When a neighbor calls about tenants in Carla’s late father’s house, she’s confused — until she drives out and discovers beer cans, loud music… and betrayal. Her husband rented the place behind her back. But grief has teeth — and she’s about to bite back.
At first, I thought I’d heard wrong when Mrs. Yarrow, my deceased dad’s longtime neighbor, called me.
A woman on a phone call | Source: Pexels
“I’m sorry,” I muttered. “Could you repeat that?”
“I said, can you do something about your tenants?” She sounded irritated, like she’d been dealing with problems for weeks. “The young men staying at your father’s house. The noise is ridiculous.”
My skin went cold. Tenants? What tenants?
A woman speaking on her phone | Source: Pexels
I never rented out Dad’s house. I’d barely been able to bring myself to step inside since he passed unexpectedly the year before.
Just knowing it was still there, untouched, gave me something to hold onto. Like the grief had a shape, and it lived in those walls.
“Mrs. Yarrow,” I said slowly, “I think there’s been some mistake.”
A tense woman making a phone call | Source: Pexels
“Carla, dear,” she sighed, “the only mistake here is in your choice of tenants, unfortunately. If you weren’t planning to check on them yourself, you could’ve asked me to keep an eye on them, you know?”
“I… I’m heading right over. There shouldn’t be anyone staying there, Mrs. Yarrow.”
My heart started racing as I grabbed my keys and headed out the door.
A set of car keys | Source: Pexels
Dad’s house was in the next town over, around an hour away — too far for casual drop-ins, but close enough that I should’ve known something was wrong.
The moment I turned onto Dad’s street, my gut twisted.
Three beat-up sedans lined the driveway. The front door was wide open and music pulsed from inside, some bass-heavy song that made my teeth ache.
Two beat-up sedans parked outside a house | Source: Midjourney
I pulled over, stunned.
It was like walking in on someone defiling a grave.
The porch was stained with God knows what, and there were beer cans scattered across the lawn and in the garden beds. Where Dad’s rocking chair used to sit, there was now a cheap lawn chair.
A lawn chair on a porch | Source: Midjourney
I sat there for a minute, trying to process what I was seeing. I hadn’t told anyone where the spare key was hidden. No one except—
That’s when I spotted it. Through the open garage door, parked behind Dad’s old workbench, was a car I recognized: Nate’s beat-up Honda. My husband’s gaming buddy.
The truth landed like a slap.
A woman staring at something in shock | Source: Pexels
Phil had done this. My husband had gone behind my back and turned my father’s home into a party pad for his friends.
He’d taken my last connection to the man who raised me and handed it over like it meant nothing.
Dad’s home had always been modest. A little two-bedroom in a neighborhood where people knew each other’s names and waved from their porches.
A well-kept suburban house | Source: Midjourney
Even though my husband and I often lived paycheck to paycheck, I’d been reluctant to sell the house or rent it out.
It just meant too much to me. The thought of other people living there felt wrong.
That house was where Dad taught me to ride a bike. Where he’d sit with me on the porch swing when I was upset about some teenage drama.
A girl riding a bicycle | Source: Pexels
But now it looked like a freaking frat house! And Phil was to blame; he had to be. It all made sense now.
Lately, Phil always seemed to have extra money. He’d bought an expensive pair of leather loafers and been hinting about a weekend getaway. When I asked where the money came from, he always gave me a vague answer about bonuses and overtime.
A woman resting her head in her hand | Source: Pexels
I’d believed him, but all this time he’d actually been profiting off my grief!
He’d let his irresponsible buddies into Dad’s house… let them track dirt across something sacred. He didn’t just steal from me — he vandalized a part of me I was still trying to keep alive.
I couldn’t even bring myself to go inside.
A woman in a car staring at something | Source: Midjourney
Instead, I sat in my car, fists clenched in my lap, breathing hard.
What do you do when the person you trust most betrays something you can’t replace?
I could scream. I could cry. I could drive home and confront him right then and there.
But that wouldn’t be enough.
A furious woman with a determined look in her eyes | Source: Pexels
He needed to feel the same punch in the gut I just felt.
I wasn’t just guarding a building anymore. I was guarding the last piece of myself that still felt like Dad’s daughter.
I pulled out my phone and dialed Nate’s number.
A woman using her cell phone | Source: Pexels
“Nate, it’s me,” I said when he answered, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Oh, hey! What’s up?”
“I know you’re living in my father’s house. I should have you evicted tonight.”
A pause. Long enough that I could hear the music in the background get turned down.
“But,” I continued, “if you help me teach my husband a lesson, I’ll let you stay one more month. Rent-free.”
