SQUATTER’S RIGHTS

By John J. Klobnak

©2025

Bill Wilson and Carlo DiMonti were born in the same year. The similarity ended there. Bill was born in a small town in Southern Illinois to a solid middle-class family. He had to work hard for anything extra in his life including his tuition to the local junior college where he earned a two-year degree in drafting. Carlo, who was born to the mean streets of St. Louis never experienced any kind of a typical family life or gainful employment and finished his education courtesy of the taxpayers at the state penitentiary in Jefferson City, Missouri. Bill enlisted in the Air Force Reserves shortly after graduating and marrying a girl he’d dated in high school. Two children followed and Bill found work at a defense contractor, a job that provided a comfortable middle-class life — just not the one Bill had always hoped for. Carlo had also served in the military (after a judge gave him the choice of enlisting or spending another two years in prison). He never made it through basic training after money kept going missing from foot lockers and a security camera fingered him. He wasn’t unhappy getting booted out of the service and anyway that judge had only said he had to “enlist.” He hadn’t said anything about actually serving. Carlo fathered three children with three different women. He never paid a dime in child support always saying that’s what taxes were for. Carlo hadn’t filed taxes in … well, ever. But he claimed he paid sales taxes and that made him a taxpayer and he never contributed so much as a birthday card in support of his kids.

The whole thing started when Bill’s wife inherited her parents’ small house a few blocks away from their mid-century split level. It was worn out and the couple decided to spend a few months sprucing it up before renting it out. The cash flow would be a welcome addition to their children’s college fund and give the couple a chance to catch their breath financially. Bill knew his way around a toolbox and being a draftsman could understand blueprints and the couple took out a home improvement loan with the credit union at Bill’s job to fund the projects. Bill performed the work at night and on weekends and progress was being made. It wasn’t much, a new vanity in the bathroom. New carpet in the living room. New faucet in the kitchen. A little paint here and there. After a few weeks, the place was looking pretty good, and the couple was already mentally counting the rental income they were expecting.

As Bill prepared to leave for his annual Air Force Reserve two-week active-duty stint, he and his wife assessed the remaining items on the punch list. They were excited they were nearing the start of cash flow on the house and were anxiously looking forward to running a for rent ad.

About that same time, Carlo was notified he was becoming a father for the fourth time. This woman, however, was not going to take his deadbeat dad act sitting down. She started papering him with demands from the woman’s cousin, the lawyer. He got a letter from the deadbeat dad department at the prosecuting attorney’s office, followed by a visit from the mother’s two beefy brothers which convinced Carlo he needed to disappear for a while. Carlo drove across the bridge from Missouri to Illinois and when his car overheated in Bill’s small hometown, he pulled over near an old building that housed a lawn care business. He entered an open garage door and asked for a bucket of water for his radiator and the owner of the business, desperate for workers, asked if he’d be interested in a job. Carlo surprised himself when he said he’d take it. He figured he’d work just long enough to qualify for unemployment, or maybe disability and he agreed to take the job. The owner of the business was so desperate he even let Carlo crash in the warehouse until he got on his feet. A few days later while cutting the lawn next to Bill’s rental house, Carlo saw a sign in the window that Bill’s wife had put up a few days earlier. House for rent. Coming Soon.

Carlo knew exactly where he was going to move.

Carlo, of course, had no intention of renting the place. Instead, he planned to squat. He’d known a guy in St. Louis who was a professional squatter. Carlo had always admired the man and had been to parties at various homes his friend commandeered. A quick call to the squatter followed by a trip to the library yielded all the information he needed. He learned as long as he was willing to forge a lease, a risk, he knew, but cops rarely went after squatters criminally and if the homeowner pursued it civilly, he was judgment-proof. He knew it would take a minimum of six months for Bill to legally evict him, maybe longer. Six months free rent? Perfect. Carlo’s friend the squatter advised him to start ordering small items from Amazon and have them shipped to the address. He could use them as proof for the cops that he’d been legally occupying the house. He did. He also ordered a few pizzas, and for good measure, he had his mail forwarded there. It would create enough reasonable doubt to move the matter out of the hands of the cops and into the civil courts which he knew would take months.

