ROACH
The rent is affordable. The boyfriend is gorgeous. The roaches pay no bills. Jacobi thinks he's found the perfect solution, until his new roommate develops a sinister taste.
JACOBI SIGNED THE LEASE on his dream apartment the same day Mercury went into retrograde. Had he been one of those incense-burning girls, he might’ve seen the omen for what it was. But Jacobi wasn’t watching the stars, he had been watching the square footage, the hardwood floors, the exposed brick, the west-facing balcony that swallowed the Harlem sunsets like a thirsty housewife.
The ink hadn’t even dried on the lease before he was dancing around the living room with a lit blunt in hand. After all the couch surfing, the eviction notices, the malcontents disguised as roommates, Jacobi deserved a miracle. And for once, the universe seemed to agree: a new gig at an arts nonprofit, a blooming situationship with David, part-time yogi, full-time snack, and the apartment? It was perfect.
Almost.
CRUNCH. A roach exploded under Jacobi’s boot. He looked down, grimacing at guts and antennae, which twitched in posthumous protest.
“Girl,” he sighed.
🪳🪳🪳
Two days later, Jacobi and his best friend Andre were unpacking boxes and sipping homemade margaritas when a roach scuttled out from under the refrigerator.
“You know y’all not supposed to come out when we have company,” Jacobi scolded the roach.
Andre lifted a perfectly threaded brow. “Not you talking to them,” he joked.
“Shit, I might as well be cordial, they live here too,” Jacobi said as he quickly stomped on the roach. CRUNCH.
“You know, even Eden had snakes,” Andre said, raising his glass.
They both laughed. And then Jacobi got dead serious.
“In this city, you’re always looking for one of three things: the perfect man, the perfect job, or the perfect apartment, and I’m on the precipice of all three.”
“I know as a Taurus you hate to hear this,” Andre said, “but you can’t control every—”
“As a Taurus, I rebuke that,” Jacobi interrupted, topping off their drinks with more tequila.
🪳🪳🪳
Jacobi cleaned like he was trying to scrub the apartment out of existence. Bleach burned the air. Vinegar stung the walls. He tucked bay leaves into corners. He sprayed so much Raid it could’ve been considered chemical warfare. Still, they came.
He called every exterminator Google could cough up, traditional, holistic, off-brand, off-grid. There was Ricky, who wore steel-toed boots and a jumpsuit that read Roach Reaper. He came armed with a canister on his back like a Ghostbuster. “We go nuclear,” he said. “They won’t know what hit ’em.”
Two hours later, Jacobi saw a roach doing the cha-cha across his stove.
Then came Leila, an “eco-purist” who swore by cedar oil, peppermint, and affirmations. She whispered to the baseboards, saged the outlets, and laid out crystals in a grid. “You have to shift the energy,” she told him. Jacobi shifted her check into her hand and never called her again.
No approach worked. Like white people in historically Black neighborhoods, the roaches had colonized and gentrified Jacobi’s dream apartment. They skittered across the mirror while he did his skincare routine, one hid inside his AirPod case, another, bold and brazen, fell from the ceiling landing between him and David.
That night, David screamed at Jacobi. Jacobi screamed louder at David.
“You have to break this lease,” David snapped, standing naked in the hallway, furiously wiping his leg.
“I can’t,” Jacobi whined. “Where am I supposed to find a place like this in Harlem for this price?”
Jacobi stopped, turned and looked at David.
“But I want you here,” he said, his voice softening. “I want you to move in. We could have plants on the balcony. Sleep in on Sundays. Make dinner and fall asleep watching trashy TV.”
David exhaled, shaking his head slowly. “I love you, I do,” he said. “But I am not moving in with you and your roommates.”
He grabbed his bag and slammed the door behind him.
Jacobi didn’t cry. He lit a blunt as reruns of Atlanta Housewives filled the apartment. On screen, drinks and wigs flew, voices rose. The glow from the TV flickered like a candle running out of wick. A half-eaten sandwich sat forgotten on the coffee table. Then, movement.
A single roach crept onto the table, as audacious as a roommate that’s late on their part of the rent. Jacobi didn’t flinch. He grabbed a rolled-up magazine and brought it down on the roach with a thud.
