Man Rented His Apartment to a Sweet Old Couple – When They Moved Out, He Was Shocked By What He Found Inside
When I first rented my apartment to Hans and Greta, a sweet old couple with warm smiles and charming accents, I thought I’d found the perfect tenants. But when they moved out, I was plunged into a mystery that would shatter my trust and lead to an unbelievable twist.
Hans and Greta seemed like the sweetest couple I had ever encountered. Late seventies, gentle manners, and warm smiles that could melt the coldest heart.
Hans had a neat silver mustache that twitched when he laughed, and Greta had this kind, motherly demeanor. They spoke with curious accents that I couldn’t quite place, a mix of something European and quaint.
A happy elderly couple in the kitchen | Source: Pexels
“I hope this apartment will be just right for you,” I said as I showed them around.
“It’s perfect,” Greta replied with a smile. “Just like home.”
They moved in smoothly, and for the entire year they stayed, there were no issues at all. They paid their rent on time, kept the place immaculate, and even left little thank-you notes when I came to check on the property.
A handsome apartment with wood floors | Source: Pexels
They’d often invite me in for tea, regaling me with stories of their adventures back in the days when they were young. It was hard to imagine a more ideal scenario.
“Thank you so much for letting us stay here, Mark,” Hans said one afternoon. “You’ve been a wonderful landlord.”
“You two have been the best tenants. If only everyone was like you,” I replied, sipping the tea Greta had made. It was chamomile, fragrant and soothing.
An elderly couple enjoying warm drinks | Source: Pexels
“Do you remember the time we got lost in the Black Forest?” Greta asked Hans, her eyes twinkling with mischief.
“Oh yes, that was quite the adventure!” Hans laughed. “We were young and foolish, thought we could navigate without a map.”
“Ended up spending the night in a shepherd’s hut,” Greta added, shaking her head.
However, as their lease neared its end, something strange happened. Hans and Greta, usually so calm and measured, seemed to be in a rush to move out.
Household contents being packed into boxes | Source: Pexels
They were always in a hurry, packing boxes and arranging things in a frenzy. When I asked if everything was okay, they assured me with those same warm smiles that everything was fine.
“Just some family matters,” Greta explained. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Are you sure? You both seem quite frantic,” I pressed, concerned.
Packed items being carried down stairs | Source: Pexels
“It’s all good, Mark. Just some urgent family issues. We’ll miss this place, though,” Hans said, patting my shoulder reassuringly.
The day they moved out, they handed me the keys with an extra firm handshake and an apology for their sudden departure. I wished them well, feeling a bit sad to see them go.
“Thank you for everything, Mark. We hope to see you again someday,” Greta said, giving me a gentle hug.
“Take care, both of you,” I replied, waving as they left.
A hand bearing a bunch of keys | Source: Pexels
The next day, I went to inspect the apartment, expecting to find it in the same pristine condition they had kept it. I unlocked the door and stepped inside, but what I saw made me gasp in shock.
There was no floor. The hardwood planks that had been there were completely gone, leaving only the bare concrete underneath. I stood there, stunned, trying to process what had happened.
“Where the hell is the floor?” I muttered to myself, pacing around the empty rooms.
A room with its floored stripped out | Source: Pexels
I took out my phone, snapped a photo of the empty floor, and sent them a text.
“What happened to the floor?” I asked, attaching the photo.
A few minutes later, my phone buzzed with a reply. It was from Hans.
A man studying his cell phone | Source: Pexels
“Oh dear, we are so sorry for the confusion! In the Netherlands, it is a tradition to take the floor with you when you move out. We assumed it was the same here. We were in such a rush because our granddaughter had just given birth and needed our help with the baby, and we didn’t have time to explain. We hope this hasn’t caused too much trouble. Please let us make it up to you. Come visit us in the Netherlands, and we will show you our beautiful country. With love, Hans and Greta.”
A man looking out the window, phone in hand | Source: Pexels
I read the message a couple of times, my disbelief slowly turning into a surprised grin. It was such a peculiar tradition, but it did make sense of everything. They hadn’t intended any harm; they were just adhering to a custom from their country.