A few days after Bill reported for duty at the Air Force Base for his two-week stint, Carlo made his move. Before breaking in, he stopped at a big box hardware store and shoplifted two new lock sets for the front and back doors. The new keys would keep Bill out. When he arrived, Carlo checked the house through the windows and found one in the middle bedroom open slightly. Bill’s wife had cracked it an inch to help get rid of the smell of old people and sawdust. An inch to a master burglar like Carlo was like a mile.

Carlo changed the locks, then unloaded his few possessions from his car and hunkered down for the expected visit from the cops. It came sooner than he thought. One thing Carlo overlooked was the three internet cameras Bill had installed to keep an eye on the place. When Bill took his evening meal break after a long day in a top-secret room at the base, he retrieved his cell phone from a storage bin as phones were not permitted in the classified command center. Bill was attached to a top-secret psy-ops dirty tricks unit the military used to achieve objectives all over the world without firing a shot. Election interference? The Russians were children compared to Bill’s unit. A problem legislator in a government somewhere? In a week the unit could destroy the man’s reputation driving him from office. They were focused and very good at their work. Bill grabbed his phone and noticed all the alerts from his cameras at the rental house. He went back to the first one and saw his wife in the house measuring for the new drapes she was ordering. He saw her leave and moved to the next alert a few hours later. He saw a head peering out from the middle bedroom. He saw Carlo looking both ways then a ragged looking man emerged and stealthily moved toward the kitchen where another camera picked him up. Carlo didn’t know much about computers except for a basic class he’d taken in prison. WIFI cameras? They could have been knick-knacks as far as he was concerned.

Bill was in a panic. He called his wife.

“There’s somebody in the house.”

“Here? She started shaking.

“No. Your parents’ house. I just got an alert from the cameras. Call the police and get over there with the key to let them in. Call me as soon as you get there.”

Bill had no idea the keys would be useless to the police as Carlo had already changed the locks. When Carlo heard the key struggling in the lock and the subsequent pounding on the front door, he was a little surprised they were there so soon, but he was prepared. He slowly went to the door and cracked it.

“Help you, officer?”

The cop had his 9mm service weapon out. “Step outside and keep your hands where I can see them.”

Carlo complied acting confused, just way he’d rehearsed it.

“What’s going on?”

“What are you doing in this house?”

“Well, I was just getting ready to turn in. What’s the matter?”

Bill’s wife didn’t wait for the policeman.

“You broke into our house, that’s what’s the matter.”

“Please ma’am,” the cop told Bill’s wife while putting the cuffs on Carlo, “let me handle this.”

The cop radioed his supervisor seeking help.

Carlo played the innocent victim. Righteous indignation dripping from his mouth. Carlo, a noted con man was an excellent actor.

“What’s going on here? I live here. I have a lease. I’ve been living here for almost two weeks. Check my lease it’s in the kitchen drawer next to the stove.”

The cop moved Carlo back inside and Bill’s wife followed.

The officer found the back-dated lease right where Carlo said it’d be. He scanned it, saw it was allegedly signed by Bill two weeks earlier. The copper showed it to Bill’s wife who had forgotten all about calling her husband back, so she did. Bill answered on the first ring and started screaming loud enough for everyone in the room to hear him.

“What are you talking about? I never signed any lease.”

The cop was confused and was trying to stall until his boss arrived and Carlo jumped in.

“Well, he did say I shouldn’t contact him at home, and he’d pick up the rent here in cash because he didn’t want his wife to know about it. Sorry if I caused any trouble, ma’am.”

The cop turned and looked at Bill’s wife whose mouth was agape. Bill’s voice blaring over the cell phone was using profanity none of them had ever heard before.

