I Came Back from Vacation to Find a Stranger Living in My House — He Refused to Leave, So I Took Matters into My Own Hands
The salty breeze of the Amalfi Coast still lingered in my memory as I pulled into the driveway of my modest suburban home. Two weeks of sun-soaked cliffs and lemon groves had left me recharged, ready to slip back into the quiet rhythm of my life. But as I approached my front door, something felt off. The porch light was on—strange, since I’d turned off every switch before leaving. A faint glow flickered through the living room curtains, and the low hum of music seeped out. My heart quickened. I lived alone.
Fumbling with my keys, I unlocked the door and stepped inside. The air smelled of unfamiliar spices, and my coffee table was cluttered with empty takeout containers and a half-drunk bottle of cheap whiskey. A man—mid-thirties, scruffy beard, wearing a faded band tee—lounged on my couch, scrolling through his phone like he owned the place.
“Who the hell are you?” I demanded, dropping my suitcase.
He barely glanced up. “Yo, chill. I’m Derek. Been crashing here a bit.”
“Crashing? This is my house! Get out!”
Derek leaned back, unfazed. “Nah, man. I’ve been here a couple weeks. Place was empty, so I figured it was cool.”
I stood frozen, disbelief warring with anger. “Empty? I was on vacation. You can’t just move in!”
He shrugged, sipping from a mug—my mug. “Finder’s keepers, you know? Squatter’s rights or whatever.”
I called the police, expecting a quick resolution. They arrived, took statements, but Derek produced a crumpled lease agreement—forged, obviously, but convincing enough to muddy the waters. The officers said it was a civil matter, not criminal, and I’d need to go through eviction court. That could take months. Derek smirked as they left, settling deeper into my couch.
Fury burned through me, but I wasn’t helpless. This was my home, and I’d be damned if some freeloader was going to steal it. I started with reason, offering him $500 to leave by morning. He laughed, saying he’d “think about it” while helping himself to my fridge. I spent that night in a hotel, too unsettled to sleep under the same roof as him.
The next day, I dug into Derek’s life. A quick search on X revealed he was a drifter, bouncing between cities, known for squatting in unoccupied homes. Posts from local forums described him pulling similar stunts, charming or bullying his way into staying until legal battles forced him out. I wasn’t about to let him play that game with me.
I returned home with a plan. First, I changed the Wi-Fi password and disconnected the router. Derek grumbled when his streaming cut out, but I played dumb, saying the provider was having issues. Next, I turned off the water heater. By evening, he was cursing about the cold shower, but I shrugged it off as “old plumbing.” Passive-aggressive? Maybe. Effective? Definitely.
Still, he didn’t budge. So I escalated. I started inviting friends over, cranking music late into the night, and hosting “renovation projects” that involved loud hammering at odd hours. Derek’s easygoing facade cracked as sleep deprivation set in. “You’re making this place unlivable, man!” he snapped one morning, bleary-eyed.
“That’s the idea,” I said, drilling into a piece of scrap wood for effect.
I also got creative with the locks. I installed a new deadbolt on my bedroom door, claiming it for myself, and “accidentally” locked the back door, forcing Derek to climb through a window to get in. When he complained, I feigned concern. “Oh, weird. I’ll call a locksmith… next week, maybe.”
Legal routes were still in motion—I’d hired a lawyer to start the eviction process—but I wasn’t going to wait months. I needed him gone. So I leaned into psychological warfare. I started leaving notes around the house, written in cryptic tones: “This place isn’t yours. You feel it watching you, don’t you?” I’d move his stuff slightly each day—his keys an inch to the left, his phone charger unplugged. He started looking over his shoulder, muttering about “bad vibes.”
One night, I took it further. I’d learned from an X post that Derek was superstitious, so I leaned into it. I set up a small Bluetooth speaker hidden in the attic, playing faint, eerie whispers at 3 a.m. The next morning, he was pale, claiming he’d heard “ghosts.” I bit back a grin, offering to call a priest to “bless the house.” He declined, but the seed was planted.
The final straw came when I “accidentally” spilled a jar of fish sauce in the kitchen, letting the pungent smell permeate the house. I left for the day, claiming a work emergency, and when I returned, Derek was pacing the driveway, bags packed. “This place is cursed, man!” he shouted. “I’m done!”
I didn’t argue. I handed him $100 for a bus ticket and watched him storm off. The house was mine again, though it reeked of fish and desperation. I aired it out, scrubbed every surface, and changed every lock. The eviction papers were still filed, just in case he got any ideas about coming back.
Reflecting on it, I felt a mix of triumph and unease. I’d outmaneuvered him, but the experience left a mark. My home, once a sanctuary, felt violated. I installed security cameras and a proper alarm system, vowing never to let my guard down again. Derek was gone, but the lesson lingered: sometimes, you have to fight dirty to protect what’s yours.
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