At first, I thought the trash at my door was a prank, but then I remembered that my neighbors had done it before and it wasn’t a coincidence.
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 a plain house in a peaceful area with old trees, kids riding bikes, and dogs that barked too much. After a rough breakup and living in a downtown apartment that depleted me, I craved peace. Calm. I needed a place to start over.
At first, everything appeared great. The air smelled like pine in the mornings. I could finally drink coffee on my porch. I kept to myself, smiled sweetly at my neighbors, and spent my evenings fixing up the old kitchen cabinets and walking around the trails in the park nearby. I felt like myself again for the first time in a long time.
Then, one morning, I opened the door to my house and spotted a black trash bag on the steps that led up to my porch. It was knotted up in a way that seemed like it was on purpose. At first, I thought a raccoon might have taken it there from someone else’s trash can or that it was a mistake with the garbage pickup. I didn’t think about it much before I threw it away.
But two days later, there were two bags.
Then three.
By the end of the week, I was picking up and throwing away more rubbish than I had put out myself. There were several bags hidden beneath my plants and others placed between the fence and the side of the house. They all smelled like food that was going bad. I once came across something that looked like kitty litter that had been used. The meat went bad again. It was gross and made me nervous, not just because it was a mess but also because it was so focused. It was quite accurate in how it was done.
What was the worst thing about the situation? My neighbors kept waving at me like nothing had changed.
Then the fish came.
I walked outside early one morning to water the plants, and there it was: a dead fish on my welcome mat with its eyes closed and body stiff. At that point, I was sure this wasn’t an accident or even a joke by kids. Someone was trying to send a message on purpose.
That night, I put a hidden camera under a flowerpot on the front porch so that it wouldn’t be noticed. It could see things in the dark and feel them move. I didn’t sleep well that night because I was so scared of what I might see.
In less than 48 hours, I got my answer.
Tanner and Marissa, who live two doors down from me, were there. He wore a sweatshirt, and she had a little flashlight with her. They were laughing and whispering and looking around nervously before dropping a bag down at the edge of my garden. Then they went away like nothing had happened.
I watched the video five times.
It didn’t make any sense at all. These are the same people who baked cookies for the block party last week. Who said kind things about my wind chimes? Who informed me they liked the color of the shutters I painted? Why were they doing this?
The next day, I spoke with Marissa. She was outdoors watering her grass, like she does every morning, in exercise clothes and sunglasses. I nonchalantly walked up and stated, “I know it was you.” I saw the video.
She didn’t say no. She smiled, not because she was shy or guilty, but because she thought it was funny. She said, “It’s just trash.” “Calm down.”
I couldn’t believe it when she turned the hose back on and went about her day as if nothing had happened.
I heard something hit my front door as I was sleeping two nights later. When I got outside, I almost threw up. There was trash all over my yard. Many bags tore open, and everything within tumbled out. Vegetables that are bad. Moldy bread. There were empty beer cans all over the place. Ripped-up newspapers. I stood still, my heart beating.
I saw it then: a note affixed to my door with duct tape.
“Your dad picked up trash.” I think it’s in the genes.
I thought I couldn’t get any air.
My dad died a year ago. Most of his life, he had been a janitor at a high school. He was able to feed his family by working honestly and with pride. He used to tell me, “It’s not the job that gives you respect; it’s how you do it.” That will be with me forever. Now, two people who had never met the man who raised me and taught me how to be strong and respect myself were making fun of him.
The abuse had gone beyond far. It was no longer just bothering; it was personal. Mean. Got it.
A few days later, I ran across a woman who used to live in my house at a coffee shop nearby. She heard me say the address and then began to chat to me. Her face shifted when I brought up Tanner and Marissa. “They did the same thing to me,” she said. “Trash, noise, and vandalism.” I had to call the police three times. It didn’t stop.
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 give their name. 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 kick you out.”
That was all I needed to know.
I stopped talking back. I stopped talking to people. I started to make plans.
The next time, I didn’t throw away the trash bag Tanner left in my yard. I put on gloves and opened it.
There were pieces of paper within, some of which were folded and some of which were ripped. Many of them looked like old letters. But then I observed something strange: certain papers that looked like medical forms and credit card statements were still in great shape. They weren’t meant for Tanner or Marissa. I didn’t know their names. 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 emailed the FBI a report with the pictures attached.
Two weeks later, they were arrested.
Cars without markings parked quietly in the middle of the day. No alerts. No drama. Just two agents with serious faces and clipboards. They took Tanner and Marissa out of my house in cuffs. They appeared scared and pale. They were actually heading a group of identity thieves who stole people’s information and formed fake accounts with stolen names. The trash bags were a cover-up, but they were also a way to terrify me, control me, and eventually get me to sell.
But it didn’t work.
I didn’t move. I didn’t give up. I waited, and I won.
No bags have come to my place since that day. There aren’t any fish. No notes. When I initially got here, I was looking for peace and quiet. All I could hear were the trees swaying in the breeze and kids playing in the distance.
The weird thing is that I don’t think they ever anticipated someone like me would fight back. But I did, not by being loud or confrontational, but by being calm and making plans.
I finally feel what I came here for: I can sit on my porch in the morning, drink coffee, and watch the sun hit the trees just right.