When I first posted the ad for a work-from-home housemate, I wasn’t expecting a miracle. Just someone who didn’t leave mouldy Tupperware in the fridge or play thrash metal at 3 a.m. I was not expecting Claudia.
Claudia was perfect. Too perfect, in hindsight. But at the time, she was a gift wrapped in vegan leather loafers and the scent of cinnamon.
"I'm tidy, quiet, and make a mean aubergine parmigiana," she'd said during the viewing, standing in the doorway with her reusable coffee cup and a glint in her eye that, if I'm being honest, looked a little murder-y. But then again, I binge true crime podcasts, so everyone looks a bit murder-y to me.
I gave her the spare room.
We settled into a routine so smooth it was practically lubricated. Mornings smelled of fresh espresso and toasted sourdough. She even had labels in the spice cupboard. Labels! My coriander hadn’t seen that kind of organisation since 2013.
The house sparkled. My plants perked up. My cat, Chairperson Meow, who usually despised everyone with the sort of contempt reserved for baristas who spell your name wrong on purpose, loved Claudia. Sat on her lap purring like a lawnmower on ecstasy.
"She’s got good energy," my best mate Josie said, spooning Claudia’s homemade lentil dhal into her mouth like it held the secret to immortality. "You’ve lucked out. She’s like Mary Poppins. If Mary Poppins made kimchi and sorted your council tax."
I had lucked out. Until the disappearances started.
First it was old Mr Digby from number 14, the man with the gnome army and a suspicious habit of watering his garden shirtless in November. Then Mrs Lennox from number 9, the neighbourhood gossip and Pilates fanatic who used to glare at me for using oat milk. Then young Tom—the lad who wore socks with sandals unironically. All gone. One by one. Poof.
The police chalked it up to "coincidental circumstances." Apparently, Mr Digby had family up north. Mrs Lennox left behind a note (which I’m 89% sure was written in Comic Sans). And Tom? Supposedly joined a cult in Margate. As if Margate had cults. It barely has proper bin collection.
Now, I’m not one to jump to conclusions. But the coincidences were piling up like the bodies in Midsomer Murders.
And there was Claudia.
Claudia, with her impeccable manners and her nightly “experiments” in the kitchen that smelled so divine they made me want to weep into my tea.
"I’m trying a new stew tonight," she’d chirped one Thursday. "A rich, meaty one."
I didn’t ask what meat. I never asked. That was my first mistake.
My second mistake was snooping.
It started with a missing spatula.
"I'm sure it was here," I muttered, rummaging through the drawer. Claudia appeared like Dracula in leggings.
"Oh, I borrowed it. For my marrow tartlets," she said sweetly. "Do you want one?"
Of course I wanted one. They were incredible. But something inside me—some primitive part left over from caveman days—screamed, “SHE IS FEEDING YOU NEIGHBOURS.”
I laughed it off. Paranoia, I thought. Maybe I had been listening to too much true crime. Claudia wasn’t a serial killer. She had a herb garden. She crocheted.
Still, I started checking the bin.
Nothing suspicious. No bones. No bloody aprons. Just compostable wrappers and the occasional avocado pit. But there was one thing I couldn’t explain: the freezer in the shed.
We didn’t need a second freezer. It hummed quietly, unassuming, like it knew it was hiding secrets.
One night, curiosity got the better of me. Claudia was out at her weekly "midnight mushroom foraging walk"—which, come to think of it, is not a normal thing.
I tiptoed to the shed with the stealth of a burglar in novelty socks and opened the freezer.
Inside? Vacuum-sealed bags. Unlabelled. Vaguely… human-sized.
I poked one. It was squishy. Cold. Chunky.
I screamed, dropped the bag, and ran straight into Claudia.
She didn’t scream. She didn’t even blink.
"You found my stock," she said, too calmly. "For soups. I use… unusual ingredients."
That night, I locked my door for the first time in six years. Chairperson Meow glared at me, clearly offended I hadn’t invited Claudia in for a cuddle. Traitor.
The next morning, Claudia made banana pancakes and I found myself eating them while trying not to imagine the bananas were from Mr Digby's tree and also maybe included bits of Mr Digby.
"You're quiet today," Claudia said, sipping her green smoothie.
"Did you… did you kill my neighbours and turn them into artisan charcuterie?" I blurted, like an idiot.
She smiled. Smiled.
"I can see how you'd think that," she said. "But no. Not your neighbours."
She stood. Pushed her chair back calmly.
"They’re not dead. They're missing, yes. But not because of me."
"Right," I said, slowly backing toward the cutlery drawer.
Claudia sighed, opened her tote bag, and pulled out a pamphlet. It had a logo on it: a little spiral with a mushroom in the middle.
"THE ORDER OF THE FUNGI AWAKENED"
“What in the hippie nonsense is—”
“It’s not a cult,” Claudia said quickly. “It’s a community. We believe in escaping the toxicity of modern life. Off-grid living. Rewilding. And ethically-sourced protein alternatives.”
“You’re feeding people… mushrooms?”
“No. I’m feeding people to mushrooms,” she corrected. “It’s symbiotic. We disappear. We become compost. The fungi thrive. The Earth heals.”
I stared. She smiled. Chairperson Meow yawned.
“You’ve been eating tempeh made from Mr Digby.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “That was Mrs Lennox. Mr Digby volunteered to become broth. It was very dignified.”
I should’ve called the police. Or screamed. Or at least thrown my tea at her. But I didn’t.
I blinked. “...Was that why you asked if I liked mushroom lasagne yesterday?”
“Well,” she said, pushing the pamphlet toward me, “you’re not quite ready yet. But I can put your name down for August.”
It’s been three months. I still live here. Claudia’s still Claudia—tidy, considerate, responsible, and now technically a prophet. Turns out, The Order of the Fungi Awakened is gaining traction. They have a subreddit. A TikTok.
Also, their carbon footprint is amazing.
Josie was furious when she found out I hadn’t told her sooner. But then Claudia made her a walnut and blue cheese pâté, and now she’s “strongly considering the transition.”
I don’t know if I believe in it. The whole “feed yourself to the forest” thing. But I’ll admit, the idea of quietly vanishing into something bigger than yourself has a sort of strange appeal. Especially when it comes with chutney.
In the meantime, I just avoid the shed. And I never, ever ask what’s in the stew.
MORAL OF THE STORY:
When you find a perfect housemate, always check the freezer before you sign the lease. And if they cook that well, ask questions. Preferably before your name ends up on the August list.
