The first red flag should have been the rental ad itself: "Seeking quiet, nocturnal flatmate. Must be comfortable with pets. References from previous landlords a plus. No full-time students." Posted at 3:47 AM on a Tuesday, which was either the mark of a dedicated insomniac or someone operating on a completely different schedule than the rest of humanity.
But I was desperate. Third year at Manchester University, and my previous flatmate had just moved out to live with his girlfriend, leaving me with a two-bedroom flat I couldn't afford alone and exactly twelve days to find someone before rent was due. Desperation makes you overlook things like cryptic rental ads and references to mysterious pets.
Marcus Blackwood seemed normal enough when we met at the local coffee shop. Tall, lean, with an unruly mop of dark hair that looked like he'd stuck his finger in an electrical socket. He wore a faded band t-shirt and jeans that had seen better decades, and he had this habit of glancing toward the door every few minutes like he expected someone to burst in. Nervous energy, I'd thought at the time. Who wasn't nervous about meeting potential flatmates?
"So, what's your major?" I'd asked, stirring sugar into my coffee.
"Oh, I'm not a student," he'd replied quickly. "I work nights. Security." He'd paused, then added, "Very irregular hours. You'll barely know I'm there."
Another red flag, but at that point, I was more concerned about his ability to pay rent than his career choices. He'd produced first month's rent in cash, which should have been red flag number three, but instead I'd seen it as divine intervention.
"Any questions about the flat?" I'd asked.
"Just one. You're a heavy sleeper, right?"
I'd laughed. "Like the dead. My mates used to draw on my face at parties because nothing woke me up."
Something in his expression had shifted then, relief flooding his features. "Perfect."
Red flag number four: who gets that excited about their flatmate's sleeping habits?
But I'd been twenty years old and broke, and Marcus had seemed harmless enough. He'd moved in the following weekend with exactly three boxes, a duffel bag, and what appeared to be a month's supply of raw meat that he'd immediately crammed into our freezer.
"Protein diet," he'd explained when he'd caught me staring. "Very specific nutritional needs."
The first month had been blissfully quiet. True to his word, I barely saw Marcus. He'd disappear around sunset and return sometime before dawn, moving through the flat like a ghost. The only evidence of his presence was the occasional dirty dish in the sink and the fact that our grocery bill had tripled, almost entirely due to his carnivorous shopping habits.
I'd started to think I'd hit the flatmate jackpot. Marcus was quiet, clean, and paid his bills on time. What more could you ask for?
Then October arrived, and with it, the first full moon since he'd moved in.
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