The urgency in their departure was as sincere and heartfelt as they had always seemed, or so I thought.
I chuckled and replied, “I appreciate the explanation. I’ll need to replace the floor here, but no hard feelings. Maybe I will take you up on that offer to visit. Best wishes to you and your family.”
But something nagged at me. A tradition to take the floor, really? I decided to investigate further. I contacted a friend who was a private investigator and told him the whole story. He agreed to look into it.
A man inspecting documents with a magnifying glass | Source: Pexels
A week later, he called me with some shocking news.
“Mark, you won’t believe this,” he said. “Hans and Greta aren’t who they claimed to be. They’re part of a sophisticated scam targeting landlords, stealing valuable items and leaving with the impression of an innocent mistake. Those floorboards? They’re worth a small fortune.”
“What?” I retorted. “How could they do this? I checked their credentials thoroughly, everything was above board. They had valid residential visas, good credit histories, and no criminal records.”
A man listening on headphones | Source: Pexels
“They’re professionals,” my friend continued. “They move from city to city, targeting kind-hearted landlords like you. Their M.O. involves taking high-value items that can be easily sold.”
I was stunned. “I can’t believe it. They seemed so genuine, so… kind.”
“That’s how they get you,” he said. “They build trust and then take advantage of it.”
An outdoor antique market | Source: Freepik
“We’ve tracked them down,” my friend continued. “They’re planning to sell the stolen floorboards at a high-end antique market. We can set up a sting operation to catch them in the act.”
“Let’s do it,” I said, determined to see justice served.
The plan was simple. We’d catch them in the act of selling the stolen wood. My friend, posing as a buyer, approached Hans and Greta, who were busy setting up their stall with various antique items, including my floorboards.
Two men shake hands in introduction | Source: Pexels
“Excuse me,” my friend said. “I’m interested in those floorboards. They look exquisite.”
Hans smiled. “Ah, yes. Fine Dutch craftsmanship. We know because we are from the Netherlands ourselves. This is very rare, very valuable timber.”
“How much are you asking?” my friend inquired.
“For you, a special price,” Hans replied, naming a figure that made my P.I. friend’s eyes widen in surprise.
Police officers making an arrest | Source: Pexels
As the transaction was about to go through, police officers moved in, as coordinated, surrounding the stall.
“Hands up! You’re under arrest for theft and fraud,” one officer barked.
Hans and Greta looked shocked but didn’t resist as they were handcuffed and led away. I watched from a distance, feeling satisfied, but also sorrowful. How could I have misjudged the character of these people so spectacularly?
The floorboards were recovered, and they turned out to be imported wood worth a fortune. In the weeks that followed, I had the floor replaced, and life returned to normal. But I often thought about Hans and Greta, the weird, invented tradition they had conned me with, and also their seemingly unwavering kindness.
Strips of wood in a pile | Source: Pexels
A month later, I received a letter. It was from the real Hans and Greta in the Netherlands. They had had their identities stolen by the criminal gang, who had hired imposters to pose as them. They had been contacted by Interpol and made aware of the crime.
They invited me to visit the Netherlands and experience their genuine hospitality. “Dear Mark, we are so sorry for what happened. We hope you can find it in your heart to visit us and see the real Netherlands and meet its true people. With love, Hans and Greta.”
I sat back, letter in hand, contemplating the experience. Trust is a fragile thing, I thought, but also incredibly powerful when placed in the right people. Maybe one day, I would visit the real Hans and Greta and rebuild my faith in trust and humanity.
A man reading a letter | Source: Pexels
I Visited My In-Laws and Discovered My Mother-in-Law Locked in the Attic – The Reason Left Me Horrified
I looked around. The house was eerily quiet. It wasn’t the cozy place I was used to, filled with the smell of fresh coffee or Sharon’s humming in the kitchen. I pulled out my phone and texted Frank, just to check.
