At first, I thought the trash at my door was just a prank, but then I remembered that my neighbors had done it before and it wasn’t random.
My name is Maria. A year ago, I moved into a little, one-story house just outside of St. Paul, Minnesota. It wasn’t fancy; it was just a plain house in a peaceful area with ancient trees, kids riding bikes, and dogs that barked too much. I sought peace after a tough breakup and lived in an apartment downtown that wore me out. Peaceful. I needed a place to start over.
Everything seemed great at first. The air smelled like pine in the morning. I could finally sit on my porch and drink coffee. I stayed to myself, smiled at my neighbors, and spent my evenings fixing up the old kitchen cabinetry and walking around the park paths nearby. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I was back to normal.
Then, one morning, I opened the front door and found a black trash bag on the steps that led up to my porch. It was tied up well, like it was meant to be. At first, I thought a raccoon might have taken it from someone else’s trash can and brought it there, or that there had been a mistake with the garbage pickup. I didn’t give it much thought before tossing it.
But there were two bags two days later.
Then three.
By the end of the week, I was throwing away more rubbish than I had put out myself. Some bags were hidden under my bushes, and others were jammed between the fence and the house. A lot of them smelled like food that was going bad. I once found something that looked like cat litter that had been used. The meat went bad at another time. It was scary and nasty, not just because of the mess, but also because it was so focused. It was really exact in how it was done.
What was the worst thing that happened? My neighbors kept waving at me like nothing had changed.
The fish came after that.
I walked outside early one morning to water the plants, and there was a dead fish on my welcome mat. Its eyes were closed and its body was lifeless. At that point, I understood this wasn’t an accident or even a joke by kids. It was clear that someone was trying to send a message.
I put a hidden camera under a flowerpot on the front porch that night so that it wouldn’t be spotted. It could see in the dark and feel things moving. I didn’t sleep well that night because I was scared of what I might see.
I got my answer in less than two days.
My neighbors Tanner and Marissa, who live two doors down, were there. He was wearing a hoodie, and she had a small flashlight with her. They were laughing and whispering, and they looked around nervously before setting a suitcase down at the edge of my garden. Then they went like nothing had happened.
I watched the video five times.
It didn’t make sense. Last week, these people cooked cookies for the block party. Who said kind things about my wind chimes? Who informed me they liked the color of the shutters I painted? What made them do this?
I talked to Marissa the next day. She was outdoors watering her lawn, like she does every morning, in exercise clothes and sunglasses. I nonchalantly strolled up and said, “I know it was you.” I saw the video.
She didn’t say no. She smiled because she thought it was funny, not because she was shy or guilty. “It’s just junk,” she said. “Take it easy.”
I couldn’t believe it when she turned the water back on and carried on with her day as if nothing had happened.
Two nights later, as I was sleeping, I heard something hit my front door. I felt sick when I stepped outside. My yard was full of trash. There were a lot of sacks that broke apart, and everything inside flowed out. Bad veggies. Bread with mold on it. There were a lot of empty beer cans lying around. Newspapers that have been torn up. My heart was racing as I stood still.
Then I saw it: a note affixed to my door with duct tape.
“Your dad picked up trash.” It must be a family thing.
I thought I was going to die.
My dad had died a year previously. For most of his life, he worked as a janitor at a high school. It was honest work that made him proud and enabled him feed his family. “It’s not the job that gives you dignity; it’s how you do it,” he used to remark to me. That will always be with me. Now, two individuals who had never met him were making fun of the father who raised me and taught me to be tough and respect myself.
The abuse had gone beyond far. It wasn’t merely bothering anymore; it was personal. Not nice. I got it.
A few days later, I noticed a woman who used to live in my house in a coffee shop nearby. She heard me say the address and then started talking to me. Her face shifted when I talked about Tanner and Marissa. “They did the same thing to me,” she said. “Trash, noise, and destruction.” Three times I had to call the police. It never stopped.
She added that after she sold the house, her agent got an offer from someone who wanted to buy it in cash but didn’t say who they were. She turned down the offer when she found out that the buyers were connected to a nearby home where Tanner and Marissa lived.
“They wanted your house,” she said in a low voice. “They’re trying to get you out of here.”
That was all I needed to know.
I didn’t answer anymore. I stopped talking to people. I started to plot.
The next time, I didn’t throw away the trash bag that Tanner left in my yard. I put on gloves and opened it.
There were pieces of paper within, some of which were ripped and some of which were folded. Many of them looked like old letters. But then I noticed something strange: some of the papers that looked like medical forms and credit card statements were still in great shape. They weren’t for Tanner or Marissa. I didn’t know what they were called. Social Security numbers. I also knew which banks they worked with. Notes that are written in code.
I took pictures of everything, sealed the bag carefully, and sent the pictures to the FBI in an anonymous complaint.
Two weeks later, they were arrested.
Unmarked autos parked quietly in the middle of the day. No alerts. No drama. Two agents with serious looks and clipboards, that’s all. They took Tanner and Marissa out of my house in handcuffs. They looked pale and scared. It turned out that they were running a group of identity thieves who stole people’s information and formed fake accounts using stolen names. The trash bags were a cover-up, but they were also a way to intimidate me, control me, and eventually make me sell.
But it didn’t work.
I stayed still. I didn’t break. I waited, and I won.
No bags have come to my house since that day. There are no fish. No notes. When I initially got here, all I could hear was the wind in the trees and kids playing in the distance. I was hoping for peace.
It’s strange that I don’t think they ever anticipated someone like me would fight back. But I accomplished it, not by being loud or confrontational, but by being calm and making plans.
I finally feel what I came here for: I can now sit on my porch in the morning, drink coffee, and watch the sun hit the trees just right.
