My best friend Jenna and I thought we’d found the perfect vintage apartment—brick walls, creaky hardwood floors, and a landlord who looked like a sweet grandpa. Mr. Whitaker seemed harmless enough. At first.

But soon, his “inspections” became daily intrusions. Plumbing, wiring, air quality—you name it, he had an excuse. He even critiqued our cleaning and fashion choices, sometimes just sitting silently in our living room. The final straw? He barged in while Jenna was in the shower, insisting he needed to “check the sink.”

When he stormed in another morning screaming about spilled coffee “ruining the floors,” we snapped. We researched tenant rights, installed security cameras, and waited. Sure enough, he let himself in while we were out. The alarms blared, the cameras caught him, and the police showed up.

The officers gave him a harsh reality check: he was breaking the law. And for the first time, Mr. Whitaker looked less like a sweet old man and more like a scolded child.

Since then, it’s been blissfully quiet. He schedules visits properly, waits for us to answer the door, and sticks to the lease.