A woman speaking on her cell phone | Source: Midjourney
He hesitated. I could practically hear him weighing his options.
“You want to keep your cheap little man cave for one more month, or not?”
He finally said, “Alright. What do you want me to do?”
And just like that, we set the trap in motion.
Close up of a woman’s smile | Source: Pexels
She Chose a Ghost Over Me
I was halfway through my eggs and barely listening to the morning news when my phone rang. I swiped to answer, not thinking much of it.
“Dude, the house is on fire,” Nate said, his voice panicked.
I froze. “What?”
A shocked man | Source: Pexels
“I don’t know, man! Some kind of electrical thing — there were sparks, smoke, and now the fire trucks are here. It’s bad. Real bad. The porch is almost gone.”
Coffee sloshed over the table as I hurried to my feet. “Okay, okay, I’m on my way.”
“Better hurry,” Nate said. “They’re talking about structural damage.”
A man staring at his phone in horror | Source: Pexels
“There’s an emergency at work,” I barked at my wife, avoiding her eyes. “Gotta go.”
The drive to the next town felt like it was happening underwater. I kept picturing flames licking up the side of the house, and the roof caving in. How would I explain this to the insurance company? To her?
My hands were sweating. My jaw clenched so tight it ached.
A man driving a car | Source: Pexels
This wasn’t supposed to happen. I’d figured out a good system — Nate wasn’t very bright, but he was a good liar, and I’d told him repeatedly to keep our arrangement under wraps.
I knew Carla wouldn’t get it, but I was saving us.
We needed the extra cash, and the house was just sitting there. She wouldn’t even step foot inside. She acted like the place was a church.
A scowling man | Source: Midjourney
I was halfway there when the phone rang again.
“Hey,” Carla said. “Just wanted to let you know I’m heading to Dad’s house. Some buyers are interested. I’ll be there in 20 minutes to show it.”
I almost swerved off the road. “What? You’re selling the house?”
A man driving a car | Source: Pexels
“Yes,” she said, like it was nothing. “Why not? It’s not doing anyone any good just sitting there.”
What the hell? She’d clung to that house like it was some museum, but now she wanted to sell it? No warning, no conversation? Now, of all times, when the place was literally going up in smoke?
And she was about to roll in with buyers?
A horrified man | Source: Midjourney
My pulse spiked.
“It’s a family relic!” I snapped. “How could you even think of selling it?”
“Too late,” she said. “I’ll be there soon.”
The call ended.
The touchscreen on a car console | Source: Pexels
I glanced at the clock on the dash.
She was about to pull up to a burning house like she could show off the trim work while the porch turned to charcoal. I couldn’t let that happen. I had to salvage this situation somehow.
I flattened the gas pedal to the floor.
Traffic on a highway | Source: Pexels
But when I pulled up to the house, there were no fire trucks and no flames. Not even smoke.
Just Nate, sitting on the porch steps, fidgeting with a half-empty soda can.
“Nate?” I barked as I rushed up to the untouched porch. “What the hell happened? You said the place was on fire?”
“I’m sorry, man,” he muttered. “I lied… I had to! Carla called me. She said if I didn’t help, she’d have me evicted.”
A man sitting with his head in his hands | Source: Pexels
“Carla said…” The pieces clicked into place. “She knows you’ve been staying here?”
Nate nodded. “She knows everything.”
I clenched my jaw as my mind raced. When? How? Everything had been fine. I’d been careful. She never even went to the damn place!
A frustrated man | Source: Pexels
Just like that, everything fell apart.
I got into my car without another word, drove back to the city, and booked myself into a motel.
What was I supposed to do — go home and apologize? NO WAY! She’d already played her hand, and I knew what came next: the lecture, the tears, the melodrama of “How dare you defile dear Daddy’s house?” playing on repeat for God knows how long.
A motel | Source: Pexels
But I was done.
She let me panic. Made me rush out there thinking the place was burning down, only to flip the script and hang me out to dry. And for what? To make a point?
I did what I did to help us. She wouldn’t even consider using that house to keep us afloat. Just wanted to keep it locked up like a damn mausoleum.
A man with a fierce glower | Source: Midjourney
Like her grief mattered more than real life. More than me.
So I filed for divorce the next morning. I asked for the house, of course — the one that mattered. Let her haunt her father’s place and pretend she didn’t throw away the one person trying to fix things.
Here’s another story: Tom’s outbursts used to feel random — until I found a hidden calendar in his office, each red dot marking a night when he’d started a fight and disappeared. There were five days until the next one. This time, I followed him. And what I heard changed everything.
