Food kept disappearing from Christine’s home—first little treats, then full meals. At first, she brushed it off. But when even the expensive caviar went missing, she knew something was very wrong. Her husband, Samuel, swore he wasn’t the culprit. Desperate for answers, Christine set up a hidden camera. But nothing could have prepared her for what she saw.
At first, it was small things. A few pieces of chocolate gone from a box she had been saving. The juice boxes Samuel liked kept running out faster than usual. Christine would stand in front of the open fridge, frowning, trying to remember if she had absentmindedly eaten them herself. But she knew her habits.
She wasn’t the type to finish a whole box of chocolates in one go. She savored them, making them last. So how were they disappearing?
“Maybe you’re just forgetting,” Samuel said one night when she mentioned it. He was sitting on the couch, flipping through a magazine.
“I don’t forget my chocolates,” she muttered. But she let it go.
Then it got worse.
One evening, she reached for the bottle of wine they had been saving for their anniversary—the one she had carefully placed at the back of the cabinet. It was gone. Later, she found the empty bottle in the recycling bin.
The fancy cheese she had bought for a dinner party was half-eaten before the guests even arrived.
It felt like a tiny, sharp cut to her sanity every time she noticed something missing.
She started keeping a list.
- Monday: Half a box of imported cookies missing.
- Wednesday: Three pieces of dark chocolate gone.
- Friday: The special raspberry preserves she had ordered online vanished without a trace.
But the real breaking point came when the caviar disappeared. And not just any caviar—the premium Osetra she had splurged on for Samuel’s birthday. A $200 delicacy, completely gone.
Enough was enough.
One morning, she decided to confront her husband.
“Hey, babe,” she said as casually as she could. “Did you finish that box of Belgian truffles I bought last week?”
Samuel looked up from his coffee, his forehead creasing. “What truffles?”
Her stomach did a little flip. “The ones on the top shelf of the pantry. Behind the cereal.”
“I didn’t even know we had truffles,” he said, taking another sip of coffee.
Christine studied his face. Samuel was many things, but a liar wasn’t one of them. If he said he hadn’t eaten them, then he hadn’t eaten them.
So that meant… someone else was.
“Are you absolutely sure?” she pressed. “Because the caviar from your birthday is gone too. And the wine we were saving for our anniversary. The one from our Napa trip?”
Samuel’s coffee cup froze midway to his lips. “What?! That stuff was expensive! I was looking forward to that!”
“I know,” she said, crossing her arms. “Unless we have a gourmet-loving ghost, someone has been sneaking into our house.”
A chill settled between them.
“Maybe we should set up cameras?” Samuel suggested.
Christine nodded. “Yeah. Maybe we should.”
The next day, she hid a small wireless camera behind the cookbooks on the kitchen shelf. It had a clear view of the pantry and fridge. Then, she waited.
Two days later, she was at work when her phone buzzed with a motion alert. Her pulse spiked.
She ducked into an empty conference room and opened the live feed. What she saw made her blood run cold.
Her mother-in-law, Pamela, strolled into their kitchen like she owned the place.
Christine’s jaw dropped. “You have got to be kidding me.”
Pamela moved with practiced ease, opening the wine cabinet without hesitation. She pulled out the expensive Bordeaux, poured herself a glass, then reached into the fridge for the fancy cheese. It was clear this wasn’t her first time raiding their kitchen.
But then she did something even more unsettling.
She didn’t leave.
Pamela walked down the hallway toward their bedroom.
Christine quickly switched cameras. Her eyes widened in shock as she watched Pamela slip into her favorite dress. The older woman twirled in front of the mirror, admiring herself.
Then, Christine’s horror deepened. Pamela walked to her dresser, opened a drawer, and started digging through her lingerie.
Pamela wasn’t just stealing food. She was trying on Christine’s clothes. And her underwear.
Christine clapped a hand over her mouth. What. The. Hell.
The next day, Christine stayed home, waiting. At exactly 2 p.m., Pamela let herself in. She went straight for the wine, then helped herself to the cheese.
Christine waited until Pamela entered the bedroom before stepping into the doorway.
“Enjoying yourself?” she asked, her voice like ice.
Pamela shrieked, nearly toppling over. “Christine! I—I was just—”
“Just what? Breaking into our house? Eating our food? Trying on my underwear?” Christine’s voice remained eerily calm.
Pamela blushed but didn’t look ashamed. Instead, she looked… indignant.
“I was checking to see if your wardrobe still suited you! As Samuel’s mother, I have a responsibility—”
“To do what? Approve my outfits?” Christine crossed her arms. “Where did you get a key?”
Pamela straightened. “Samuel gave it to me! He said I could stop by anytime!”
Christine almost laughed. “That’s interesting, because he’s been just as confused as I was.”
A flicker of something—fear?—crossed Pamela’s face, but it quickly vanished beneath her usual self-righteousness.
“Get out, Pamela. And give me the key.”
Pamela yanked her arm away. “This is my son’s house too! I’ll drop by whenever I like!”
That night, Christine showed Samuel the footage. His face twisted in horror, then rage.
“I never gave her a key,” he said tightly. “How the hell did she get one?”
They got their answer the next morning when Pamela showed up, acting like nothing had happened.
Samuel blocked the door. “Mom. Where did you get the key?”
Pamela blinked innocently. “Oh, that? I just made a copy! For emergencies, you know.”
Christine scoffed. “Like emergency wine drinking? Emergency dress-up sessions in my clothes?”
Pamela sighed dramatically. “Well, maybe if you spoiled your mother the way you spoil your wife, I wouldn’t be so curious.”
Christine had had enough. “You’re going to give us every copy of that key. Now.”
“And what if I don’t?” Pamela sneered.
Samuel dropped a new lock set onto the table. “Then you’ll be wasting your time trying to break into a house you can’t enter anymore.”
Pamela’s face twisted with fury, but she yanked a key from her purse and slammed it onto the counter. “Fine! But don’t expect me to help when you need me!”
Christine smirked. “Oh, we never did.”
Pamela stormed out, slamming the door behind her.
That same day, Christine changed the locks. Now, when she opened her fully stocked fridge or slipped into her unworn dress, she smiled, knowing her home was truly hers again.
And if Pamela wanted to know what she was eating or wearing these days? Well, she’d just have to imagine.