The telephonic voice of Technical Sergeant Bill Wilson screamed over the phone which was now switched to speakerphone.

“You lyin’ sack of shit. I’ve never seen you or talked to you in my life. You’re a burglar. Officer, I demand this man be arrested and removed from our property.”

Just then the night police supervisor arrived, and the cop filled him in on what he’d found. The lieutenant perused the lease. Then examined the various packages Carlo had sent to himself. He saw the receipt for the change of address and announced the verdict.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Wilson. But what we have here is a civil matter. We can’t arrest this man.”

“Yeah, but …”

“Look Mr. Wilson, you may well be right and if I had to guess I’d say you are. But the law is clear, and it says we can’t evict a tenant. Only a court can do that. You need to call your lawyer in the morning. And you, sir,” he said looking at Carlo while removing the cuffs, “probably ought to do the same.”

Carlo nodded his head wondering if his most recent criminal lawyer handled real estate disputes. Probably not, he thought, but it didn’t matter as he didn’t plan on ever going to court. He’d be long gone by that time. He was only looking for free rent for six months. He’d already run a classified ad on Craigslist seeking roommates which would add a few bonus dollars to his wallet.

When Carlo gave Bill’s wife a smirk, she went ballistic, and charged at him taking a swing and connecting with a right hook to Carlo’s chin. The cops cuffed her and hauled her out and into the back seat of a squad car. She was taken to the station and booked and released on misdemeanor assault charges. Meanwhile, Bill felt helpless at the air force base knowing he couldn’t leave. Carlo chuckled to himself that the entire thing had gone exactly as his friend the squatter had promised.

Bill, still shell-shocked returned to the top-secret room where his unit was involved in an operation designed to convince the Russians the Ukrainians were planning on opening a new front from the west this time using special operations units from NATO countries which would be a material escalation in the war. Bill told his buddy about the squatter and the man said, “sounds like you need your own psy-op for this guy.” Bill wondered why he hadn’t thought of it himself and the two men began laying out a plan.

Bill still had nine days to go before he would be able to leave the base, but his partner was regular Air Force and had the freedom to come and go as he pleased after his shift. The two continued to watch Carlo on the internet cameras which Carlo still hadn’t noticed. Knowing he got home from work around seven, they executed the first part of the plan the next night.

Carlo heard a knock on his door while he was half-way through a TV dinner he’d found iced over in the refrigerator freezer. Carlo cracked the door and saw a man in his mid-thirties standing there holding a file folder and a notepad. The man had a broad smile and Carlo immediately suspected he was selling something.

“Excuse me, sir. Are you the new owner of the house?”

“Uh, no, I’m just leasing the place.”

“Oh, so you’re living here?”

Carlo was getting suspicious. “Yeah, what’s this about?”

“Well, sir, I was just hoping to see if there might be an interest in a follow-up story, you know, oh, sorry, I’m Richard Gregowicz, I’m a writer with the Journal of Supernatural Phenomena. I’m sure you’ve heard of us.”

“Well, not really, what’re you talking about?”

“Well, I was just talking to the former owners and …”

“The former owners are dead.”

“Ha, no, no, they are living in Florida, The Villages … moved there after they sold the place to …” He stopped and opened the file, faked a look and continued, “oh, right, Bill Wilson. They were really happy to finally unload the place when I talked to them.”

“Yeah, but what …”

“I’m sure if you’re renting the place Mr. Wilson told you about the murder, I mean he was legally obligated to tell you about the murder and the ghost.”

“Murder … ghost?”

“Look, there was never even a shred of proof the ghost committed the murder. They always want to blame the ghost. If I say so, sir, you are a brave man to be willing to live here, I mean after the …” He paused and lowered his head not wanting to continue with the gruesome details.

Carlo DiMonti was a bit queasy. He wasn’t sure if it were the news or the three-year-old TV dinner he’d found iced over in the fridge.

