MY ROOM MATE BY ITORO ISAAC

THE ARRIVAL

Chapter Two: The Arrival

The morning after that first night, I awoke with the distinct feeling that I had dreamed everything. The whispers, the notebook, even that dreadful word MINE—surely they were just the products of exhaustion and nerves. Moving into a new place could play tricks on the mind.

That’s what I kept telling myself.

But the notebook was still there.

It sat on the desk by the opposite bed, the crimson cover catching the thin morning light that filtered through the blinds. Its cracked leather surface looked ancient, like something pulled from an attic after decades of dust and neglect. And though the chalky lettering had faded somewhat, I could still see it: that single, possessive word. MINE.

I rubbed my eyes and tried to laugh it off. “Probably belongs to the roommate. Some weird joke or… or a note to himself.”

But even as I said it aloud, the word twisted in my mind like a warning.

I went about my morning carefully, keeping an eye on that desk as though the notebook might leap off it. The rest of the room was ordinary enough: my bed unmade, boxes half-unpacked, a poster of a band I liked pinned to my side of the wall. I tried to ground myself in normalcy—coffee, a granola bar, scrolling through my phone.

And then I heard the key turn in the front door.

The sound made me sit bolt upright. My heart raced with an anxious kind of anticipation. I was finally about to meet him—the mysterious, quiet roommate.

The door opened slowly, hinges groaning. Footsteps padded across the hall, deliberate, unhurried. When the figure finally appeared in the doorway of our room, I almost forgot to breathe.

He was tall—much taller than me—with a lean frame that seemed to carry no weight. His skin was pale, almost translucent, as if he hadn’t seen sunlight in months. Dark hair fell over his forehead in uneven strands, and his eyes… his eyes were the strangest part. They were gray, not the dull gray of overcast skies but the sharp, metallic gray of steel. Eyes that looked as if they could cut straight through you.

He stopped in the doorway and studied me. The silence stretched so long that I felt compelled to speak.

“Uh—hey. You must be my roommate.”

He tilted his head slightly, like he was considering the word. Finally, his voice came—low, quiet, and oddly deliberate.

“Yes.”

No name, no greeting. Just that one word.

I cleared my throat. “I’m Alex. I just moved in yesterday. Sorry I didn’t catch your name before.”

Another pause. Then, softly:

“Elias.”

The name hung in the air between us, weighted, final.

“Nice to meet you, Elias,” I said, trying to sound casual. “I guess we’ll be sharing this space for a while.”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. He just walked past me, set down a small black duffel bag on his bed, and began unpacking. His movements were precise, almost ritualistic. A folded black shirt placed neatly in the drawer. A stack of worn paperbacks aligned perfectly on the shelf. A pair of boots tucked just under the bedframe, toes pointing outward.

I tried not to stare, but something about the way he arranged his things unsettled me. It was too careful, too exact. Like he wasn’t just unpacking clothes—he was preparing a stage.

“Long trip?” I asked, desperate to fill the silence.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he opened the drawer of his desk and slid the crimson notebook inside, almost reverently. My chest tightened.

“You… write?” I asked.

He stopped, his hand lingering on the drawer handle, then glanced at me with those cutting gray eyes. “I keep records.”

Something about the way he said it made my skin crawl.

The rest of the day passed in a strained quiet. Elias didn’t go out, didn’t watch TV, didn’t even check his phone. He just sat at his desk for hours, writing in that notebook. The sound of the pen scratching against the page became a steady rhythm, almost like breathing.

By evening, I couldn’t take it anymore. “Hey, Elias,” I said. “I was thinking of ordering pizza. You want some?”

He stopped writing. Slowly, he turned his head toward me. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes seemed darker now, like clouds had rolled across steel.

“I don’t eat,” he said.

The words sent a chill down my spine. “What do you mean, you don’t eat?”

He didn’t elaborate. Just went back to writing.

That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, listening. Elias’s pen scratched on for hours, long after the lights were out. And then, sometime past midnight, the whispering returned.

At first I thought it was him, muttering to himself as he wrote. But when I turned my head toward his desk, I froze.

He wasn’t there.

The chair was empty.

The notebook lay closed on the desk, but the whispering grew louder—voices overlapping, foreign tongues murmuring in unison. I clutched my blanket and scanned the room frantically. Elias’s bed was empty too.

My pulse thundered in my ears. I sat up, reaching for my phone, desperate for light. But before I could unlock it, I felt it—cold breath against my neck.

I whipped around. Nothing.

The whispers cut off abruptly. The silence that followed was suffocating.

And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him.

Elias stood at the far end of the room, by the window, staring out into the darkness beyond. His lips moved soundlessly. His hands hung limp at his sides.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry. “Elias?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t turn.

I forced myself to stand, each step toward him heavier than the last. The air grew colder, sharper, until I could see my breath fogging in the dim light of my phone.

When I was just a few feet away, his lips stopped moving. Slowly, he turned his head toward me.

His eyes glowed faintly in the dark—an unnatural silver light that seemed to pulse in rhythm with my heartbeat.

“Go back to bed, Alex,” he whispered.

I froze. My legs trembled beneath me.

“Why?” I croaked.

His lips curled slightly, not into a smile but something colder. “Because they’re listening.”

My breath hitched. “Who’s listening?”

He turned back to the window, the glow in his eyes fading. “You’ll know soon enough.”

And just like that, he climbed into his bed, pulled the covers over himself, and shut his eyes.

I stood there shaking, staring at him for what felt like an eternity. But he didn’t move again.

The whispers never returned that night.

But I couldn’t sleep. Not after that. Not with the knowledge that something else was sharing the room with us—something unseen, something waiting.

And Elias, my new roommate, was the only one who seemed to understand it.