I walked through the door after another grueling shift at the hospital, my body exhausted and aching for some rest. But instead of the peace I craved, there was a toothpick wedged into my front door lock.
“Seriously?” I muttered, trying to shake off the feeling that something was off.
This wasn’t the first time something weird had happened. Just a week ago, I had come home to find the same thing—a toothpick jammed in my lock. It was bizarre. Was someone playing a twisted game? I didn’t know, but I had a plan to find out.
After a brutal 14-hour shift of emptying bedpans, cleaning up vomit, and dealing with a patient who swore his “friend” accidentally sat on a remote control, I dragged my exhausted body home. All I wanted was a hot shower, some quiet time, and maybe a frozen pizza.
Instead, I found myself standing outside in thirty-degree weather, struggling with my key. It wouldn’t go in. I tried turning it, wiggling it, even flipping it upside down. Nothing worked.
“Come on,” I muttered, shaking the key. “I’ve handled worse ER patients today than you.”
I felt a cold gust of wind, and then—there it was again—a toothpick wedged deep in the keyhole.
“No way,” I groaned, poking at it with my car key. I tried jiggling it, swearing under my breath, even poking with a bobby pin. Nothing worked.
I stood there for a solid fifteen minutes, my toes freezing, and my temper rising with each passing second.
Finally, I picked up my phone and dialed my brother, Danny.
“Danny? It’s me. I’m locked out,” I said, my voice heavy with frustration.
“Again?” he asked. “Did you lose your keys at the hospital? Because last time—”
“No, there’s a toothpick stuck in the lock,” I interrupted.
“What the hell? I’ll be right over.”
Ten minutes later, Danny’s old rusted pickup truck rolled into my driveway. He hopped out wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt that read “I PAUSED MY GAME TO BE HERE.”
“Shouldn’t you be wearing a coat?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Shouldn’t you be inside your house?” he shot back, holding a miniature toolkit like he was about to defuse a bomb.
I watched as he examined the lock, his breath visible in the frigid air.
“Yep,” he said, pulling a pair of tweezers from his kit. “That’s a toothpick, all right. And it didn’t get there by accident.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, frowning.
“Someone put it there… on purpose.” Danny worked quietly for a few minutes before pulling out the splinter. “There we go. Try it now.”
I slid the key into the lock, and it worked smoothly. Finally, I was in.
“You think it’s just kids messing around?” I asked, hopeful.
Danny shook his head. “No way. Kids don’t have that kind of patience. Call me if this happens again, okay?”
“It won’t,” I said, relieved.
“Famous last words,” Danny called, shaking his head as he headed back to his truck.
But… it did happen again. Exactly twenty-four hours later.
I FaceTimed Danny, the frustration practically radiating from me.
“You’re kidding,” he said, his voice laced with disbelief. I could hear the clinking of beer bottles in the background.
“Maybe I’ve got a really dedicated enemy at the homeowners’ association,” I joked. “I did put up those Christmas lights in February.”
Danny showed up looking mildly insulted at the universe. “Alright,” he said, brushing past me, “now I’m interested.”
“This is targeted. Want to catch them?” I asked.
“With what? A mousetrap?” he asked sarcastically.
“Better. I’ve got a security camera,” he said, grinning. “Used it to catch the raccoons that kept knocking over my garbage cans. I’ll set it up tomorrow.”
The next morning, Danny arrived with a camera that looked like it had been through several wars.
“This thing still works?” I asked, eyeing the ancient-looking device.
“Of course it works. It’s built like a Nokia phone,” Danny replied, climbing the maple tree in my front yard with surprising agility for someone whose exercise routine involved mostly walking to the fridge.
“Perfect angle. This’ll catch anyone coming up to your door, and the footage goes straight to your phone,” he said, setting up the camera.
That evening, I sat in my car, hunched over my phone, anxiously waiting for something to happen. At 7:14 p.m., my phone buzzed.
A new video popped up. My heart skipped a beat.
“JOSH??” I gasped.
There he was. My ex-boyfriend. The same guy I had caught sending late-night texts to his “work friend” Amber while I was working double shifts at the hospital. The one who’d been “working late” while his credit card was racking up charges at restaurants I’d begged him to take me to for months.
I watched the video three times, trying to process what I was seeing. There he was, in his stupid puffy jacket, carefully inserting a toothpick into my lock as though it was the most normal thing in the world.
“What the hell?” I whispered to myself.
I had broken up with him six months ago, in a quiet, drama-free conversation. I thought we had parted ways civilly, but apparently, Josh had other plans.
I was fuming. But instead of calling the cops, I called Connor.
“He did what?” Connor barked into the phone, his voice full of disbelief.
“Put a toothpick in my lock. Twice,” I repeated, staring at Josh’s face on my screen.
