Dead Plate Oneshots Is My Roommate A Murderer

Rody Lamoree prided himself on two things: his ability to make the best of a bad situation and his legendary ability to ignore all the blaring red flags life threw his way. And right now, as he lugged the last of his suitcases into his new, suspiciously affordable apartment, he was clinging to those talents for dear life.

The apartment was perfect. Too perfect. Hardwood floors, a view of the Seine, and the kind of rent that didn’t make him break out in a cold sweat every month. The only catch? The roommate.

Vincent Charbonneau was… well, *Vincent*. The guy had the look of someone who crawled out of a horror movie and never quite shook the vibe. He was pale—like, really pale. His dark, sunken eyes and the way his black hair always looked slightly damp didn’t help either. His fashion sense consisted entirely of black turtlenecks, which Rody assumed he must have ordered in bulk, along with a matching set of ominous glances.

It had been barely a week since Rody started moving his stuff in, and Vincent had already managed to freak him out at least ten times a day. But the rent was cheap, and, well, beggars couldn’t be choosers, especially when they were kicked out of their last place for accidentally setting off the fire alarm *three* times in one week (he swore it was an accident).

As Rody dropped his last suitcase with a thud, Vincent appeared out of nowhere, standing silently in the doorway of the kitchen like some sort of gothic statue.

“You left the door unlocked,” Vincent said in a low, eerie monotone.

Rody nearly jumped out of his skin. “Jesus Christ! Dude, you *have* to stop doing that.”

Vincent didn’t respond, just stared with those deep, unsettling eyes like he was thinking about whether to kill Rody now or later. His gaze drifted to the pile of Rody’s stuff by the door, and for a second, Rody swore Vincent’s expression twisted into something vaguely resembling disapproval.

“I was… carrying my stuff in,” Rody explained, attempting a nervous laugh. “Kinda hard to juggle boxes and lock the door at the same time.”

Vincent didn’t blink. “Lock it next time.”

And then, just like that, he vanished back into the kitchen, leaving Rody standing there, heart pounding in his ears.

“Oh yeah,” Rody muttered to himself. “Definitely no red flags here.”

***

Living with Vincent was like living in a horror movie where nothing *quite* happened, but you were always on edge, waiting for it. The guy was unnervingly quiet, moving around the apartment like a shadow. He didn’t slam doors, didn’t stomp around—hell, Rody wasn’t even sure if Vincent’s footsteps made a sound at all.

And then there were the… *little things.*

One night, Rody wandered into the kitchen for a midnight snack, only to find Vincent standing at the counter, perfectly still, staring down at what looked like a very large, very sharp butcher knife.

Rody froze, hand halfway to the fridge. “Uh… late-night cooking?”

Vincent turned his head slowly, giving Rody a look that sent a chill down his spine. “I’m sharpening it.”

“Cool. Great. Totally normal.” Rody nodded slowly, backing toward his room. “I’ll just, uh, grab some chips later then.”

Vincent said nothing, just continued running the blade of the knife over the sharpening stone in a way that looked way too practiced for Rody’s comfort. He shuffled back to his room, stomach grumbling, but he figured it was better than potentially being turned into a human kebab.

Then there was the humming.

The first time Rody heard it, he thought it was a broken radiator or maybe an old pipe making noise. But then he realized the sound was coming from Vincent. Specifically, from Vincent standing in the bathroom brushing his teeth.

It wasn’t a normal hum, either. It was this eerie, off-key tune that sounded like something out of a bad 1950s horror movie. The kind of melody that played right before the creepy doll in the attic turned its head to say, “Let’s play forever.”

Rody lay in bed listening to it, wide-eyed and stiff as a board. *This is fine,* he told himself. *It’s probably fine. People hum when they brush their teeth, right?*

The next morning, Vincent sat at the breakfast table, reading a newspaper like some kind of French Dracula, while Rody made himself a bowl of cereal. Rody glanced over, trying to act casual.

“Sooo… You like humming, huh?”

Vincent didn’t look up. “It’s a habit.”

“Right. Totally normal habit.” Rody shoveled a spoonful of cereal into his mouth. “Do you, uh, usually hum funeral marches, or is that just a Tuesday thing?”

Vincent’s eyes flicked up from the paper for the briefest of seconds before returning to the news. He didn’t answer, and Rody decided it was probably best to drop the subject. The guy was definitely a weirdo, but at least he wasn’t, you know, wearing people’s faces as masks. *Probably.*

***

By week two, Rody had developed what he liked to call *The Vincent Reflex.* This was the automatic full-body jolt he did every time Vincent appeared silently behind him or in a doorway or out of some impossibly dark corner. It happened so frequently, Rody was convinced Vincent had ninja training. Or, more likely, he was just a walking, talking *jump scare.*

One evening, Rody sat on the couch watching a movie, minding his own business, when suddenly Vincent materialized behind him, like he always did.