“Hey, I’m here at the house. Where are you guys?”
But today, the key was in the lock.
His response came back almost immediately. “Out with the guys. Sharon’s resting. You can head home if you want.”
Resting? That didn’t sit right with me. Sharon was always the one who jumped up to greet us, even if we’d been there the day before. And resting in the middle of the day? It wasn’t like her at all.
A weird feeling crept into my stomach. I slowly made my way through the house, my voice echoing as I called her name.
“Sharon? Are you okay?”
Still nothing. That’s when I heard a faint tapping sound.
I froze. It was coming from upstairs, somewhere near the attic. My heart started to race as I climbed the stairs. The tapping continued, steady and strange. When I reached the attic door, I stopped cold.
It was always locked. Frank had made it clear — nobody went into the attic. Not even Sharon. It was his space, some kind of personal workshop or storage room, I guessed.
But today, the key was in the lock.
I swallowed hard, my hand hovering over the doorknob. Something about this felt wrong. “Sharon?” I called again, this time my voice barely above a whisper.
No answer, but the tapping stopped.
I hesitated for a moment before turning the key and pushing the door open. And there she was. Sharon, sitting in an old wooden chair in the dim light, looking as though she hadn’t moved in hours. Her usually bright face seemed worn, her smile weak.
“Ruth,” she whispered, startled by my appearance, her voice trembling. “You’re here.”
I rushed over, setting the cookies aside and helping her up. “Sharon, what’s going on? Why are you up here?” My heart was pounding, every instinct telling me that something wasn’t right.
Her eyes darted toward the door, and she opened her mouth to speak, but the words that followed made my blood run cold.
“I uhhh… Frank… locked me in here,” she uttered, her voice barely above a whisper.
I blinked, shaking my head. “What?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Why would he do that?”
She sighed, rubbing her forehead. “I reorganized his man cave while he was out. It was getting messy, and I thought I’d surprise him. You know how he gets about his space, but I didn’t think it would upset him this much.”
Sharon let out a weak, forced laugh, but there was no real humor behind it. “When he came home, he lost it. He said if I loved ‘messing with his stuff’ so much, I could spend time up here too. Then he locked the door and told me to ‘think about what I’d done.’”
I was dumbfounded. This wasn’t just Frank getting upset over a room. He locked her up like she was a child being punished. I couldn’t wrap my head around it.
“Sharon, that’s insane,” I finally said, my voice shaky from the anger building inside me. “You’re his wife, not some kid who broke a rule. He can’t just lock you up because you reorganized his stuff!”
Sharon looked away, her hands twisting nervously in her lap. “He didn’t mean it like that,” she whispered. “He was just angry. You know how he gets.”
I was floored. She said it so calmly, with such resignation, as if this were completely normal. My throat tightened with frustration. I knew Frank could be controlling, but this? This was abuse.
“We’re leaving,” I said, standing up, my voice firm. “You’re not staying here, not with him acting like this.”
Sharon glanced toward the attic door, clearly nervous. “Ruth, maybe I should just go downstairs and apologize. It’s my fault for touching his things. I—”
“Apologize?!” I cut her off, shaking my head. “You did nothing wrong. You don’t deserve to be locked up like this! You’re coming with me, Sharon, and we’ll figure out what to do from there.”
She hesitated, her hands trembling slightly. “But what if he gets angrier? I don’t want to make things worse.”
“He doesn’t get to decide how you live your life, Sharon,” I said, my voice softening. “This isn’t about him anymore. It’s about you. You don’t have to keep tiptoeing around him like this.”
She looked at me for a long moment, her eyes filled with a mixture of fear and uncertainty. But then, slowly, she nodded. “Okay,” she whispered. “Let’s go.”
We didn’t waste any time. I helped Sharon pack a small bag with a few of her things. She was nervous the whole time, glancing at the door like Frank might burst in any second. But as soon as we stepped outside, I could see her shoulders relax a little like she was finally starting to breathe again.
As we drove back to my house, I kept glancing over at her. She looked exhausted, like she’d been carrying this emotional baggage for years, and was only just now setting it down.
