Dear Murderous Lunatic,

I first became aware/convinced of your presence a week ago after witnessing a hair in my shower that matched neither the color, nor the follicular structure of my own hair.

“What if…” I mused, while staring down the swirling black drain at my feet “…there is a man living in my basement who comes up when I’m at work to use my shower?”

It was just one of those thoughts, and I shook it from my mind and went on with my evening without undue distress.

Still, you resurfaced yet again one morning as I was browsing the contents of my refrigerator and noticed there were four less slices of pizza than I remembered having, and at least five less beers. 

“I’m pretty sure I didn’t eat that much pizza…” I mused. “And if I’m drinking so much every night that I’ve lost count entirely, well, that would mean I have a problem.”

Thus my suspicions of you grew. Could it be, there is a person living secretly in my home who eats my hard earned pizza and drinks my ice cold beer while I am sleeping?

These suspicions were solidified later that night as I was preparing for sleep, drunk and full of pizza, and my suddenly dog barked very suddenly at a passing shadow.

“Okay…” I thought to myself while lying wide awake in a cold sweat. “Okay. So he’s probably watching me through the heat duct as I lay here, just waiting for me to fall asleep so he can, I don’t know… pop out of a vent and chop my head off with an ax?”

And with that one vivid imagining, thus ended my life of relative peace, and so began my preoccupation with you: The potentially imagined but definitely homicidal ax murderer living in my crawl space. 

Ax wielding maniac, I must insist that you move out of this house immediately. I don’t wish to be murdered, and I am uncomfortable with the idea of a shadowy entity using my shower or eating my food. 

Or else help me pay the rent. It is only fair. 

I know decent housing is hard to come by, but there are many (more spacious!) basements you could be living in, and other (more sporting!) victims to hunt. 

I am what might be described as a “soft target” at best.

Bloodthirsty psychopath, you know my life. I come home from work, watch television, cook a frozen pizza, eat it while listening to a podcast, and fall asleep around ten, half-buzzed, in an unlocked room, unarmed, and with no defense mechanisms to speak of. 

That’s what you’re dealing with here. 

“Local Man Dies of Knife Attack, Survived by Dog and Half-Eaten Pizza” is not a headline that is going to strike fear in the hearts of anyone. 

You can do much better than me, strange man in my house. Don’t sell yourself short. The world is your oyster, recently escaped serial killer! Your big, murderable oyster!

So, deranged slasher currently residing in my darkened crawlspace, please move out so I can reestablish some normalcy in my home. I cannot go on jumping at every last bump in the night/morning/afternoon/evening. It’s not healthy. I’m very tired. 

Or, like I said, you could help me out with rent. Like, even $100 a month would make a dent.

Frenzied criminal who slips effortlessly through the walls of my home, I will leave you with this:

My neighbor (to the left) is an ex-cop with a grudge, a gun, and a fully furnished basement stocked with smoked meat and preserves. He has left me their spare key in case of emergency, but unfortunately I cannot reveal its hiding space in the pineapple shaped tray in my living room. 

Okay? Sound good? 

Or, like, we could work out the rent thing! Which, the more I think about it, the more I’m leaning in that direction.

Because you want to know what’s really crazy, unbalanced lunatic who’s dark hunger can only be sated by the act of killing? The cost of living these days! How is anyone supposed to get ahead? I swear, if inflation gets any higher I’ll be the one slipping into the homes of unknowing strangers under the cover of darkness!

So what do you say, insane nutcase plotting my demise as we speak? I could use a roommate, and lord knows I’m not doing Craigslist again. (Those people are crazy crazy.)

We go 50/50. You can keep eating my food and using my shower, and living in my damp dark basement. The compromise is that you can’t kill me. Stalk me, ambush me, attack me — fine! Just no murdering. I think that’s more than fair in this housing market. 

Demented malefactor hiding just out of sight, I truly hope you are 1.) real 2.) down with this whole roommate idea and 3.) not just a figment of my imagination brought on by poor diet, mild alcohol abuse, financial stress, and generalized anxiety. 

I’d be interested to know your thoughts, unhinged madman creeping in the shadows of the building I formerly thought to be safe. I can only guess at your preferred method of communication. I prefer gmail, but I will also reticently accept:

-notes scrawled on a steamed bathroom mirror

-messages written on the walls in blood (not mine!)

-cryptic incantations whispered in my ear as I sleep

Hit me up roomie!  Let’s make it happen. I hope you like pizza and beer.

– Mitch (your terrified/open minded victim/future housemate)