Living in an old apartment has its charm. High ceilings, hardwood floors, character that new buildings just don't have.
But it also has its problems.
I'd been living in my studio apartment for about three months when I first noticed the signs. Small things. A dark smudge on the kitchen counter that I didn't remember making. A faint smell I couldn't quite place. Tiny droppings near the trash can.
I cleaned more thoroughly. Took out the garbage every night. Told myself it was nothing.
Then I saw the first one.
It was 2 AM on a Tuesday. I'd gotten up to get water from the kitchen. Flipped on the light.
And there it was.
A cockroach. Huge. Dark brown. Sitting right in the middle of my kitchen counter like it owned the place.
I grabbed a shoe and killed it. Threw it in the trash. Went back to bed feeling victorious.
The next night, there were three.
The night after that, seven.
By the end of the week, I'd stopped counting.
I called an exterminator. A guy named Rick who showed up with a spray tank and a tired expression.
"Old building?" he asked, looking around.
"1940s," I said.
He nodded. "They're in the walls. Probably been here longer than you have."
He sprayed. Charged me $200. Told me they'd be gone in a week.
They weren't.
If anything, they got worse.
I started seeing them during the day. Crawling across the bathroom floor while I brushed my teeth. Scurrying under the refrigerator when I opened it. One even fell from the ceiling into my coffee cup.
I threw out the coffee maker.
I stopped cooking. Started eating out for every meal. Kept my food in sealed containers in the refrigerator.
But they kept coming.
The worst night was three weeks after the exterminator's visit.
I woke up at 3 AM to a sound I'll never forget. A scratching, skittering sound. Like dozens of tiny feet moving at once.
It was coming from the wall right next to my bed.
I froze.
The sound got louder. Closer.
I grabbed my phone, turned on the flashlight, and aimed it at the wall.
Nothing.
Just white paint and a small crack near the baseboard.
Then the crack moved.
Not the crack itself. Something in it.
Something dark. Something that glistened.
I watched in horror as a cockroach emerged from the crack. Then another. Then three more.
Within seconds, there were dozens of them. Pouring out of that tiny crack like water from a broken pipe. Spreading across the wall in a dark, writhing mass.
I jumped out of bed, my heart pounding.
More were coming. From other cracks. From under the baseboard. From behind the nightstand.
The entire wall was moving.
I ran to the kitchen, turned on every light in the apartment.
They were everywhere.
Covering the counters. Climbing the curtains. Scattered across the floor like a living carpet.
I grabbed my keys, my phone, and my wallet.
And I left.
I spent that night in my car in a 24-hour diner parking lot. At 6 AM, I called my landlord.
"I'm breaking my lease," I said. "There are cockroaches everywhere. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands."
He sighed. "The exterminator said—"
"The exterminator failed," I interrupted. "I'm not going back in there. You can keep my security deposit. I don't care. I'm done."
I moved out that week. Hired movers to pack everything while I waited outside. Threw away half my belongings because I couldn't be sure they weren't infested.
Found a new apartment. A newer building. Fifth floor. I inspected every corner, every crack, every crevice before I signed the lease.
It's been six months since I left that place.
I still check behind my refrigerator every week. I still seal all my food in airtight containers. I still wake up sometimes at 3 AM, listening for that scratching sound.
And whenever I see a cockroach—even just one, even in a restaurant or a store—I feel that same cold terror wash over me.
The fear that they're not just one bug.
They're never just one bug.
They're an army waiting in the walls.
Your Turn: Have you ever dealt with a pest infestation that traumatized you? Share your horror stories in the comments.