I opened it to find a bag of kitchen scraps reeking on my doormat. Soupy liquid had seeped across the floor—sticky, foul, revolting.
No need to guess who was responsible.
Expressionless, I pulled out my phone and snapped a photo. Then I put on gloves and cleaned up the mess.
The next morning, another bag.
The third day. The fourth. Like clockwork—trash at my door every single day without fail.
And every single day, I photographed it and cleaned it up without fail.
I didn't confront her. Didn't go to property management either.
Without evidence, she'd never admit it—worse, she'd flip the script and play victim.
I ordered a pinhole camera with night vision online and mounted it in an inconspicuous corner above my doorframe.
On the fifth night, I parked myself in front of the monitor. At 1 a.m., her sneaky figure appeared on screen. She carried a black trash bag, deposited it at my door with practiced ease, then pulled a marker from her pocket and drew a giant turtle on my door. When she finished, she smugly dusted off her hands and slipped back to her unit.
I saved the footage. Crystal clear.
But I didn't post it. Not yet. I was waiting for the perfect moment.