“So, when did all this happen?”

The man reached into the file and removed a printed copy of a fake story detailing the murder that took place at the house — the story was made to look like it had run on a legitimate local newspaper that had since gone belly up. He handed it to Carlo who took it but now wasn’t so anxious to go back inside.

“You can keep that. Look, sir, my magazine is really interested in doing a follow-up on this I wonder if you’d be interested in being interviewed?”

Scared or not, once a con man always a con man.

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“Well, anything in it for me?”

“Oh, I’ll just bet you’ve already been talking to the competition, Ghost Quarterly. I knew I should have gotten here earlier.”

Carlo sensing an opportunity for a grift played along.

“Well, I didn’t sign anything yet.”

“What if I gave you … oh, say fifty dollars to give me the first right of refusal. You think that would allow you to give me the story first?”

Carlo snatched the fifty and shoved it in his pocket.

“You just bought yourself a story, pal.”

“Well, great. How about we agree to meet here again next week, say Tuesday and I’ll bring along a photographer and we can do it then.”

“Sounds okay, but remember, the fifty just gives you first crack. I want five hundred to do the interview.”

Sounds fair to me. Let me run it by my editor and get back to you. Can I get your cell number?”

Carlo gave the man his burner cell number and retuned to what was left of his dinner where he sat down and read the five-page story about the grisly murder and ghost that was alleged to have been the spirit of one of the previous residents who died after being poisoned by his wife decades earlier. Carlo didn’t feel like finishing his supper. Instead, he went into the living room where the story said the murder took place and noticed the new carpet. He knew that was always a tip off … a convenient way to cover up blood stains. Carlo slept with one eye open that night and was very happy to see the sun come up and be able to leave for work.

The next day, Carlo was trimming a driveway with a weed whacker when his phone rang. The caller ID read Ghost. He answered it with trepidation and listened as he heard eerie sound effects in the background as a mechanical electronic voice said, “

Don’t say you weren’t warned. I’ve killed before. I actually enjoy welcoming the living to the other side. I’ll do it again. I don’t appreciate people being in my house. I thought I’d be killing that Wilson boy, but I’ll get around to him later. You might want to pass that along when you hear from him. But, first, I’m going to have some fun with you before I kill you. Check the pictures on your phone. Remember, you’ve been warned. I like to be fair, after all, I used to be alive myself.”

Carlo froze. He clicked open the photos app, one he’d never used and was horrified to see hundreds of pictures of child porn. He quickly erased the pictures and just as fast, the pictures came back. Six times. Carlo could barely work the rest of the day. He returned to the rental house and finally decided to take a hammer to the phone. He drove over to a drug store and bought another burner and two hours later he checked, and the pictures were still there. Carlo was panicked. He was already on the cops’ radar, and all he needed was to get picked up with this. Meanwhile, Bill and his pal were roaring with laughter back at the air force base.

Later that night, Carlo’s phone rang. He thought about ignoring it but when he saw the caller ID he answered cautiously. “Still there. Didn’t get the message, I see.”

“Look,” Carlo said mustering up some courage fueled by puffs of a potent brand of dispensary dope, “I got nothing to do with this place I’m just squatting. Your beef is with this Bill Wilson guy. I’ll be gone in a few months and …”

“You’ll be dead a lot sooner than that. I can get you any time I want. I know your every move. Like right now, you’re standing there in the kitchen in your underwear, the ones with the rip in the butt.”

Carlo reached around and felt for the tear.

“Right cheek,” said the apparition.

Carlo was in shock and ran his finger into the tear on his drawers.

“Test me, punk, hold up your fingers and I’ll tell you how many. Go ahead.”

Carlo held up three fingers.

“Three.”

“Aw, that was just a wild guess. How many now?”
“Two. Four. One.” Right each time.

Carlo knew he was being watched. “How are you able to do that?”