“Do you mind if I sit?” Vincent asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Rody, who was halfway through shoving a handful of popcorn into his mouth, flinched so hard he spilled half the bowl into his lap. “GAH! *Seriously*? Dude, you have to stop doing that!”

Vincent raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, just sat down on the opposite end of the couch. He sat with perfect posture, hands folded neatly in his lap, and stared straight ahead at the TV like he’d never sat on a couch before in his life.

Rody’s eyes flicked to the screen and then back to Vincent. “So… what are you into? You ever, uh, seen *Star Wars* or anything?”

“No.”

“Right, of course you haven’t,” Rody muttered under his breath. “Let me guess: you’re into, like, documentaries on obscure serial killers, right?”

Vincent didn’t blink. “I don’t watch television.”

Rody stared at him. “You don’t watch TV? *Ever?* What do you even do in your spare time?”

“I read.”

“Figures.” Rody leaned back, eyeing Vincent skeptically. “Bet you’re into those weird, old books about ancient rituals and human sacrifice, huh?”

Vincent glanced at him sideways. “I like cookbooks.”

“Cookbooks? Oh, that’s… kinda unexpected.”

Vincent’s stare lingered on Rody a beat too long, and Rody could practically hear the ominous music playing in the background of his life.

“Do you… cook a lot?” Rody asked, regretting it immediately.

Vincent nodded slowly. “Yes. I used to be a chef.”

Rody blinked. “Like, a *professional* chef?”

Vincent nodded again, his eyes dark and serious. “I had my own restaurant.”

There was a long, awkward silence, broken only by the sound of Rody crunching on popcorn.

“Well,” Rody said finally, trying to lighten the mood. “I guess that explains all the… knives?”

Vincent tilted his head ever so slightly. “They’re very sharp.”

Rody gulped. “Right. Great. Love a guy who’s good with knives.”

The silence returned, and Rody sat there nervously munching popcorn, wondering if he should be looking for a new apartment *immediately*.

***

By the end of the month, Rody was convinced that Vincent was either a former cult leader or, at the very least, someone who spent way too much time sharpening knives for *fun*. But as creepy as Vincent was, Rody couldn’t deny that the guy was strangely fascinating. In a “I might die in my sleep” kind of way.

Rody tried to keep things casual, like a normal person. They didn’t talk much, which was fine because Rody did most of the talking anyway. But every now and then, Vincent would appear at odd moments, like some sort of ghost roommate, just standing in the doorway, watching, always with that unsettling, quiet intensity.

Rody had developed a routine for when Vincent appeared: pretend to be calm, make a joke, try not to scream internally.

Rody’s routine was simple: avoid the knives, make sure the doors were locked, and never, under any circumstances, ask Vincent any personal questions that might trigger a “murderous monologue.” Things were going *fine*, really. He wasn’t dead, and that was already a big win.

One evening, while Rody was lounging on the couch, he heard the unmistakable sound of Vincent’s quiet footsteps approaching. He tensed up, bracing for the usual awkwardness. Vincent emerged from the hallway, holding something wrapped in a suspiciously large black cloth.

“Is that… another knife?” Rody asked, squinting.

Vincent said nothing, just placed the cloth-wrapped item on the kitchen counter with the kind of care reserved for priceless artifacts—or body parts. Rody stared at the mysterious bundle, feeling the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

“Okay, dude, I have to ask. What is it with you and the creepy packages?” Rody demanded, gesturing wildly at the cloth.

Vincent, unfazed, glanced at him and unwrapped the item slowly. Inside was—oh, thank God—a loaf of homemade bread. “I bake when I’m stressed,” Vincent said flatly.

Rody blinked. “Wait… you *bake*? Like, bread? Normal bread, not poisoned, not-stuffed-with-human-fingers bread?”

Vincent shot him a mildly offended look, as though *that* was the absurd question. “I don’t bake with fingers.”

Rody let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Cool. Cool. Sorry, just… you know, you’re kind of intense. The whole *vibe*.”

Vincent tilted his head, genuinely confused. “What vibe?”

“You know, the whole, ‘I’m-one-bad-day-away-from-becoming-a-Netflix-true-crime-special’ vibe,” Rody clarified, throwing up air quotes.

Vincent stared at him blankly. “I’m not planning anything illegal.”

