When Rachel found a cosy room rented out by a kind old lady, it seemed like the perfect escape from her troubles. But beneath the floral wallpaper and warm smiles lay something much darker… something that made her pack her bags the very next morning.
When you are desperate, you cling to anything that resembles hope. That was the case with me: my younger brother’s medical bills were piling up, my daytime classes were pushing me to my limits, and working as a waitress late into the night was draining me of all my energy.
When I enrolled at university in a new city, I should have been thrilled, but the reality of finding affordable housing prevented me from enjoying myself. So when I came across an advertisement for a cosy room in the house of a nice old lady, it was like a lifeline.
The rent was ridiculously low, and the photos showed a charming place with floral wallpaper and vintage furniture. The ad read: ‘Ideal for a quiet, respectful female tenant. No pets, no smoking.’
It was perfect.
When I arrived, my landlady, Mrs Wilkins, greeted me at the door with a warm smile and the scent of fresh lavender wafting through the air. Her hair was neatly pulled back, and she looked like someone who should be knitting by the fireplace, not renting rooms to difficult students.
‘Oh, you must be Rachel,’ she said, letting me in. ‘You’re even more beautiful than I imagined. Come in, dear, come in!’
Her eyes seemed to linger on me for too long, scanning me from head to toe. ‘Tell me about your family, dear,’ she said, her voice honey-sweet. ‘Do you have any brothers or sisters?’
‘My younger brother Tommy,’ I replied. ‘While I’m here, he lives with our widowed aunt. She helps take care of him while I’m studying.’
Mrs Wilkins’ smile stretched almost imperceptibly. ‘How… convenient,’ she murmured. ‘And your parents?’
‘They died last year in an accident.’
‘Oh, how sad. Come in… come in,’ she said as I followed her inside.
The house was like something out of a fairy tale. There were knick-knacks on the shelves, and in the living room, decorated with floral wallpaper, there was a welcoming sofa with geometric patterns. A faint aroma of vegetable soup wafted from the kitchen.
‘I’ve made us dinner,’ she said, leading me to the table. ‘It’s been a long time since I’ve had guests.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ I began, but she interrupted me.
‘Kind?’ She giggled, but the sound didn’t reach her eyes. ‘Kindness is… complicated, Rachel. Some might say I’m too kind.’
I smiled, trying not to pay attention to the sudden chill. ‘Thank you, Mrs Wilkins. This is an amazing place.’
‘Amazing,’ she repeated, almost to herself. ‘Yes, you could say that.’
Over a bowl of hearty soup, I shared bits and pieces of my life with her. She nodded sympathetically, occasionally patting my hand, which was too strong.
‘You’ve been through a lot,’ she said softly. ‘But you’ll be fine here, dear. I can feel it.’
There was something in her tone… a promise that sounded more like a warning.
‘I hope so,’ I replied, my former calm now tinged with an inexplicable anxiety.
For the first time in months, I felt something between safety and something else. Something I couldn’t put my finger on. That night, I slept soundly, but somewhere in the back of my mind, a tiny voice whispered: not everything is as it seems.
The next morning, I woke up early and feeling optimistic.
The sun was shining through the lace curtains, and I grabbed my toiletries and headed to the kitchen, wanting to drink coffee before taking a hot shower.
And then I saw it. A huge list, almost four feet long, was stuck to the refrigerator, written in bold bright red letters: ‘HOUSE RULES — READ CAREFULLY.’
I froze.
Squinting, I leaned closer and began to read the rules one by one:
- Keys are not issued. Mrs Wilkins will only let you in between 9 a.m. and 8 p.m.
- The bathroom is always locked. You must ask Mrs Wilkins for the key and return it immediately after use.
- Your bedroom door must remain open at all times. Privacy breeds secrets.
- No meat in the refrigerator. Mrs. Wilkins is a vegetarian and does not tolerate meat-eaters.
- You must leave the house every Sunday from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. when Mrs. Wilkins hosts her ‘ladies’ tea.’
- No guests. Ever. Not even relatives.
- Mrs Wilkins reserves the right to enter your room whenever she pleases.
- Mobile phone use is limited to 30 minutes per day, monitored by Mrs Wilkins.
- No music is allowed. Mrs Wilkins likes a calm and quiet environment.
- You are not allowed to cook your own food without Mrs Wilkins’ permission.
- You can only use the shower three times a week.
- RESERVED FOR LATER.
‘Reserved for later?’ My stomach twisted with every rule I read. When I reached the end, my hands were shaking. What had I gotten myself into?
‘Good morning, dear,’ Mrs. Wilkins’ voice came from behind me, startling me.
I jumped and turned around. She stood there with a serene smile, her hands clasped in front of her sweater. ‘Have you read the rules?’ she asked, her tone suddenly sharp. ‘All of them. Every word?’
‘I… yes,’ I stammered.
The smile never left her eyes. ‘And?’
‘They seem… thorough,’ I mumbled.
Mrs Wilkins moved closer. ‘Thorough is an understatement. These rules maintain order. Safety. And discipline.’
‘Safety?’ I repeated.
‘From chaos, dear,’ she said. ‘Chaos is everywhere. But not in my house. Never in my house.’