CRUNCH.
He chucked the mushed corpse and the weapon into the trash.
But just as he settled back into the couch, a soft plop landed on his shoulder. A second roach fell from the light fixture above.
He shrieked and slapped it away, but now they were coming from everywhere.
Crawling up his legs, spilling from vents and sockets, pouring from behind picture frames and baseboards, trickling out of the television screen. One, two, ten, a hundred, they swarmed and covered him. Jacobi thrashed, arms flailing, reaching for salvation. When they were done, when the last leg skittered back into the walls, only his freshly picked skeleton remained.
Jacobi jerked awake, choking on air. He lay there panting, palms slick, throat sore from screaming into nothing. The room was intact, but something inside him was not. That dream hadn’t felt like fear, it had felt like prophecy.
Across the table, a handful of roaches nibbled at the edges of his abandoned sandwich. He groaned and reached for the rolled-up magazine, but paused.
Housewives had given way to a nature documentary. On screen, a praying mantis silently stalked a roach. Then, flick. A tongue. A gulp. The roach was gone.
Jacobi sat up slowly. The narrator’s voice rang loudly in his head: “Nature finds balance through predators.”
Something in Jacobi’s brain clicked, or snapped. Hard to say. But his eyes sparkled. He looked down at his sandwich. Then at the roach.
Then, CRUNCH.
🪳🪳🪳
The pet shop was tucked between a laundromat and a check cashing place. Jacobi and Andre stepped over the threshold like they were crossing into another dimension.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old books, dust, and sage. The overhead lights buzzed dimly, casting long shadows between rows of aquariums and stacked bird cages. Something hissed behind the counter. Something purred beneath it.
Their eyes landed on a wire cage where a winged creature flitted, all blur and chatter, its movement too quick to name. They took a step closer, curious, enchanted. Before they could get a better look, a hand shot out from behind the counter and covered the cage with a velvet cloth.
The shopkeeper stood tall and spectral. His hair was silver, his eyes pale, milky and unreadable. His nails curled and yellowed, thick as bottle openers. Jacobi and Andre exchanged a glance, half get out, half we’re already here. Before they could speak, the shopkeeper’s voice cut through the silence and his gapped gold teeth.
“How can I be of service?”
Jacobi straightened his posture. “I’m looking for a mantis”
The shopkeeper tilted his head, his blindish eyes seeming to see more than they should.
“What kind?”
Jacobi didn’t blink. “The kind that eats roaches.”
For a moment, the shopkeeper said nothing. Then, slowly, he leaned in closer to Jacobi and Andre.
“We’re all roaches to a bigger boot, my boy,” he whispered, voice cracking like old vinyl. Then he pulled back. “But follow me.”
He led them through the narrow store as the chattering from unseen cages filled the air. In the far corner of the shop sat a lone glass tank, lit from below like an altar. Inside something stirred. A mantis, pastel pink and unnervingly still.
Jacobi tilted his head. “He’s… tiny.”
“She,” the shopkeeper corrected. “has quite the appetite. You’ll see.”
Jacobi and Andre studied her in silence.
“What you gonna name her?” Andre asked.
Jacobi smirked. “Buffy.” They shared a knowing glance.
“The roach slayer,” Andre nodded. “You ate that one thing.”
Jacobi’s mind was made up.
“Cool,” he said, turning to the shopkeeper. “You take tap? I left my card at home.”
🪳🪳🪳
Back home, Jacobi set the cage gently on the coffee table like it was holy or haunted. He peeled back one corner of the drape. He opened the door, he waited. Nothing. The mantis remained tucked into the furthest corner, cloaked in shadow.
“Girl,” he whispered. “Come on, you got work to do.”
He reached in. Then, snap. Her spined forelegs clamped onto his thumb until she drew blood. He yelped, cradled his thumb to his mouth, and watched as she vanished beneath the couch.
His phone rang. While he was distracted, from the corner of his eye, he caught movement, a roach scuttling across the floor like it had somewhere to be.
He raised his slipper, but before he could strike, Buffy, a pink blur, burst from under the couch and with a violent grace her limbs shut around the roach.
