London man scammed by renters: house destroyed and turned into a drug den
Mattresses lay on the floor amid human filth, scattered cigarettes, and overflowing ashtrays. Clothes were strewn everywhere, heaters burned, and colored tape separated spaces. Dark tarps covered the windows, blocking out all light.
- 3 months ago
August 18, 2024
Illegal cannabis cultivation has become a growing problem for London's rental landlords where squatters take over their homes to create drug production factories | Photo courtesy of Davide Sibilio on Unsplash
LONDON, United Kingdom — For years after moving to the United States from London, I rented out the house I once called home to tenants. Last June, after the previous tenants left, the house sat vacant for two months. Eager to find new renters, an unfamiliar real estate agency approached me and my wife. A family was interested in the property. They accepted our terms without negotiation, and we swiftly finalized the deal remotely from New York.
Months passed without receiving rent, and our emails and calls went unanswered. Frustrated and concerned, I returned to London to get a court order to repossess my former home. Little did I know that I would find three feet of dirt covering what was once my bedroom and marijuana plants everywhere. Whoever rented our home had destroyed it and attempted to turn it into a marijuana farm.
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Renters evaded payment and communication: hiring a private investigator
When we first began renting our London home to new tenants, a month went by without receiving the rent payment. Annoyed but flexible, we waited. When the second month passed without payment, we tried contacting the real estate agency. We realized something was amiss when they became almost impossible to reach, ignoring calls and emails. Gradually, what started as a minor issue, began to dominate my thoughts and my unease grew.
On a few sporadic occasions, the agency responded, and I would drop everything to move forward with my complaint. Despite my politeness, their communication ceased again, leading to growing desperation. As a music producer on tour, focusing on work became challenging. The frustration seeped into my daily life.
In New York, my wife researched the agency online, uncovering little. At work, my mind remained consumed with thoughts of what could be happening in London. At night, I grappled with insomnia, waking up in the middle of the night consumed by fury. “They’re taking advantage of me,” I thought. The next day, I performed my tasks on auto pilot, but my mind remained fixated on London.
Eventually, we hired a private investigator. It felt like a surreal movie, dealing with an unforeseen situation. At home, anger dominated our conversations. Our daughter picked up on it, and even our dog. Our constant discussions became like a strategy to avoid confronting the fear that someone might usurp the home where we spent so many happy years. Finally, in December, I got summoned to a hearing in London on January 19, 2024. I immediately booked my flight and hotel. When the day arrived, I boarded the plane, filled with nervousness and anger. I contemplated various scenarios but never expecting what I encountered when I got there.
Reclaiming my London home: the court’s verdict
At the hearing, alongside my lawyers and a representative of the fake tenants, the court official declared, “The property is yours; you can repossess it.” They advised me to wait a few weeks to visit with a police officer, but I refused. With my return flight scheduled for Monday, I decided to go to the house. Winter swept through London and the cold bit into my bones. The night before going there, I stood watching the city for hours. I observed the lights and movements, preparing my mind for the next day, to finally reclaim my home.
At 8:00 a.m., I arrived at the house and pressed my ear to the door. Hearing movement, I knocked loudly. After an hour, a man opened the door. Filming with a GoPro in my pocket, I declared, “I own this house and have a court order. You must leave, or I’ll bring the police.” My fury was evident, and they realized I was serious. They locked the padlocks and left.
I called a locksmith to cut the locks and waited another hour in the cold, refusing to leave the door for a second. When he arrived, he and his helper worked hard to open the door. By noon, the locks fell heavily to the floor, and I opened the door. The heat hit me first, a stark contrast to the outside. Immediately, the pungent odor of marijuana filled the air.
Everywhere I looked, I saw clutter and dirt. I noticed a strange wiring system running up the stairs and through holes in the walls. I went further into the house, reaching the level with two rooms. Mattresses lay on the floor amid human filth, scattered cigarettes, and overflowing ashtrays. Clothes were strewn everywhere, heaters burned, and colored tape separated spaces. Dark tarps covered the windows, blocking out all light.
Uncovering a Marijuana farm in my former home
As I climbed the stairs, the reality of the situation dawned on me. Another tarp covered the door to my daughter’s bedroom. When I opened the door, the lights inside blinded me. When my eyes adjusted to the glare, I saw cannabis plants covering the floor. In my room next door, they piled dirt a meter high. I called the police immediately. It became clear these people turned my house into a marijuana farm.
Despite the bleak reality in front of me, part of me hoped it was a television show; that I’d been pranked. The reality felt too strange and confusing to process. My anger seemed overshadowed by surprise, followed by a profound sadness. I lived in that house with my family when my daughter was four years old. Strangers violated the home I remembered with so much love. I left the house, unable to comprehend how this happened, and in intense pain.
Soon after, we renovated the house. We repaired all the rooms from the ground up. It broke my heart to remove the tulip wallpaper that decorated my daughter’s room. The whole process detached me from that house. Recently, I met the new tenants in person, as I now insist on seeing the people intending to rent the house. Upon entering, I felt disconnected from the space; it no longer felt like my old home. Although renovated, I could still sense a lingering smell of marijuana and earth.
Emotionally, the house feels distant. I don’t know if I could ever live there again. While I know the house belongs to me, somehow, it does not feel like mine anymore. This ordeal changed me. I feel older, with dark circles around my eyes from insomnia still plaguing me. I slowly try to regain my rhythm, but the impact of what happened continues to affect me.