“I’m a fucking ghost, man. Let’s get this straight. There will be no more interviews. I read one more news story blaming me for these murders and I’ll … “

“But you said you were responsible for the murders … wait, murders? I thought it was just one.”

“One they know about. I’d like to keep it that way. Understand? This gets out and you know how the living are. They’ll bulldoze my house and I’m comfortable here.”

“Look, I just want out of this thing. Can you give me a few days here … I think I might be able to scam this Wilson guy out of a few bucks before I leave.”

“He’s away at his air force thing. Won’t be back for eight, ten days. I want this over by then. I want him dead. His wife, too. You willing to handle that for me?”

“Look man, that’s not my thing. You want something lifted. Dope delivered. Even a carjacking. I’m your boy. I’ve been in stir; death row is the worst seat in the big house.”

“Ok, I’ll handle Wilson, but you need to help me.”

“Whatever you want.”

‘I’ll be back with you in a few hours. During that time, I want you to pay attention to what you see just in case you have any thoughts about crossing me.”

The line went dead and the power in the house went off. Then back on. Then off again. When it finally returned, an old Sears console television came on. Carlo had tried to watch the set the night before but found it didn’t even have an input for cable. In fact, it was an artifact of the analog television days, before everything went digital. The screen was just snow with a very insipid static. As Carlo walked toward the set, a picture of a graveyard came on the screen playing from an ancient VHS recorder sitting on top of the set. The camera zoomed in to a tombstone that had Carlo’s name on it.

“Okay, okay, I believe you. Please stop. Please. I’m not even involved in this whole thing. Just let me leave.”

The set clicked off and the screen was black again.

Two hours later, Carlo’s burner rang. It was the ghost.

“Go to the back door. There’s package there.”

Carlo retrieved the bag that had been left there by Bill’s air force buddy.

“I want you to drive over to the air force base, it’s about forty miles from here. I’ll text Wilson and tell him you are bringing him something from his wife. I’ve jammed her phone, so he won’t be able to check. And whatever you do, don’t eat anything in the bag.”

Carlo opened the bag and saw two tuna sandwiches and a container of home-made potato salad.

“Let’s just say it will be his last meal. His wife will get blamed just like my wife did when she poisoned me back during the 1920’s.”

“Tuna? Potato salad?”

“Nine days old. Made with rancid mayo. The perfect murder weapon. Tried and true.” Said the electronically generated ghost. “I will make a text appear on his phone saying she is having a midnight snack delivered to the front gate. You wait to hear from me on how to get it to him.”

Carlo still didn’t feel great about the idea, but he also didn’t feel great about dying, so he agreed and took off for the base about forty miles south the picnic lunch sitting on the car seat beside him.

About a half hour later, Carlo’s phone dinged, and he saw a text from the ghost telling him to pull in at a gas station/quick shop near the base entrance and wait. Carlo pulled in and parked on the side of the building. He went inside and bought a pack of Swisher Sweets, a huge fountain Mountain Dew and a lotto ticket. He was hoping this might be his lucky day. When he got back to his car, he saw a man leaning against a car with its trunk open parked next to Carlo’s jalopy.

“You Carlo?” Bill’s partner asked already knowing the answer.

“Yeah, you Bill Wilson?”

“Nope. Bill’s on duty tonight. He can’t get out. So, I’m going to take you in. Get in my trunk. I’m going to have to sneak you in.”

“Wait. Why can’t you just take the food to him?”

Just then Carlo’s phone dinged again and a message from the ghost said, Get in. Now.

Carlo complied and Bill’s mate drove him to the front gate. The guard waved the airman through, and he drove Carlo around to the back of the isolated building that housed the psy-ops operation. Meanwhile, Carlo was shaken after the short ride in the trunk. His phone dinged. Again, it was from the ghost. There’s a cloth bag on the floor of the trunk. Put it over your head.

