When I Arrived At My Vacation House, A Notice Was Taped To The Door: “Move-Out Notice In 14 Days.” My Name Was Printed Underneath—Listed As “Not Authorized To Occupy.” I Called My Mother. She Just Laughed: “You Wouldn’t Help With Our Debt. Now You Lose This Too.” At The County Courthouse, The Clerk Typed The Case Number, Paused—Then Went Still. “Hold Placed,” She Whispered. “This Paperwork Doesn’t Match Our Records.” Then She Slid The Paper Back And Said Quietly: “Go There. Right Now.” …but As Soon As I Pulled Into The Driveway…

We went back to the courthouse that same morning. Me, Mariah, and the deputy.

The second we walked up to the civil window, the clerk from earlier recognized me. Her face tightened like she’d been hoping I wouldn’t come back. Because coming back meant it was worse than a bad notice on a door.

She didn’t ask me to explain again. “Give me the case number,” she said. Then she started typing.

The deputy leaned in slightly. “I’m here to verify whether this is a valid court process,” he said, “and whether anyone attempted an illegal lock change during an active restricted hold.”

The clerk’s fingers moved faster. Then she froze.

Not confusion. Recognition. Her eyes flicked to the deputy’s badge.

Then back to the screen. Then down to the paper in her hand. “Your notice is not the one we generated,” she whispered.

My stomach dropped. “So it’s fake.”

She nodded once. “It’s a counterfeit posting.”

The deputy’s voice stayed flat.

“How do you know?”

The clerk pointed at the header. “Wrong formatting, wrong stamp placement, and the barcode doesn’t match our docket printouts.”

Mariah’s jaw clenched. “So they made a fake court notice and taped it to her door.”

The clerk swallowed.

“Yes.”

Then she said the sentence that made my skin go cold. “But the case number is real.”

The deputy’s eyes narrowed. “Meaning?”

The clerk’s voice dropped again.

“Someone filed something under that number,” she whispered. “It just isn’t what they taped to her door.”

I felt my throat go dry. “What did they file?”

The clerk clicked into another tab.

Deeper than the public view. Her face changed again. Then she slid her chair back slightly and lowered her voice even more.

“It’s an emergency motion,” she whispered. “For immediate possession.”

Immediate possession. Not fourteen days.

Not eventually. Now. The deputy leaned closer.

“When is the hearing?”

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