The Witch of Union Street East
By Baz MacdonaldGather round, my fellow Scarfies, and hear my tale of how a humble group of students faced their evil landlord head on and emerged victorious.
It was late 2011, and the mad rush for flats had begun. Freshers could be seen flooding the streets in droves, easily identifiable by their puffer jackets and optimistic looks. I had long since lost my naïveté in regards to flatting, having already seen the filthy underbelly of the beast that is renting in Dunedin Central. Yet despite my cynicism I once again began the intrepid quest for the coming year’s accommodation.
We searched high and low for a flat that fit all of our criteria. All hope seemed lost … until, that is, we stumbled upon a flat on Union Street East. This is perfect, we thought; less than a block from university, cute, quaint, quiet and cheap. What’s the catch?
That was when we met the Witch of Union Street East. This 80-something-year-old woman had all of the characteristics of a witch; she was old and mildly racist. However, like all witches, she hid her evil nature from us on our first meeting. We were trapped under her spell, and so one by one we signed our souls over to the wicked witch in the form of a bond.
It wasn’t long into our new residence that we began to see glimpses of the witch’s agenda. The witch had cast spells on all the ancient appliances, which made them appear in working order until the tenants entered the residence. At this point, all of the appliances would simultaneously die. I can almost imagine her cackle as we emailed her telling her of this horrible misfortune that had befallen us, and her replying that it was, of course, our own fault.
It wasn’t until the end of the year, however, that the witch truly revealed herself as the agent of Satan that she most certainly was. In an attempt to avoid the witch’s machinations we left that flat in the best condition it had been in since the damn thing was built. We were sure that we had satiated the wicked witch, and left feeling relieved that we had finally escaped the clutches of such a nefarious force.
But when we requested that the witch return our soul bonds she informed us that our treatment of her flat had warranted her keeping our bonds forever. My brave friends weren’t having this, though; they suggested we take up arms and fight the witch.
We tried to attack the witch head on, but she ignored our attacks. That is when we employed the mighty arm of the Knights of the Small Claims Courts. These knights called the witch before them, and after hearing the heartfelt stories of us downtrodden youths and the lies and personal attacks of the witch, they ordered that the wicked witch return us our soul bonds.
Let this be a cautionary tale, both to those currently flatting and to those currently searching for residence. Student tenants are often abused by their landlords in this city and we seldom fight against it. The only way for things to get better is for us to take up arms against the injustices we suffer at the hands of these tyrants.
Leslie: The Unwelcome Sixth Flatmate
By Brittany MannMy second-year flat on Lovelock Ave soon acquired a sixth member – a rodent we christened Leslie. Leslie was first heard scampering around in the walls and roof, but soon proved his or herself to be an audacious little fucker, brazenly eating our fruit and shitting on our couch. He/she was even occasionally spotted scuttling in and out of the cupboard in which we kept our pots. It got to the point where we kept a pool cue outside the door to the kitchen which we would bash on the floor before entering so as not to be confronted with Leslie’s furry, disease-ridden presence. We laid rat poison and ominous-looking traps, and we whiled away many happy evenings by throwing Biros at their clenched jaws to watch the pens explode.
On one glorious morning, we discovered the poison had gone and we assumed we had seen the last of Leslie, once and for all.
However, it was not to be. One morning soon after the poison had been taken, I came downstairs to the kitchen to have breakfast. Looking over at the small space between the oven and fridge, I saw Leslie’s furry body spilling guts and blood across the floor, having met his/ her Maker at the hands of the mighty rat trap after all. I squealed, much like the rat itself might have done when it realised it was about to be partially decapitated, vaulted over the sink and ran back upstairs to my room. There, I did what any rational person would do in that situation: I called my mum, who, living five hours’ drive away, asked me what I thought she could do about it.
Studiously avoiding the kitchen for the rest of the day, my flatmate (who incidentally graced the cover of Critic two weeks ago) disposed of the carcass at some point, leaving nothing but bloody smears. When I worked up enough nerve, I shut my eyes and sprayed bleach in the general direction of the remnants, and that was that.