CRUNCH.
“Yeah. I’ll send you those files in a sec.” He hung up.
He stared at the floor where the roach was. His eyes widened. Grinning, he grabbed a marker and made a single, triumphant tally on the dry-erase board on the fridge: 1.
Later, steam clouded the bathroom. Jacobi stood under the scalding spray, letting the water drown his face when he heard it.
CRUNCH.
Then again, closer.
CRUNCH.
He turned the water off and peeked past the shower curtain like a horror heroine. He saw nothing, but he didn’t need to. He heard enough to know it was working.
The TV murmured in the background, playing that nature documentary. Jacobi spooned cereal into his mouth absently, eyes half-lidded. From somewhere near the baseboards, he heard it again.
CRUNCH.
He didn’t flinch. He just glanced toward the sound, mouth full of Frosted Flakes, and marked 100 on the dry erase board.
By dusk, the apartment had taken on new life. Jacobi danced barefoot across the hardwood, a drink in one hand, the other raised to the ceiling as music thumped from the speakers. And woven in the beats beats, like apart of the song…
CRUNCH. CRUNCH. CRUNCH.
He spun once more, dizzy with glee, then marked it down: 319.
It was midnight now. The apartment was quiet, sacred. Jacobi had been sitting at the kitchen table, hoodie on, candle lit, typing into the blue glow of his laptop. He paused, mid-sentence.
CRUNCH. CRUNCH. CRUNCH.
He smiled and reached for the marker. He wrote the number slowly, with reverence: 444.
🪳🪳🪳
Weeks passed and the apartment transformed. The air once heavy with Raid now smelled like lavender and new beginnings. No more midnight scuttles. No distant skittering in the walls.
One morning, just before dawn, Jacobi stirred awake.
He opened his eyes and saw Buffy at the foot of his bed, silent and still. She was now the size of a toddler, her red eyes gleaming at him like coins at the bottom of a well. Jacobi rubbed his eyes and she was gone. Leaving behind only fresh molting.
That evening, while getting ready together, David tilted Jacobi’s chin and paused.
“Baby, what happened here?” he asked, brushing a thumb across faint scratches just beneath his jawline. Jacobi chuckled, distracted, tugging on a silver earring.
“Must’ve been you,” he teased. “You get wild.”
David wasn’t amused. He raised a brow. “I don’t have claws, babe.”
Jacobi only grinned.
Hours later, the balcony buzzed with bodies and laughter. Jacobi sat with David, Andre and a few other friends, legs tangled, blunts passing from hand to hand. Behind the glass door, Buffy watched. Perched in shadows. Her red eyes blinked slowly, never leaving Jacobi.
Later, Jacobi and David were curled up on the couch, limbs knotted and sunk into one another like roots. The room glowed faintly from the flicker of a black and white monster movie that seemed to be watching them. The only sound was the occasional scream from the TV, and their slow, synced breathing.
Then something brushed across their bare legs.
Jacobi’s eyes flew open. David stirred, yawning and stretching like a cat. He kissed Jacobi’s cheek, half-asleep. “Let’s go to bed.” He stood and padded down the hall in nothing but underwear.
Jacobi was frozen.
His gaze locked on the darkness beyond the balcony door, just past the curtain, movement. Then a blur of pink, glinting faintly in the streetlight, slid soundlessly out the open balcony door and disappeared into the night.
He rose slowly, like a dreamer not yet sure he was awake. One foot, then the other. He crossed the room, heart hammering like ritual drums. When he reached the door, he shut it quickly and clicked the lock.
A week later, someone had taped a missing dog flyer to the building door. Then another. Different breeds but the same desperation in black-and-white text:
LOST: LEO. Pit mix. Blue harness. Last seen on 125th.
MISSING: CHESSIE. Shih Tzu. Answers to “Cheese.”
REWARD: ROXY. French Bulldog. Needs medication. Please help.
A new one every other day, layered over the old until the glass became a collage of them. Andre, with his usual irreverence, laughed and said Harlem had become the Bermuda Triangle for bougie dogs.
But Jacobi barely glanced up.