‘Have you had a bad experience?’ I asked, trying to sound casual.
Her laugh was fragile. ‘A bad experience? Oh, you have no idea.’
‘Did you say my brother Tommy can’t come?’ I asked, remembering my promise to look into housing options for him.
‘No visitors,’ she repeated, enunciating each word clearly. ‘Especially children. They’re… unpredictable.’
‘But…’
‘No exceptions,’ Mrs Wilkins interrupted, her smile frozen.
I nodded, my mouth suddenly dry.
‘I hope the rules aren’t too much of a burden for you, dear,’ she said, her voice regaining its former sweetness. ‘They’re very important to me.’
‘Of course,’ I stammered, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘I understand.’
But I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand how such a kind person could expect anyone to live by such rules. No key? No personal space? A lock on the bathroom door?
She kept her eyes on me as I mumbled something about needing to get ready for the day and retreated to my room, feeling her gaze on me.
Behind me, Mrs Wilkins hummed a tune that sounded almost like a nursery rhyme.
I heard her footsteps fade behind my door. Then, to my surprise, they stopped. The front door opened and closed. Through the window, I saw her walking towards a small greenhouse in the backyard.
This was my chance.
I leaned against the door, breathing unevenly. I had to get out. I couldn’t live like this… not when I was already so exhausted.
As quietly as possible, I began to pack my clothes into a suitcase. Every creak of the floorboards made my heart pound. I kept glancing at the door, half expecting Mrs Wilkins to appear with an anxious smile.
‘You’re making quite a lot of noise,’ a voice suddenly came from an old intercom that I hadn’t noticed before. ‘Would you mind explaining what you’re doing?’
I froze. My hand hovered over the sweater, my heart pounding.
Mrs Wilkins’ voice sounded as sharp as ever. ‘Have you forgotten rule number seven? Everything requires my approval.’
Beads of sweat formed on my temples as I finished packing my clothes into my suitcase. I zipped it up, picked up my things, and tiptoed towards the front door. But as I reached for the handle, a voice stopped me.
‘Leaving already, dear?’
I turned slowly. Mrs Wilkins was standing at the end of the corridor, her expression calm but her eyes sharp.
‘I… I forgot that I had something urgent to take care of,’ I stammered.
‘Oh, I see. Well, if you need to leave, then leave. But remember: everything is always worth discussing.’
Her tone was polite, but there was something chilling about it. The way she emphasised the word “must” sounded like a challenge… like defiance.
I nodded quickly, opened the door and stepped out into the fresh morning air.
I didn’t stop walking until I reached the park a few blocks away. My suitcase lay next to me on the bench as I tried to catch my breath. What now? I had nowhere to go, no backup plan. The thought of giving up and going home crossed my mind, but I couldn’t. My brother needed me to make it work.
‘Hey, are you okay?’ a voice broke through my thoughts.
I looked up and saw a guy about my age. He was holding a cup of coffee and a paper bag, his dark hair falling over his kind brown eyes.
‘Not really,’ I admitted.
He studied me for a minute, a calculating look in his eyes. ‘You look like you just escaped something. Not just a bad morning, but… something else.’
I tensed. ‘Why do you say that?’
He smiled. ‘I have a sixth sense about people who are running from something. Call it a talent. By the way, my name is Ethan.’
‘Rachel,’ I said.
He sat down next to me and handed me the bag. ‘Croissant? Looks like you could use one.’
‘Are you always this open with strangers?’ I hesitated before taking the croissant. ‘Thank you.’
‘Only with those who look like they have a story. What’s yours?’
While I was eating, I told him everything. About Mrs Wilkins, her strange rules, and how I had no idea what to do next. He listened, nodding occasionally, but his eyes never left my face.
‘That sounds harsh,’ he said when I finished. ‘But something tells me there’s more to this story.’
‘What do you mean?’
He leaned closer. ‘People like that old woman? They don’t just have rules. They have reasons. Dark reasons.’
We talked for several hours. Ethan told me he worked part-time at a café near the campus. By the time the sun went down, I already had a lead on a room in a shared flat — inexpensive, close to campus, and most importantly, with reasonable rules.
‘If you want, I’ll help you move,’ he offered, his tone almost too eager.
‘Really?’
‘Of course,’ he said, grinning in a way that didn’t reach his eyes. ‘I can’t leave you hanging.’
Over the next few weeks, I settled into my new place, found a higher-paying job at Ethan’s café, and began to feel like I could handle life again. Ethan and I grew closer, and soon he became more than just a friend to me.
But sometimes, late at night, I caught him looking at me strangely. Almost… appraising.
‘Have you ever been interested in Mrs Wilkins?’ he would ask casually.
‘Not really,’ I would reply. But that was a lie.
Sometimes I think about Mrs. Wilkins and her strange little house. I wonder if she ever found another tenant. A chill runs down my spine when I remember her last words: ‘Everything is always worth discussing.’
But one thing I can say for sure: leaving that morning was the best decision of my life.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalised for creative purposes. Names, characters and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claim to the accuracy of events or character portrayals and are not responsible for any misinterpretation. This story is provided ‘as is,’ and any opinions expressed herein belong to the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
