Moving into a new neighborhood always comes with a mix of excitement and uncertainty. I was ready for a fresh start, eager to make friends, and build a sense of community. The houses were charming, the lawns well-kept, and the people seemed friendly—except for one.
Linda.
At first, she seemed nice, a little too chatty maybe, but nothing out of the ordinary. She was the kind of neighbor who always “happened” to be outside when I was, always had a comment about my yard, my car, my groceries. I brushed it off—maybe she was just lonely.
But then my packages started disappearing.
At first, I thought it was a delivery mistake. The tracking numbers said “Delivered,” but there was nothing on my porch. I contacted the delivery service, but they assured me my packages had been left right where I said. That’s when the first red flag appeared—Linda suddenly appeared at my door one evening, holding an opened package.
“Oh, I thought this was mine!” she giggled, handing over the half-emptied box.
It had been a set of scented candles I had ordered. Three were missing.
I forced a smile. “No worries,” I lied through my teeth.
The second time, it was a dress. Linda appeared at my door again, holding the ripped-open packaging, the tag still attached to the dress inside.
“I thought I ordered this exact same one!” she exclaimed. “Silly me.”
Silly, indeed.
By the fourth time, it was clear—Linda was stealing my packages, rifling through them, and only returning what she didn’t want. It was infuriating. I complained to the homeowners’ association, but they shrugged it off. “It’s a neighborly misunderstanding,” they said.
The final straw came in December when I ordered a Christmas ornament for my mom—a custom-made glass angel with her name etched into the wings. It was meant to be special. I had been waiting for it all week, excited to surprise her with it.
And then it was gone.
I knocked on Linda’s door, my heart pounding. When she opened it, she was holding the ornament, the packaging torn apart, the delicate angel dangling from her fingers.
“Ohhh,” she giggled. “I didn’t realize this wasn’t for me!”
My vision went red. This woman had no shame.
That’s when I decided: enough was enough.
The Trap
That night, I stayed up planning my revenge. I needed a way to catch her in the act—something she wouldn’t see coming. That’s when the idea struck me.
I ordered a fake “luxury” gift box online, something expensive-looking that would tempt her sticky fingers. Inside, I placed a small pouch filled with glitter and dye powder—the kind used in theater effects that stains skin for days. Once opened, the pouch would explode, coating whoever opened it in a bright, neon-blue mess.
Then, I set the trap.
The package arrived on a Friday afternoon. I placed it on my porch, right where the other stolen packages had disappeared. Then, I waited.
Not even twenty minutes later, I saw Linda sneak onto my porch. She looked around, grabbed the box, and scurried back to her house.
I grinned.
Ten minutes passed, and Linda was running frantically around her front yard, arms flailing, her hands, face, and parts of her hair stained a vibrant, unmistakable blue. She looked like a Smurf in a bathrobe.
I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
Other neighbors began to step outside, whispering and pointing. Linda was scrubbing at her skin with a towel, but the dye wouldn’t come off.
“Morning, Linda,” I called cheerfully. “Everything okay?”
She shot me a look that could kill. “Something defective was in my package.”
“Oh?” I tilted my head. “Your package?”
She froze, realizing her mistake.
The best part? The dye wouldn’t fade completely for a week.
By the end of the day, the whole neighborhood knew what had happened. Some pretended not to notice, while others smirked knowingly. Linda avoided me like the plague after that.
And my packages?
They never went missing again.
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This story is inspired by real people and events, with names and details changed for privacy reasons.