Noodle Western Showdown
By Lucy KavaleOur flat has had a problem with mice ever since we moved in (no matter how many we kill they just keep multiplying), so when I heard one rummaging around in a garbage bag I knew I couldn’t miss the chance to get one up on them. I located the hole through which it had gnawed its way in and carefully placed a mousetrap below, blocking its only route of escape. I was not disappointed.
Whilst preparing an afternoon snack of two-minute noodles and coffee I heard a snap, followed by the most haunting mouse screams. It had managed to trap one leg and responded to this by furiously attempting to run around the kitchen whilst dragging a trap three times its size. Grabbing the only weapon at hand – the metal tube for a vacuum cleaner – I attempted to bludgeon to death the frantic, screaming mouse. At some point I managed to free it from the trap, allowing the presumably concussed mouse with a broken leg to run underneath the couch, beside which I moved the trap.
Victory was short-lived for our rodent friend: two hours later I checked the trap to find one squashed mouse. That’s for a year of eating our noodles, muddafucka.
The Living-Room Standoff
By Daniel LormansAs the first semester rolled towards the Easter break, Tom’s* behaviour was becoming stranger than it had been all year. Several of us had received creepy and confusing “gifts,” ranging from dying roses and chocolate eggs in the girls’ beds to a well-worn birds-of-paradise necktie and a pedometer left at my door.
We became increasingly worried as a shrine to our past meals appeared on our outdoor table, but it wasn’t until the incident involving the cupcakes that I knew we had to act. The next full moon was fast approaching and I didn’t know what was going to happen when it arrived.
Returning home one night after a morale-boosting roast dinner with my family, I was surprised but glad to find the lights off and no one home. I entered into the darkness and, as I reached for the light switch, was confronted with a chilling sight out of the corner of my eye. I caught a glimpse of the moonlit silhouette of a familiar figure waiting in silence.
As light flooded the lounge, Tom seemed confused and surprised. It was then that I became aware of the large knife on the table, for which he was making a move.
After a tense standoff I managed to defuse the situation, and was treated to the ravings of a crazy mind for several hours while I alternatively played the roles of concerned citizen, amateur psychotherapist and good cop/ bad cop. During this spiel, Tom made enough threats of violence and self-harm to convince me that he could no longer live with us and needed professional help.
After another rant about exploding ATMs and throwing his Bibles into the Leith, I convinced Tom that it was in everyone’s best interests if he left immediately.
Little did I know that his final act of voyeurism and insanity would be to steal our towels and bathrobes – but not before turning his heater on high with a pile of clothes and rubbish pushed around it in an attempt to burn the house down.
As he left, my parting words to him were “get your wok and get the fuck out.” We all lived happily ever after. Except for Tom. He was institutionalised.
My Flatmates, the BDSemos
By James CagneyHe was a speckly emo with a penchant for noisy masturbation. She was an uptight Science student with a major in passive aggression. They were a match made in bad-flatmate heaven.
In third year I moved in with a crew of randoms. At first the two were sufferable, their moodiness and general loser-ish tendencies adequately diluted in the dank six-person flat. Each would post friendly little notes to remind us of our obligations. “Bright idea #37: rinse your dishes and put them in a neat stack, rather than dumping them in a dirty pile in the sink,” read one from Her. “Turn off your fucking light when you leave,” read another from Him, this one on my flatmate’s bed. “It’s not fair that we’re subsidising your laziness.”
The chemistry was undeniable. It was only a matter of time.
It began with a sneaky hand-holding session in town one night. Soon afterwards they were snapped in the kitchen, making out beside the bolognaise. This was not okay – we had to eat that bolognaise.
One night I awoke to a creaking sound, and realised the dreaded day had finally come. I invested in a pair of noise-cancelling headphones and a bottle of whiskey. This lasted me a couple of weeks. Then they really found their feet.
Strange packages began to arrive, accompanied by a sharp increase in the noise and intensity of the pair’s lovemaking. Noise-cancelling headphones ceased to do the trick, as small rhythmic tremblings began to distract me from my musical reverie. One time after a package arrived I was foolish enough to go headphone-less. I overheard a box being opened, the clanking of chains, and a variety of dominatrix-themed utterances. When the next package arrived, my flatmate prised it open with a craft knife, and found a double-ended dildo and a whip.
We offered to cover their existing rent if they moved out and got a new place. Thankfully, they accepted.