She thought the worst thing her neighbor could do was cover the last piece of her parents in mud and garbage under the dark of night. She was wrong. Because by the next morning, the whole street was moving toward his house with a purpose he never saw coming. What had everyone finally decided?
I’m 21, and this house is all I have left of my parents.
They died in a car accident two years ago, and ever since then, I’ve been doing everything I can just to keep this place. I had to drop out of university, take on multiple jobs, and learn to survive on my own… but I promised myself I wouldn’t lose this house.
Not after everything.
It isn’t a big house. It’s old, slightly crooked in places, and the porch steps creak no matter how many times I tighten them. The paint peels faster than I can afford to fix it. The gutters clog every fall. The kitchen still has the same faded curtains my mother swore she would replace one day.
But it is mine in the only way that matters.
It still smells like cinnamon if I bake long enough. It still holds my father’s pencil marks in the garage where he measured my height. It still feels like the last place in the world where I belonged before everything broke.
Our neighbor has always hated us.
Even when my parents were alive, he constantly picked fights with them.
He’s 52, rich, arrogant, and completely alone. No family, no one who actually cares about him… and honestly, it shows.
His name is Gordon, and he lives in the biggest house on the block, the kind with stone columns and security lights bright enough to make the street look colder.
He acts like money made him the mayor of the neighborhood. He complains about noise, fences, and trees dropping leaves too close to his driveway.
He likes power in petty forms.
If he cannot control people, he at least wants them to be uncomfortable.
After my parents died, he got worse.
Maybe because he thought I was easier to intimidate. Maybe because grief makes people look weaker from the outside.
At first, it was little things like complaints to the city about my yard when the grass was barely too long, snide comments when I came home from late shifts, and packages “accidentally” moved off my porch during rainstorms.
Once, he called animal control because a stray cat was sleeping under my hydrangeas.
I tried ignoring him.
Then I tried being polite.
Then I learned neither of those things mattered to men like Gordon.
A few days ago, I was cleaning the yard when he walked by and smirked.
“Still playing house?” he said mockingly. “Shame your parents aren’t here to see how well you’re doing.”
I froze.
It wasn’t even the words. It was the pleasure in them.
“This house is my responsibility,” I replied, trying to stay calm. “At least I had parents who loved me… maybe if you treated people better, you wouldn’t be alone.”
His face changed instantly.
It wasn’t dramatic anger. It was something smaller and uglier. The look of a man who just got hit exactly where it hurt—and immediately started planning how to make someone pay for it.
I knew I should have gone inside right then.
I knew it the way you know a storm is coming, even before the rain starts.
But I stayed outside another ten minutes.
The next morning, I walked outside… and my heart dropped.
My house was completely covered in mud. Trash was everywhere. It looked like someone had spent hours destroying everything my parents had left behind.
The siding was splashed brown.
Rotten food and torn bags were thrown across the lawn. Mud streaked the porch rails, the front windows, even the flower boxes my mother used to fill every spring.
It was not random vandalism.
It was targeted.
And I knew exactly who had done it.
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