At first, my tenants seemed fine. They were a young couple, professionals, with good credit scores and polite manners. They paid rent on time, there were no complaints from the neighbors, and everything seemed completely normal. It was my late father’s house, a place filled with memories, so I was relieved to have found people who seemed to respect it.
But when I stopped by one day to grab a few of my late father’s belongings that I had left in the attic storage, I was stunned the moment I walked in.
The smell hit me first—a mix of rotting food and stale smoke. As I stepped further inside, my heart broke. The place was trashed. The antique furniture my dad had refinished by hand was ruined, scratched and torn apart. There was garbage piled in the corners of the living room, stains on the carpet, and holes punched into the drywall. The walls were damaged beyond just a coat of paint; they would need serious repair.
I was shaking with rage. I told them right then and there that this would be their last month. I served them the eviction notice immediately. They didn’t even apologize; they just smirked and said I was being “dramatic.”
But on move-out day, they decided to “get even” for being kicked out. Before they left, they plugged the drains and turned on all the faucets, deliberately flooding the basement.
I pulled into the driveway just as they were hauling the last of their bags out. I saw water seeping out from under the garage door. I screamed at them, grabbing my phone to dial 911. They just laughed, flipped me off, and jumped into their sedan to make a quick getaway.
Thing is, karma beat the cops to it—because the second they got into their car and slammed it into reverse, they were in such a hurry to flee the scene that they didn’t look where they were going.
They reversed at full speed right off the side of the driveway—directly into the deep drainage ditch that ran along the property line. Because of the water they had left running for hours, the ditch had overflowed and turned the ground into a soup of thick, slick mud.
Their car slid backward, the wheels spinning uselessly, sinking deeper and deeper into the muck until the exhaust pipe was buried. They were completely stuck.
I stood there on the porch, phone in hand, watching them scream at each other and uselessly rev the engine as the mud flew everywhere. I didn’t even have to chase them. I just waited.
By the time the police arrived five minutes later, the tenants were still sitting there, trapped in the mud of their own making, furious and humiliated. The officers didn’t just charge them for the destruction of property and the intentional flooding; they also found several of my father’s “missing” valuables stuffed in the trunk of their bogged-down car.
They wanted to leave a mess for me to clean up, but in the end, they were the ones who got washed up.