“Are you okay?” I asked, breaking the silence.
She gave me a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I think so. I don’t really know what’s next.”
“Whatever it is,” I said, “you don’t have to face it alone.”
Later that evening, after I helped Sharon settle into the guest room, my phone started buzzing on the table. Frank’s name flashed on the screen.
I nodded and ignored the call. A few minutes later, the messages started coming in.
“Where’s Sharon? Bring her back now! She’s my wife, and she belongs here with me.”
I rolled my eyes and put the phone down, trying to keep my anger in check. But it was getting harder by the second. When Bryce came home from work, I pulled him aside, trying to explain everything as calmly as I could.
“She was locked in the attic, Bryce,” I said quietly, my voice shaking despite my best efforts to stay composed. “Frank… he just left her there.”
Bryce’s face darkened. “What the hell?” he muttered, his fists clenching. “Are you serious?”
I nodded, watching as his anger grew. “She’s in the guest room now, but Frank keeps calling, demanding I send her back.”
Bryce didn’t waste any time. He grabbed his phone and dialed his father’s number, pacing back and forth in the living room as it rang.
I could hear Frank’s voice through the speaker as soon as he picked up.
“Where’s your mother? She needs to come back home. I’m not done teaching her—”
“Teaching her what, Dad?” Bryce cut him off, his voice shaking with anger. “What lesson are you trying to teach by locking her in the attic like a prisoner? You’re out of your mind!”
Frank’s voice dropped, trying to explain, trying to justify. “It wasn’t like that, son. She messed with my things. She needed to—”
“I don’t care if she moved every single thing you own!” Bryce shouted, his face red with fury. “You don’t lock her up. That’s not how you treat someone, especially your wife!”
Frank tried to talk over him, but Bryce wasn’t having it. “You’re lucky I’m not coming over there right now because if I did, I don’t think it’d end well for you.”
He hung up the phone and let out a frustrated sigh, running his hands through his hair. “I can’t believe he did this,” he muttered. “I never thought he’d go this far.”
I reached out and put my hand on his arm. “You did the right thing, standing up to him.”
Bryce shook his head. “It shouldn’t have to be like this, Ruth. I shouldn’t have to stand up to my own father.”
The next morning, while Bryce was at work, Frank showed up at our door. His face was red, and he was fuming. “Where is she?” he demanded. “She needs to come back. She has responsibilities, and I’m not done teaching her a lesson.”
I crossed my arms, standing firm. “She’s not coming back, Frank. What you did was wrong, and you know it. You locked her in the attic like she was a child. That’s not okay.”
Behind me, Sharon appeared in the hallway, her voice soft but steady. “I’m not coming back, Frank.”
He looked at her, his eyes narrowing. “What do you mean you’re not coming back? You don’t have a choice.”
“I do have a choice,” she said, stepping forward, her voice gaining strength. “I’m done being treated like a child, Frank. If my punishment for trying to help is being locked away, then maybe it’s time I make some changes.”
Frank tried to argue, but Sharon wasn’t backing down. “I’m not living like this anymore, Frank. I’m done.”
The look on Frank’s face was a mixture of disbelief and anger, but he knew it was over. He stormed off without another word, slamming the door behind him.
The relief I saw on Sharon’s face was indescribable. It felt as if a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders. It was like she could finally breathe a little easier.
A few weeks later, Sharon decided to file for divorce. She moved into a small apartment near us and even started taking that painting class she’d always wanted to try. It was like she’d been given a second chance at life, and she wasn’t going to waste it.
Bryce stood by her every step of the way, offering support and encouragement. “You deserve better, Mom,” he told her. “You should’ve never had to put up with that.”
In the end, Frank lost more than just Sharon. He lost his son, too. But it was his own doing. He pushed too hard, and Bryce wasn’t willing to let it slide. Sharon, though — she was finally free. And that was worth everything.
What would you have done in my shoes? Let me know your thoughts!
Leave a Reply