For five years, my mother-in-law, Monica, treated my home like a conquered territory. Every time she visited, she didn’t just stay with us; she staged a coup. Without asking, she would haul her oversized floral suitcases directly into the master bedroom, toss our pillows onto the floor, and claim our bed as her own.
When I first protested, she waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, stop being so dramatic, dear. My back needs the orthopedic mattress, and you’re young—the lumpy guest bed is fine for you.”
It wasn’t just the bed. She “trashed” the place. I’d find her dentures soaking in my favorite jewelry dish, used tissues tucked into the headboard, and her heavy, cloying perfume seeping into the carpet. My husband, Dave, usually just hovered in the hallway, caught between a lifetime of obeying his mother and the mounting fury in my eyes.
This year, I decided I was done playing the martyr. Two weeks before her arrival, I spent $400 on a plan. When Monica arrived at the front door, I didn’t let her get past the foyer before I spoke up.
“Monica, the guest room is ready for you this time. I’ve put a lot of work into it.”
She smirked, that sharp, knowing look that usually preceded a power play. “We’ll see about that,” she murmured, brushing past me.
I went to work, and Dave went to pick up groceries. When I returned home at 6:00 PM, I walked straight to my master bedroom. Sure enough, the door was ajar. There was Monica, sprawled across my Egyptian cotton sheets, flipping through a magazine. Her suitcases were already open, her clothes scattered across my vanity.
She grinned at me, her eyes gleaming with a challenge. “THE GUEST ROOM GETS TOO MUCH SUN. WE’LL STAY HERE,” she announced, using the royal “we” she favored.
I didn’t yell. I didn’t cry. I just smiled sweetly—a smile that should have terrified her if she’d been paying attention. “If that’s what makes you comfortable, Monica. I’ll just head to the guest room.”
I walked into the guest room and locked the door. It was heaven. It was untouched, smelling of fresh lavender, and most importantly, it was mine for the night. I watched a movie, ate chocolate in bed, and slept the sleep of the victorious.
The next morning, I was in the kitchen brewing coffee when the master bedroom door slammed open. Monica stormed into the kitchen. She wasn’t just angry; she was ASHEN. Her skin had a greyish tint, and her hands were shaking.
With her voice trembling, she shrieked, “What is wrong with that room?! What did you do to that bed?!”
“Is something wrong, Monica?” I asked, sipping my coffee calmly.
“Something wrong? I woke up at 3:00 AM and I couldn’t move! Every time I closed my eyes, I felt things… crawling! And the smell! It smelled like a wet dog had died under the mattress! I looked under the bed and there were… things!”
I set my mug down. “Oh, the ‘Old Suite’ setup? I should have mentioned. Since you always complain that I’m ‘dramatic’ about my room, I decided to give you an actual reason to complain.”
Here was the plan:
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The Scent: I had hidden several open containers of “Fox Urine” scent (used by hunters) inside the box spring of the master bed. It’s a smell that remains faint when cold but becomes absolutely putrid once human body heat warms up the mattress.
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The “Crawlers”: I didn’t use real bugs—I’m not a monster. I used “vibrating prank motors” tucked into the mattress seams, set to a timer. Every 30 minutes, the bed would give a faint, jittery shudder, just enough to make a person feel like something was moving under them.
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The Visual: I had replaced our nice duvet with an old, stained one from the garage and tucked several realistic, rubber “theatrical” spiders into the folds of the heavy curtains.
Monica didn’t even finish her breakfast. She packed her bags in record time, muttering about “disrespect” and “psychological warfare.”
“I’m going to a hotel!” she barked.
“That’s probably for the best,” I replied. “The guest room is lovely, but since it gets ‘too much sun,’ I wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
She hasn’t asked to stay at our house since. Dave was quiet for a few days, but after I showed him the “trash” she’d left behind in our room—including a half-eaten tuna sandwich on his nightstand—he finally agreed: some guests are better handled with a bit of “dramatic” flair.
