I thought my neighbor admired my garden. A few similar flowers, a matching layout—flattering, right? But when she copied every single detail, I started to wonder. After a storm knocked down our fence, I found the truth—a tiny red light blinking from a hidden camera, watching my every move.
Gardening isn’t just a hobby for me—it’s my passion, my therapy, the one thing that makes my house truly feel like home.
Every flower, every shrub, every carefully selected vine is a piece of me.
I don’t just plant things; I curate my space, shaping the earth with my hands, creating something alive, something that feels like an extension of myself.
I spend hours researching the perfect plants, adjusting layouts, and nurturing life.
The way the sunlight falls in the early morning tells me which flowers will thrive best in each corner of the yard.
I know the exact amount of water each plant needs, the right balance of soil, the way different scents will mingle in the air by mid-afternoon.
That’s why, at first, I took it as a compliment when I noticed my neighbor, Courtney, making similar choices.
A few tulips here, some lavender there—no big deal. Gardening is meant to inspire, after all. I didn’t own nature.
But then I started noticing more.
One morning, as I stood with my hose in hand, watching the water glisten over my deep red roses, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye.
Courtney was in her yard, watering hers—the exact same shade of crimson.
I frowned. Hadn’t her garden been filled with pink and white flowers just last month? I turned my head slowly, scanning her yard. It was a near replica of mine.
The same arrangements, the same color schemes—even the decorative stones I had spent weeks picking out from a specialty shop downtown.
My unique, carefully crafted sanctuary was standing right there, twice.
A chill ran down my spine.
At first, I told myself I was imagining it. Maybe we just had similar taste.
Maybe she had admired my work and taken inspiration. It’s not like I had a patent on gardening.
But the feeling didn’t sit right.
I decided to test my theory.
I went to the nursery and bought a plant I hated—a bright orange marigold that clashed horribly with my garden’s aesthetic.
I planted it right in the center of my yard, a jarring splash of color against my otherwise soft, elegant palette.
And then, I waited.
A week later, I nearly dropped my coffee mug when I stepped outside. There it was. An identical orange marigold. Right in Courtney’s garden.
My heart pounded as I stared.
Two days later, it was gone.
Just like mine.
Determined to reclaim my space, I started spending more time in my backyard, where Courtney couldn’t see me. If she couldn’t watch, she couldn’t copy, right?
I moved my gardening to the evenings, working under the glow of my porch light. I rearranged my flower beds behind the fence where her prying eyes wouldn’t reach.
I even started taking my tea on the back patio instead of the front porch, where I wouldn’t have to endure her too-bright smile and fake small talk.
It helped, for a while.
Then, last week, the storm came.
The wind started howling just after midnight, rattling the windows, making the trees groan and creak.
Rain pelted the roof like pebbles thrown from the sky, and somewhere in the distance, a branch snapped with a sickening crack.
I barely slept. Every gust of wind felt like it might lift the house off its foundation.
By morning, everything was wrecked.
I stepped outside and immediately felt the damp chill in the air. The ground was soggy, squelching beneath my boots.
Broken branches littered my once-pristine lawn, and my favorite ceramic pot had shattered into sharp blue shards. But none of that compared to the real damage.
My fence was gone.
The wooden slats that had separated my space from Courtney’s lay in a messy heap, jagged and broken like ribs after a fight.
No more barrier. No more privacy.
I sighed, running a hand through my messy hair. It would take time and money to fix, but I had no choice—I couldn’t have her watching my every move again.
I froze.
At first, I thought it was some kind of reflection, a trick of the light catching on wet wood. But no. The light was steady, deliberate.
Heart pounding, I stepped closer. My breath caught as I crouched down and ran my fingers along the damp wood.
Nestled so perfectly into the fence that it had been invisible before the storm was a tiny camera.
Pointed directly at my yard.
At me.
A shiver crawled up my spine. My skin prickled. My mind raced.
She’d been spying.
I didn’t even hesitate. My blood was boiling, my hands shaking, but my feet moved with purpose. I stormed across the yard, the damp grass cold against my bare ankles. I barely felt it.
By the time I reached Courtney’s front porch, I was seething. I pounded on the door so hard the frame rattled. A startled bird flew from a nearby tree.
Courtney stood there, blinking rapidly, a polite—too polite—smile pasted on her lips. But there was something else too, a flicker of panic in her wide brown eyes.
“Oh, hey!” Her voice was just a little too high-pitched, just a little too casual. “Everything alright?”
I didn’t bother with small talk. My fingers curled around the tiny camera in my palm, and I thrust it toward her face. “Care to explain why I found this hidden in our fence?”
Her smile faltered. She hesitated for a fraction of a second before forcing a weak chuckle.
I narrowed my eyes. “Funny how it was only facing my yard.”
Courtney swallowed hard. She stepped back slightly, gripping the edge of the doorframe like she needed something solid to hold onto. “It wasn’t like that. I swear.”
My pulse hammered in my ears. Every muscle in my body was tense.
“Then tell me, Courtney,” I demanded, my voice shaking with fury, “why is your backyard an exact copy of mine? Down to the plants I tried and threw out?”
She bit her lip. Her gaze dropped to the floor, like a guilty child caught in a lie. “I—I just admired your style,” she muttered weakly. “That’s all.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Liar.”
Her shoulders flinched, but she didn’t argue.
I could feel my heart racing, but suddenly, I was exhausted. I shook my head, my grip tightening around the camera one last time before I turned on my heel and walked away.
She wasn’t going to admit the truth.
But I wasn’t going to let her get away with it.
I spent the next few days plotting my revenge, letting my anger simmer just beneath the surface.
