Food kept disappearing from Christine’s house—first small things, then entire meals. At first, she tried to ignore it, but when her husband, Samuel, swore he wasn’t sneaking midnight snacks, she decided to set up a hidden camera. When she saw the footage, her blood ran cold.
At first, it was little things. A few chocolates missing from the box she had been saving. A juice box gone before she could even remember drinking it. The premium snacks she cherished vanishing faster than she expected.
Christine started questioning herself. Maybe she had eaten them without realizing it? Maybe she had been too distracted with work, too tired at night, and simply forgot?
But she knew her habits. She never ate more than one or two chocolates at a time. She was careful with special treats, making them last. Something wasn’t right.
Then, things escalated.
A bottle of wine—the one she and Samuel had been saving for their anniversary—suddenly appeared empty in the recycling bin. The fancy cheese she had bought for a dinner party was half gone before the guests had even arrived.
It was driving her mad.
She started keeping a log.
- Monday: Half a box of imported cookies missing.
- Wednesday: Three pieces of dark chocolate gone.
- Friday: A jar of special raspberry preserves had disappeared.
The pattern wasn’t just strange; it was targeted. Someone was only taking the good stuff—the premium items, the delicacies she had carefully chosen and looked forward to enjoying.
Then came the last straw.
The caviar vanished.
Not just any caviar, but the expensive Osetra she had splurged on for Samuel’s birthday—$200 worth of tiny black pearls, gone without a trace.
Enough was enough.
One morning, as Samuel sipped his coffee, she decided to confront him.
“Hey, babe, did you finish that box of Belgian truffles I bought last week?” she asked, keeping her voice light.
Samuel frowned. “What truffles?”
“The ones on the top shelf of the pantry, behind the cereal.”
He took another sip and shook his head. “Haven’t touched them. Didn’t even know we had any.”
Christine studied his face. Samuel wasn’t the type to lie—especially not about something as silly as chocolates.
Which meant either she was losing her mind, or someone else was taking their food.
“Are you sure?” Her voice tightened. “The caviar from your birthday is gone too. And that anniversary wine? The one from Napa?”
Samuel’s coffee cup froze midway to his lips. “The what? That stuff was expensive! And I was looking forward to opening it next month.”
“I know,” Christine said, crossing her arms. “And unless we’ve got a very sophisticated mouse with expensive taste, someone has been sneaking into our kitchen.”
The realization hit them both at the same time.
Someone had been in their house. More than once.
The thought sent a chill down Christine’s spine.
“Maybe we should set up some cameras?” Samuel suggested, his voice uncertain.
Christine nodded. “Yeah. Maybe we should.”
She installed a small, hidden wireless camera behind some cookbooks on the kitchen shelf. It had a perfect view of the pantry and refrigerator. Then, she waited.
Two days later, while at work, her phone buzzed with a motion alert.
Her heart pounded as she ducked into an empty conference room and pulled up the live feed.
What she saw made her jaw drop.
There, in her kitchen, was her mother-in-law, Pamela. Moving with practiced ease, she poured herself a glass of the expensive Bordeaux they had been saving. She reached into the fridge, taking out the fancy cheese, cutting herself a few slices as if she owned the place.
Christine stared in shock.
Pamela moved through their kitchen like she had done this before. She opened drawers without hesitation, reached for items without searching. It was clear this wasn’t her first time helping herself to their food.
But then, she did something that made Christine’s blood run cold.
Pamela didn’t leave after finishing her impromptu wine and cheese party. Instead, she strolled into the hallway and turned toward the bedroom.
Christine quickly switched to the bedroom camera feed.
What she saw made her nearly drop her phone.
Pamela was slipping into her favorite dress.
Then, she turned to the mirror, admiring herself, running her hands over the fabric as if she were trying it on for a special occasion.
Christine’s stomach twisted.
But it got worse.
Pamela walked straight to the dresser, pulled open the underwear drawer, and began digging through Christine’s lingerie. She picked up a satin and lace teddy, held it up to herself, and then—to Christine’s absolute horror—started putting it on.
Christine felt sick. Pamela hadn’t just crossed a boundary; she had obliterated it.
The next day, Christine took action.
She called in sick to work and waited in the hallway, determined to catch Pamela in the act.
Right on schedule, at 2 p.m., Pamela let herself in.
Christine watched as she repeated her routine—wine, cheese, caviar.
Then, as Pamela entered the bedroom and started rifling through the closet, Christine stepped in.
“Enjoying yourself?” she said.
Pamela gasped and spun around, nearly toppling over. “Christine! I—I was just—”
“Just what?” Christine asked, keeping her voice eerily calm. “Just breaking into our house? Just eating our food? Just trying on my clothes? My underwear?”
Pamela’s face turned red, but instead of shame, there was indignation in her eyes.
“I was checking to make sure your wardrobe still suited you! As Samuel’s mother, I have a responsibility—”
“To what? Approve my outfits?” Christine snapped. “Where did you get a key?”
Pamela lifted her chin. “Samuel gave it to me! He said I could stop by anytime.”
Christine almost laughed. “Really? That’s funny because he’s just as confused as I am.”
A flicker of fear crossed Pamela’s face before she masked it with her usual arrogance.
“Get out,” Christine said firmly. “And give me the key.”
Pamela hesitated, then yanked a key from her purse and slammed it onto the counter. “This is my son’s house, too! I’ll come by whenever I like!”
Christine smirked. “Not anymore.”
That night, she showed Samuel the footage. His face turned from confusion to horror to rage.
“I never gave her a key,” he growled. “How the hell did she get one?”
The answer came the next morning when Pamela showed up, pretending nothing had happened.
Samuel blocked the doorway. “Mom. Where did you get the key?”
Pamela blinked innocently. “Oh, that? I just made a copy! For emergencies.”
Christine folded her arms. “Emergencies? Like emergency wine-drinking? Emergency dress-up sessions?”
Pamela looked at Samuel, pouting. “Well, maybe if you spoiled your Mommy the way you spoil your wife, I wouldn’t have been so curious.”
That was it.
Samuel dropped a brand-new lock set on the table. “Then you’ll be wasting your time.”
Pamela stormed out, furious, but Christine didn’t care.
That day, she changed the locks. And for the first time in weeks, she truly felt at home again.