“Everybody doesn’t need a dog anyway,” he muttered, not looking away from his phone.
Andre shrugged. “Yeah, you ain’t lied.”
🪳🪳🪳
David said yes.
They were seated beneath the warm glow of a patio heater at Ponty Bistro, two spoons tangled in the caramel crust of a shared crème brûlée. Jacobi had asked the question like he was telling him. Like he already knew the answer.
“Move in with me,” he whispered.
David blinked. Then smiled. “Yeth,” he said with deadpan humor, like the word had been waiting in his chest all along. Jacobi’s hands shook so hard he almost dropped his spoon. He laughed instead, giddy and grateful, blinking away sudden tears as they kissed softly.
On the walk home, they passed Mrs. Maplethorpe, his downstairs neighbor, sobbing into in front of an unconcerned cop.
“He’s all I have,” she wailed, gripping a flyer with a trembling hand.
Jacobi murmured something sympathetic and took the flyer, folding it once, then twice, and slipping it into his coat pocket.
Later that night, he rolled a joint as David wrapped his arms around him from behind. They slid the balcony door open and stepped out into the breath of the city, wrapped into each other. Side by side, they shared long, lazy drags from the joint as their lover’s laughter drowned out the city’s sounds.
Later still, rain began to tap on the balcony like it had something to confess. Thunder murmured in the distance.
David yawned and pulled Jacobi toward the apartment. “C’mon future husband.”
They stumbled in from the balcony, giggling, wet from the drizzle, cheeks rosy from weed and wine and love.
They made love in the dark.
From the hallway, unseen but ever-present, Buffy far larger now watched.
Jacobi woke to wetness. Not sweat. Not rain. But something warm, thick, sticky. The air smelled off. Sweet, then sharp. Like pennies left too long in a mouth. Like rotting meat. His fingers curled instinctively around the sheets, and as he shifted, he felt it again, that sticky, spreading warmth beneath his hips.
Blinking into the dark, still fogged with sleep and leftover love, he reached for the comforter. He pulled it back and he howled.
David’s body lay twisted beside him, or rather, half of it did. His upper torso remained, glazed in sweat and sleep, lips parted in a dream that had soured. But everything below the waist was gone. Torn away. Blood soaked the sheets in crimson pools, like spilled wine on a white shirt.
And there, at the foot of the bed was Buffy.
Her limbs folded delicately, around what was left of David’s hip, working rhythmically, gnawing. Chewing. Her mouth, slick with gore, opened wide in a low, guttural hiss.
Jacobi scrambled backwards, legs tangled in the sheets. He bolted from the room, slipping once in blood, catching himself, running on instinct to the kitchen. He grabbed the biggest blade he could from a drawer.
Behind him. Thud. Scrape. Hiss.
He turned just in time to see the refrigerator tip over, crashing to the floor. The dry-erase board flew through the air, magnets and markers scattered like shrapnel.
Jacobi ran down the hallway, barefoot and blade raised.
His breath ragged, heart thudding against his ribs like a trapped animal. He slashed at the shadows, wild, desperate movements that cut nothing but air. He reached the end of the hall. His back hit the plaster.
And there was nowhere left to go.
The lights flickered above him. The air thinned. The loft, once open and airy, felt like it was collapsing inward, shrinking into a coffin of drywall and dread.
Buffy’s shadow filled the hallway first.
Then she arrived.
Her body impossibly large now, scaled skin stretched taut over muscle, her mouth lined with serrated teeth that curved like daggers. Her eyes shimmered red in the dark. Her wings fanned open with a thunderclap of air, revealing a glistening abdomen pulsing like a heartbeat.
He gripped the knife tighter as she loomed. And for a second, Jacobi’s terror gave way to something else, recognition.
He couldn’t control everything.
He didn’t lower the knife, but he didn’t raise it either. He just let out one final cry.
And then silence. The loft, once warm and alive, now stood in eerie stillness. Past the overturned furniture, the splintered table legs, the trail of blood across the tile, the dry‑erase board face‑down in crimson sludge. In the quiet came a sound. Wet & final.
CRUNCH. CRUNCH. CRUNCH.