that belonged on a pirate. On her wrist she wore a chunky smart watch, and from her large tote bag emerged the head of a tiny dog.
“Can I help you?” Theresa asked, realizing this woman was lost. She didn’t have business in this building, or even this zip code.
“Hi,” she smiled like a cheerleader. “I’m here for the open house?”
“Open house?”
“Yeah,” she tapped on her watch face and it glowed to life. “Apartment… 3A? My broker sent me.”
“There’s no open house here,” Theresa began to panic. Was her apartment listed without her knowledge? “It’s 4A, I think. 4A is being rented.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. The broker said 3A.” She showed Theresa her watch face. Theresa skimmed and her eyes stuck on a number. Not 3A, but $3,300. Her mouth went dry.
“I’m sorry I— wow. Is $3,300 the rent?”
“I know right?” The woman craned her neck to see past Theresa into the apartment. Theresa saw her eyes trace the walls and the ceiling.
She continued talking, no longer looking at Theresa at all. “It’s such a great deal! I’m excited to get into the neighborhood while it still has so much character.”
Theresa’s nails dug into the door. The dog yipped.
“Henry, no! Be quiet now and let mommy met our new neighbors!” The woman said to her dog, then looked at Theresa like she had just delivered an incredible punch line.
“Oh. Yeah. Hello Henry,” Theresa said. But the revelation of the rent had loosed something inside her. She began to close the door, moving her body to block the woman’s line of sight.
“I brought cash,” the woman said, lowering her voice. “It’s so weird carrying so much cash around, but I read online it can increase your chances of getting a place. It’s so competitive.”
A fire burned at Theresa’s temples, and words like flames burst out.
“This neighborhood has a ways to go though. It’s a very…dangerous…rough..very rough neighborhood. Yeah, lotta roaches too. This landlord ugh. More like a slumlord. But I’m not going anywhere! I’ll die in this apartment!” Her voice squeaked.
The young woman stuck a white sneaker in the door. Theresa imagined slamming it.
“Actually, do you know if the building offers bike storage? The listing says there’s basement access— I assume that’s for bikes?”
“Basement— what? No. No one goes in the basement. I’m sure there has never been a bike in there. Sorry I can’t help.”
Theresa closed the door and heard it click. Her own words echoed in her head.
No one goes in the basement.
Move your feet, Theresa.
She undid the chain and opened it again. The yoga pants were just visible down the hallway. Theresa called out.
“Actually, silly me— I can’t believe I’m so silly—I do know where the basement is!” She smiled as brightly as she could muster, pushing sweaty hair out of her face. “Maybe I’ll put my bike there too.”
Theresa felt giddy, light for the first time in weeks. She knew there was a basement door behind the trash chute and she knew, if she could get in there, it would be disgusting.
There would be a roach, a carcass— a fossil of a roach— to validate her feeling that the whole building was trash. Forgotten, impoverished, something no one would ever want to take from her, least of all someone who does yoga.
The area around the back stairway smelled sharply of hot garbage, but when she dragged the metal door open, a rush of cold air billowed up from below. It carried a stony, earthy scent, almost fresh compared to the trash. The stairwell was dark and wet-looking; Yoga Pants was visibly uncomfortable.
Theresa tried to imitate the real estate people on TV, opening her eyes wide and waving her hands around.
“Oh my god, this is pre-war! You can tell from the…style…of the basement. Pre-wars are all scary— really unique I mean, just like this one. What…a…find.” She whistled.
Yoga Pants nodded. The dog began to yip, and she took him out of her purse and set him on the floor, patting the top of his head. The basement steps looked like they had been carved directly into the bedrock.
“Original stone,” Theresa said, clicking her tongue and nodding. Henry sniffed around the entrance, then suddenly he bolted, galloping down two at a time. He quickly vanished into the dark maw.
“Henry! Henry! Come back,” the woman cried out. “HENRY!” She looked at Theresa in a panic. Theresa fumbled for a light switch but couldn’t find one, so she dragged a trash can over and used it to wedge open the door.
“I’m so sorry, the— storage room— isn’t used that often. But the good news is there’s lots of space for your bike and he— Henry?— likes it already! He loves it!”
Yoga Pants looked at Theresa like she was insane, then headed down the stairs at a trot. Theresa followed a few steps behind. In the darkness she heard a soft clicking, but no more yips.
The light from the doorway ran out by the bottom step. Beyond that, there may as well have been a black ocean. Theresa fumbled with her phone in her pocket, finally blinking on the flashlight just as the clicking sound ratcheted up.
Below her in the dark there was an ocean. A living ocean of roaches, shiny and papery and rolling like waves. Her mind reeled at the sheer scale of it, her knees trembling.
Henry took a leap off the last step into the rippling mass, biting at the roaches as he soared through the air. Yoga Pants screamed.
Theresa, in spite of her shock, felt a smile squirm across her face. Here at last, roaches by the millions. Roaches stacked as deep as the soft earth below, trapped down here for decades, the truth hidden behind a metal door. The truth she had known in her guts, and now it would save her. She looked at the ceiling and blinked away happy tears. Edwin would be so proud.
Yoga Pants stepped one foot off the final stair into the melee. Individual bugs became clear among the roiling mass and circled her ankle, then her leg, engulfing her in a determined scuttle. She screamed again, kicking wildly, and cried out for her dog, who was invisible in the sea.
Theresa turned off her phone’s flashlight and headed for the door. There was something sweet in her mouth. Victory.
Hot new neighborhood, Theresa thought, shoving the trash can out of the doorway. Special building, great landlord. A single roach crawled across her shoe. She giggled to herself.
The metal door slammed shut. Down below, roaches rolled over the steps— and everything else— like a tidal wave.
New York has roaches, it just does.
One creepy way to deal with gentrification! Why'd it have to be roaches?
This is such a well conceived narration, you feel the character's mad relief at the end 🪳