I try to be a decent landlord. I really do. When my tenants told me they had a newborn, I adjusted. I scheduled all the apartment showings into a single 2-hour window—on one night—so I’d be in and out quickly, minimal disruption.

They never responded. Not once.

Meanwhile, time was ticking. I needed to line up a new tenant, and my spouse was working every evening that week—prime showing hours. So I packed up our toddlers, strapped them into the car, and dragged them along for evening tours.

And that’s when I saw it.

The trash heap they’d turned my unit into. Broken blinds. Wall stains. A smell like something had died in the radiator. They were clearly breaking multiple lease terms, and still refused to let me in for proper repairs or viewings.

I was done.

So I documented everything. Every email. Every ignored call. Took photos. Videos. I contacted my lawyer and included every clause they’d violated. Then I scheduled back-to-back showings for the following week—every day, for three days straight. Legally.

And because they wouldn’t answer texts? I posted the schedule on their front door in bright red ink, complete with a warning: per lease clause 14, entry is permitted with notice.

The next night, I walked in with a new group of prospective tenants—and found them screaming, frantically trying to hide damage with a sheet.

And just as one of the viewers asked, “Was that blood?” the tenant turned to me and said—

“That’s paint—I was painting!”

But the red wasn’t dry. It was smeared in streaks along the wall, and there were spatters on the carpet that had clearly soaked in. The room looked like a crime scene.

The viewers exchanged glances and quietly backed out. One of them mouthed “good luck” before disappearing down the stairs.

I stood there in stunned silence.

The tenant—a guy named Marco—tried to laugh it off. “Just a little project gone wrong,” he said, sweat glistening on his forehead. His partner, Janelle, stood behind him, arms crossed, bouncing a fussy baby on her hip like none of this was out of the ordinary.

That night, I didn’t say much. I just left.

But when I got home, I couldn’t sleep. My phone buzzed at 2:13 a.m.—it was a text from Marco: “You’re harassing us. We’ll sue if you keep entering without permission.”

That was the final straw.

I forwarded everything to my lawyer, who assured me I was well within my rights. But even then, I wanted to do more. Not illegally. Not vindictively. Just… creatively.

So I made a plan.

First, I contacted a cleaning company—one that specializes in hazardous material. I told them about the “paint” and requested a full quote, along with a breakdown of services. I made sure they emailed it to me with their letterhead.

Then I called the city’s housing inspector and arranged for a surprise inspection.

And finally, I went back to the unit two days later—this time with my brother-in-law, a retired police officer. Just for peace of mind.

When I knocked, no one answered. But I had given proper notice. So I let myself in.

They were gone.

Not like, “out for groceries” gone. I mean gone gone. No furniture. No baby crib. No belongings. Just filth.

They’d broken the lease, packed up in the middle of the night, and left behind two bags of trash, a broken chair, and an envelope on the counter.

It was empty.

No forwarding address. No apology. No check for damages.

I should’ve felt relief, but I just felt angry. Not because they left, but because they thought they could.

So I called my lawyer and began the process of small claims court. I filed for the damages, the unpaid rent, and the cleaning fees—which, by then, had ballooned after the inspector flagged black mold behind the fridge.

But here’s where it got really interesting.

A week later, I got a call from a woman named Brielle. She sounded anxious and asked if the unit was still available. She’d seen my listing online.

We set up a time, and she showed up early—with her mom.

As we toured the now-pristine unit (thanks to a rush-job cleaning crew and some very kind friends), Brielle asked, “Didn’t this place have a family with a baby? I think I know them.”

I played it cool. “Yeah, they moved out.”

Her mom frowned. “Is this the place where Janelle said she got sick from the mold and the landlord refused to fix it?”

I stopped in my tracks.

“Excuse me?”

Brielle pulled out her phone and showed me a post. It was on a local community board. Janelle had written a long, angry rant, claiming I had endangered her baby, refused entry for repairs, and tried to evict them illegally.

The comments were full of sympathy.

I was furious—but calm.

I showed Brielle the inspection report, complete with the mold discovery after they left. I showed her my calendar of attempted entry dates and the photos I’d taken. Her eyes widened. Her mom just said, “People are unbelievable.”

They rented the unit the next day.

Now, here’s the twist.

A month later, a certified letter arrived at my office. It was from a new landlord—one Marco and Janelle had tried to rent from. The letter was a request for a tenant reference.

I smiled.

I responded promptly, detailing unpaid rent, property damage, lease violations, and the city inspection findings. I even attached photos.

A week after that, the new landlord called me personally.

“Thanks for the heads-up,” he said. “They forged bank statements and listed you as a ‘friend’ reference. I almost fell for it.”

I don’t know where Marco and Janelle ended up, but I do know this: the community board post vanished the next day.

I like to think the truth caught up with them.

But here’s the real reward.

Two weeks later, Brielle knocked on my door, holding a tray of cookies. She said, “Just wanted to say thanks. This is the first place I’ve felt safe in months.”

She told me her last landlord hadn’t fixed a broken lock in over a year. She was working two jobs, studying part-time, and trying to support her mom, who had just finished chemo.

Her eyes watered as she said, “Having a home that actually feels like one… it means everything.”

That’s when I realized something.

Yes, being a landlord comes with stress. People lie. They take advantage. They trash your property and leave you to pick up the pieces. But for every Marco and Janelle, there’s a Brielle—someone just trying to find a little peace in a noisy world.

So I started keeping a binder—not just of tenant issues, but of the good ones. The small thank-yous. The little gestures. A text saying, “Hey, thanks for fixing the leak so fast.”

Because it’s easy to focus on the worst stories. But the good ones? They remind you why you do this in the first place.

And as for revenge? It’s best served with receipts, a solid paper trail, and a polite phone call from a future landlord.

So if you’re ever stuck dealing with people who think they’re untouchable—document everything, stay calm, and let their own actions catch up to them.

Because eventually… they always do.

If you’ve ever had to deal with nightmare tenants—or been one—share your story. I’d love to hear how it ended. And if you enjoyed this, give it a like so more people can find it too.