Auntie Bev forged a receipt, called the cops, and now I’m the villain—stay away from this house.

One star, would be zero if I could. This is a review of a share house where the landlord’s aunt runs the place like her personal kingdom.

Let me set the scene: I’m Mia, 24, renting a room in a shared house in Brisbane. The house is fine—cheap rent, decent location, housemates who mostly keep to themselves. Then there’s Auntie Bev, the landlord’s aunt, who manages the place with the warmth of a hungry crocodile. She doesn’t live here, but she visits weekly to “check in” and “collect the emergency fund,” which is a cash envelope we all chip into for repairs.

Last Thursday, at the kitchen table, Auntie Bev pulls out a typed receipt—printed on standard office paper, no watermark, no date—and announces to the whole house that I stole the $400 emergency fund. She says I forged the receipt to cover it up. She’s already called the police, she says, and they’re on their way. I’m standing there with my toast halfway to my mouth, and she’s talking about my “cut-and-paste signature” like she’s a forensic document examiner. Two housemates, Sarah and Mark, nod along like she’s the queen of evidence. I tell them I never touched the fund, but the police take a statement anyway. By the end of the day, I’m told I need to move out by Friday.

I spent that night crying in my room, my head spinning. I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about how my name is now mud with people I trusted. My hands were shaking so bad I nearly dropped my phone. I called my mum, and she said, “Mia, don’t do anything stupid.” But the stupid was already done—to me.

Enter Jake, the level-headed housemate who actually thinks. He’s the one who found the crumpled draft of the same receipt in Auntie Bev’s handbag, left on the hall table. It’s her handwriting—practising my signature. Loops and swirls that look nothing like my tight, angled script. He shows it to me, and I feel a flicker of hope.

But Auntie Bev isn’t done. She calls the police again, claiming I threatened her. She produces a second forged note, typed again, that supposedly proves I said I’d “get her.” The handwriting on that note? Not mine. The cops look at it, look at the draft Jake found, and start asking Auntie Bev some pointed questions.

By the end of the week, the charges are dropped. The housemates vote to keep me and ban Auntie Bev from the house. But the damage is done. I still have nightmares about being kicked out, about my name being dragged through the mud. I’ve started cutting my arms when the panic gets too loud—just small cuts, but they’re there, and they remind me that someone tried to destroy me over a room.

What I want you to do: If you’re thinking of renting here, get everything in writing. And if you meet Auntie Bev, run. She’ll forge your signature and call the cops before you can say “emergency fund.”