Curbed Horror Stories are firsthand reader reports about terrible apartment experiences past and present. Got a Curbed Horror Story of your own? Send it to sf@curbed.com.
During college, I lived in a house with 11 roommates. Everyone was basically sane, except for one. One night I woke up to the sounds of someone outside screaming, "Move yo' s**t! Move yo sheeeeet!" I looked out of my window and saw muddy tire tracks across our lawn. I followed the tracks to my roommate's car which had been abandoned and was straddling the next door neighbor's lawn and driveway. My furious neighbor craned his head out his car window and honked, revving his car up and down as if he was ready to ram the car in his driveway if it wasn't moved. I knocked on my roommates the door. I heard giggling but nothing else. I opened the door to see two drunk/high girls sitting on the bed. I saw light coming from the bathroom and knocked. I listened at the door and heard snorting and men laughing. Great. Finally my roommate came out with his friend, cussing as he walked out the door to move his car. I got a quick glimpse of his bathroom buddy before I went back to bed.
A week later I picked up the school newspaper and found out that my roommate's bathroom buddy had chopped up his landlord during a drug induced frenzy. Nothing motivates one to graduate and make money like having a roommate who brings home murders to do drugs with in the middle of the night.
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