Carlo was getting nervous. He suspected something ominous, but he was still convinced whatever this ghost was, it was not something to fool around with. Carlo put the cloth sack over his head just as he heard the trunk open.

“You have something for me?” Bill asked.

Carlo felt for the lunch bag and handed it up toward the voice.

Bill’s unit was about to put the cherry on top of its latest exercise to convince the Russians of an imaginary, supposedly imminent NATO special ops attack. Once the electronic bait had been planted over the past weeks, the plan was to drop military supplies that could be easily traced back to NATO into Russian-held Ukrainian territory and allow the Russians to find it which would confirm the electronic ruse. Bill would be flying along on the stealth plane carrying the cargo supervising the drop. The unit had access to all types of supplies for use in their dirty tricks including medical supplies and Bill liberated a long-lasting sedative which he dissolved in a bottle of water he gave to Carlo who was still complaining they’d caused him to spill his Mountain Dew. Carlo would be asleep for the twelve-hour trans-Atlantic flight to Southern Ukraine. Bill wheeled Carlo into the hold of a large cargo plane and settled in for the long ride. The air force personnel who would handle the drop had been instructed to do whatever Bill’s unit ordered, so they thought nothing of the extra passenger and the fact that he slept the whole way. Once over the drop zone a loopy Carlo was walked to the door, and shoved out, a static line automatically opening his parachute. He snapped awake when hit by the frigid air and saw the ground coming up to meet him and he panicked. He landed about a hundred yards from the crates of NATO gear along with maps, codes and other proof of the impending NATO offensive.

When he landed in the middle of a Ukrainian field, Carlo shook the cobwebs out of his head and struggled to free himself from the harness. He was totally confused about how he got into the strange uniform and started to blame the new edibles he’d consumed until he was surrounded by a Russian patrol which frog-marched him back to their HQ. Under intense interrogation, Carlo swore he had no idea how he got there, knew nothing about NATO, and blamed a ghost for the entire mess. The more he babbled, the more the Russians believed he was a highly trained special operator with skills in evading interrogation. He didn’t break even when they waterboarded him. Convinced, the Russians moved an entire division to the site of the expected NATO invasion which left a large portion of the skirmish line unprotected, and the Ukrainians punched through unmolested capturing several miles of highly contested territory.

Carlo was transported to Russia where he was sent to a Gulag to await a possible prisoner swap with the Americans who continued to deny they knew anything about him. Bill Wilson had removed the contents of Carlo’s pockets including his keys before throwing him out of the plane. Later, Bill had Carlo’s car moved to East St. Louis and left the keys in the ignition. Even still, it took almost two days before anyone bothered to steal the rusted clunker. As far as anyone knew, Carlo had just disappeared from the face of the earth. His phone had been wiped clean. His possessions removed from the rental house. There was nothing to tie Carlo to Bill. Police briefly suspected the brothers of the latest woman to claim a paternity case against Carlo, but they were quickly cleared. The cops didn’t look too hard, and the case made it into the unsolved file in record time.

Bill and his wife were delighted to regain possession of the house and the day Bill’s active-duty stint ended; they went back intending on spending the day cleaning up any residue left by Carlo. You can imagine their shock when they opened the door and saw a man sleeping nude on a sofa surrounded by several dozen empty cans of malt liquor. The cops were called, and the man claimed he had answered an ad on Craigslist and had rented a room … from Carlo. He had a receipt and the legal squatter clock started ticking again.

Bill and his wife couldn’t believe their bad luck but on the ride home, they heard a news report on the radio about an unclaimed winning lotto ticket that had been sold at a quick mart across from the air force base.

“Oh, Bill. You were right there when the ticket was sold. It’s a shame you didn’t buy one.”

Bill reached in his pocket and there, wadded up a a few dollar bills was a lotto ticket. It was the winning ticket he’d take from Carlo’s pocket and Bill silently decided to claim it under squatter’s rights.