“That’s… creative. Want me to talk to him?” Connor asked, his tone casual but dangerous.
“By ‘talk,’ do you mean threaten him with bodily harm? Because I’m not bailing you out of jail again,” I said.
“That was one time, Reggie. And I didn’t actually hit anyone.”
“You threw a man’s toupee into a fountain,” I reminded him.
“It attacked me first! But no, I’ve got a better idea. Does Josh still drive by your place?”
“Probably. He lives three streets over,” I said.
“Perfect. Here’s what we’re going to do…” Connor said with a grin I could hear in his voice.
The next evening, I made a show of leaving my house at 6:45 p.m. I even called someone loudly on my phone as I walked to my car: “Yeah, I’ll be there in twenty minutes! Save me a seat!”
Then I parked around the corner, sneaked through my neighbor’s yard, and slipped in through the back door. Connor was already inside, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.
“Wait… is that my bathrobe?” I asked, eyeing the pink monstrosity that barely covered his chest.
“Yep. And I’m not wearing much underneath, so let’s hope this works.”
“You’re enjoying this way too much, Connor!” I said, rolling my eyes.
“You bet I am. Now shh… your creepy ex should be here any minute.”
At exactly 7:11 p.m., my phone buzzed. I pulled up the camera feed, and there he was—Josh, tiptoeing up to my door, toothpick in hand like a tiny wooden dagger.
Connor grabbed a wrench from his toolbox and positioned himself by the door.
“Wait for it,” he whispered.
Josh reached for the lock, the toothpick poised, and Connor flung the door open.
I peeked through the crack in the curtains, watching Josh’s face go from focused to pure terror.
“You must be the toothpick fairy!” Connor said, stepping out onto the porch. The bathrobe gaped open, revealing way more tattooed torso than I was comfortable with. “Got a message for you from the lady of the house, pal.”
Josh’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. Then he turned and ran—full sprint—down the driveway, arms pumping like he was training for the Olympics.
I burst out the door after Connor. “JOSH! STOP!”
Miraculously, he did. He turned around, looking like a ghost, hands raised in surrender.
“WHY? Why mess with my lock?” I demanded.
“I just… I thought maybe you’d call me for help. If you couldn’t get in, you’d need someone. I’d be there, and we could talk, and maybe—”
“So you sabotaged my lock to play hero?” I said, incredulous.
“It sounds dumb when you say it like that,” he muttered, defeated.
“Yeah, well, it is dumb!” Connor chimed in.
Josh looked crushed. “I messed up, okay? I thought if I could just help you again, you’d remember the good times.”
“The good times?” I laughed bitterly. “You mean before or after you were taking Amber to Vincenzo’s while telling me you were seeing a therapist?”
“It was a mistake. I’ve been trying to tell you that for months.”
Connor cracked his knuckles. “Well, mission failed, buddy. Leave before I call the cops.”
Josh shuffled off into the night, shoulders slumped, looking like a scolded child.
Connor shut the door behind us and grinned. “That was fun.”
But I wasn’t done yet.
“What are you doing?” Connor asked the next morning, peering over my shoulder as I typed on my phone.
“Creating a TikTok account,” I said, uploading the video footage.
“Savage! Didn’t know you had it in you, Reggie.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” I said, typing the caption: “My ex keeps jamming my door lock with toothpicks. Here’s what happened when we introduced him to my new man. 🤣😈”
“New man, huh?” Connor raised an eyebrow.
“Artistic license,” I said, hitting post.
Two days later, the video hit 2.1 million views. Josh sent me a long, rambling email about privacy and how I ruined his life. I didn’t respond.
Instead, I forwarded the video to his boss—who happened to be Amber’s father. Turns out Amber didn’t know about me either. The plot thickened… then quickly thinned when Josh was “pursuing other opportunities” according to his company’s website.
Two weeks later, Danny helped me change the locks—not because I had to, but because it felt like closing a chapter.
“You know,” he said, tightening the last screw, “you could’ve just called the cops.”
“And miss all this?” I said, gesturing vaguely at the chaos of the past week. “Where’s the fun in that?”
That afternoon, Connor brought over pizza and coke to celebrate what he called “The Great Toothpick Revenge.”
“To small victories,” he said, clinking his can against mine.
“And to idiots who think tampering with locks is a good flirting strategy!” I added.
“You know,” Connor said, leaning back on my couch, “I’m still waiting for my cut of the TikTok fame.”
“How about I don’t tell anyone you wore my bathrobe?” I said with a grin.
“Deal!” he said, laughing.
My phone buzzed with another notification. The video had just hit three million views.
Turns out revenge doesn’t always need a sledgehammer. Sometimes a toothpick and a viral post work just fine.
