15 Burned Matches
The roommate who stole my chair
One day she moves into the empty room in the apartment I am leasing. No heads up from the manager. There she is. An old lady who speaks Finnish. She quickly occupies the kitchen and begins to use my belongings and property. She moves quickly, she talks quickly, and she takes quickly.
One morning when I leave for school she is busy moving my armchair from the foyer into her room. It is my armchair, I say. It doesn’t stop her. She is holding it in the air, in her relatively small arms. She is strong, I can see that now. I make a quick decision and inform her it is my chair and it belongs to me and I will take it. Here, I take it to my room. See, it is my chair. I begin to grasp something about this woman. Something isn’t right.
OpenArt. Prompt by author. One afternoon I hear her putter around in the kitchen for a very long time. By now I have stopped interacting with her. I leave when she is in her room. I pray she is not there when I return. I have removed most of my belongings from all shared spaces and store them in my room, which I lock every single time I leave it. Even when I go to the bathroom or to the shower.
Finally she leaves the apartment. I continue to work in my room until I suddenly begin to feel warm. I get up to get a drink in the kitchen and is met by a wall of heat. The stove is turned on highest level and a frying pan is glowing hot orange on the stove! Nothing is in the pan. Nothing. I quickly turn off the stove, and call my father for help. Within one day he has helped me arrange a new apartment while they investigate this person. This is when I feel fear. Genuine fear.
The old woman apparently is known for acting strange, and she most likely has a mental sickness. She is moved to another apartment somewhere else. This has happened before, they say. I move back into my old apartment with the promise that no one else will move into the second room.
Time passes.
OpenArt. Prompt by author. One Sunday evening a couple of months later I return back to the apartment and see a pile of about 15 burned matches on the floor immediately outside the apartment. I am transported into a movie. This is a movie, isn’t it? This only happens in movies. I look at the matches. Are they placed like this on purpose? Is this a curse? What is inside the apartment? I rapidly destroy the order of the matches in case they are ordered in a particular way. Then I open the door to the apartment and in full readiness to fight I stomp through the entire place with an inner strength that seldom needs to emerge. I walk with confidence into every room and yell: “Hello! Is anybody here? Speak up! Is anybody here?” Empty. Nothing. All is well. Then I take the matches and brush them into a bag and take them to the trash. I am careful to not touch them.
Time passes. She doesn’t return.
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Ok, this was weird. And maybe you know that I like weird. It also reminded me of an old room mate problem long ago. I should curse you for that because I haven't thought about that for decades, but instead I say thank you because your tale was so fun. And I'm a grown up now. I can handle the past. I think. Loved the illustrations, and if I see an old lady like that, I'll be sure to take the long way home.
This is both scary and spooky.