“Right,” Rody muttered, not fully convinced. “Totally believable coming from a guy who stands in doorways without blinking.”

Vincent frowned, like he was trying to process that. “I’ll… try to blink more.”

That nearly made Rody choke on his water. He wiped his mouth, trying not to laugh too loud. “Dude, that’s… no, don’t even worry about it. You do you. Just… maybe give a heads up before you start *looming*.”

Vincent seemed to think about that for a moment, before giving a slow, deliberate nod. “Noted.”

This was progress. Creepy progress, but progress nonetheless.

***

Despite Vincent’s unnerving habits, Rody found himself getting used to it—or maybe his survival instincts were just giving up. It wasn’t all *bad*, living with Vincent. In fact, there were perks.

For one, the guy *could* cook. Like, *really* cook. One day, Vincent casually served up what looked like a five-star meal: pan-seared salmon with lemon butter, rosemary potatoes, and a side of grilled asparagus.

Rody, sitting at the table with his usual bowl of cereal, looked at the spread like it had just appeared out of thin air. “Uh, are you… expecting guests? You know, rich ones?”

“No,” Vincent replied calmly, setting the last dish down. “This is dinner.”

Rody blinked, looking between his bowl of cereal and the masterpiece Vincent had laid out. “You made all this? For… us?”

Vincent nodded, looking faintly irritated by the obvious question. “Do you prefer something else?”

Rody gawked at the food. “No, this is… dude, this is amazing! I thought you were just sharpening knives and staring off into space all day, but this is next-level!”

Vincent took his seat, expression as calm as ever. “I told you. I used to be a chef.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t know you were like, *that* kind of chef,” Rody said, shoveling food onto his plate with reckless abandon. “I figured you’d be one of those guys who boils a unseasoned potato and calls it ‘dinner.’”

Vincent arched an eyebrow. “I don’t boil unseasoned potatoes.”

Rody paused, mouth full of perfectly seasoned salmon. “Right. Obviously.” He chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then leaned in, narrowing his eyes. “Wait. Is this why the rent’s so cheap? You’re feeding me gourmet meals to keep me around?”

Vincent didn’t respond, which, naturally, made Rody even more suspicious.

“Because, honestly,” Rody continued, waving his fork dramatically, “this feels like some weird ‘Hansel and Gretel’ situation where you’re fattening me up for some reason.”

Vincent glanced at him with his usual unreadable expression. “Do you always think about food in such morbid ways?”

Rody shrugged. “I live with you. You kinda rub off on a guy.”

Vincent’s face remained stoic, but there was a brief flicker of something—maybe amusement, though it was hard to tell. “I assure you, I have no plans to fatten you up.”

Rody stabbed a piece of asparagus and waved it around like a detective accusing the suspect in a murder mystery. “Okay, okay. But if I mysteriously disappear one day, just know that I’m leaving a note for the police. ‘Dear authorities, please check the fridge for clues. Sincerely, Rody Lamoree, probably eaten by my creepy roommate.’”

Vincent sighed, finally breaking his stoic mask just long enough to roll his eyes, the most human expression Rody had ever seen on him. “I don’t eat people.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Rody said with a grin, taking another huge bite of salmon. “This is seriously good though. You’re like a creepy, gourmet Gordon Ramsay.”

Vincent didn’t respond, but there was the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he returned to his own plate.

***

Despite the weirdness, the quiet dinners and bizarre conversations somehow became normal. Rody found himself almost looking forward to Vincent’s unnerving company—mostly because the food was amazing, but also because it was nice to have someone else around, even if that someone else was probably plotting world domination between meals.

Of course, Rody’s friends were not as easily convinced that this arrangement was *totally fine*.

“You have to move out,” his friend Jules said over the phone one night. “I’m telling you, that guy sounds like a psycho.”

“He’s not a psycho!” Rody protested. “He’s just… you know, *odd*.”

“Rody, he watches you sleep.”

“That happened *one time*! He was ‘checking the temperature in the room,’” Rody said, using heavy air quotes. “I told you, he’s just weird, not dangerous.”

Jules sighed dramatically. “Fine. But don’t come crying to me when you wake up in a basement somewhere.”

Rody rolled his eyes, even though part of him wondered if Jules was right. But another part of him—the part currently enjoying the gourmet leftovers Vincent had made—decided it was worth the risk. Besides, if anyone was going to murder him, at least Vincent would probably do it in an organized, clean way. Small comforts.

And so, for now, Rody would keep ignoring the creepy red flags. The rent was still cheap, the food was still fantastic, and hey, at least Vincent was *really, really pretty*.