I Volunteered to Watch My Neighbor's Turtle for the Weekend—Now I'm Hiding Him from a Woman Who Claims He's Her Missing Husband

All I wanted was a quiet weekend with snacks and some television. Instead, I found myself pet-sitting a turtle named Hugo while dodging reincarnation theories, viral fame, and a woman who swore my pet was her missing husband.

When I agreed to watch a turtle, it was because I wanted to be more involved in my building's community. That's it. That's the reason. However, instead, I found myself installing a baby monitor in my apartment for safety reasons.

So, my therapist, who has this gentle, understanding voice that somehow still feels judgmental, suggested I make an effort to connect more with the people around me. She meant things like community yoga or maybe helping a neighbor carry groceries.

What she did not mean was entering a psychological thriller co-starring a turtle and a possibly unstable woman in flowing scarves!

Hugo, the turtle, was introduced to me by Renee, my neighbor from three doors down. She was a longtime owner living in the building, a vision in kaftans and herbal perfume. Renee always spoke as if she were halfway through a dramatic monologue.

The introduction to Hugo happened when my neighbor stopped me in the hallway on Thursday morning. At the time, I was trying to retrieve an overambitious grocery delivery. She had bags of quinoa and what looked like a ukulele strapped to her back.

"Cam, how are you?" she asked without waiting for an answer. "I'm off to my sister's goat yoga retreat in the countryside," she said, with the calm poise of a woman who had never once tripped on a curb or spilled soup on her laptop. "Would you mind watching Hugo?"

Before I even asked who or what Hugo was, my mouth said yes! My therapist would be so proud!

Then, on Friday morning, she handed me a large plastic terrarium with a turtle inside, a small bottle labeled "shell conditioner," and a six-page care schedule printed in Comic Sans!

Hugo blinked once. Slowly and judgementally.

"Thank you," Renee said, already turning away. "He likes reruns of crime shows and the occasional slice of cucumber. You'll be fine with him, he's an old soul with secrets."

And just like that, I was a turtle-sitter!

To be honest, I didn't really mind because, although I lived alone at 34, I preferred animals to people 80 percent of the time.

To my surprise, the pet-sitting turned out to be a great experience!

I'm a bit of a full-time procrastinator, but I thrive on quiet routines and snacks with crunch—something Hugo and I had in common.

By Friday evening, Hugo and I had established a rhythm. I turned on an old episode of "Dateline," opened a bag of pretzel chips, and set him near the television.

He didn't seem impressed, but he didn't flee either, which, in my book, counts as a successful roommate evaluation.

By Saturday morning, I was referring to him out loud as "my guy." I'd made him a playlist on Spotify titled "Slow and Curious" and set up a turtle camera using an old phone tripod. I even moved a tiny houseplant next to his tank so he could feel "jungle-adjacent."

My therapist would be delighted, or horrified, maybe both.

To be honest, having Hugo around was the most relaxed I've felt in months. But something was about to happen that ruined everything and left me with many questions.

When the doorbell rang at 10:03 a.m., I hadn't even brushed my teeth!

I had a Pop-Tart in one hand and Hugo in the other. We were watching a particularly juicy episode about a dentist who faked his kidnapping for insurance fraud.

I wondered who it could be and partially expected to see Susan, our caretaker. I shuffled to the door, cracked it open, and was immediately hit with the scent of essential oils and unshakable conviction.

A woman in her 60s stood there, her silver hair billowing even though the hallway was perfectly still. "Weird," I thought. She wore multiple scarves, one of which had tiny embroidered moons on it, and held a manila folder as if it contained the secrets of the universe.

She leaned in slightly, peering into the apartment. "That's him," she said, her voice filled with awe.

"Him who?" I asked, half-convinced I was still dreaming.

She pointed directly at Hugo, who was lounging under his heat lamp like a mildly inconvenienced deity.

"That's my husband!"

I stared at her. "I'm sorry, what?"

"My name is Paula," she said, as though that explained anything. "And I have every reason to believe your turtle is the reincarnation of my late husband, Gerald."

I blinked. Hugo blinked. You blinked, too, right?

For a moment, it felt like we were in this together.

"He disappeared in 2009," Paula continued, looking emotional. "A hiking trip. There was no body, and I got no closure. I searched for years, but last year, I started receiving signs. And last week, I stumbled across your building's community board online. When I saw Renee's post about turtle-sitting, I knew."

Look, I won't claim to be the most emotionally intuitive person, but I can spot crazy marinated in confidence a mile away! Paula had the kind of steady gaze that said she would walk barefoot into a cult and become its leader by lunch!

The other part of me thought this was some kind of prank, but she was dead serious. When I didn't reply and strained to look around behind her, hoping to spot the guy with the camera, Paula reached into her bag and pulled out a photo.

It was of a man in bifocals, frowning slightly. I squinted. Okay, sure, there was a resemblance. Hugo's eyes did have that same withering look. But Paula wasn't done sharing the "evidence" for her crazy theory.

Next came a journal filled with reincarnation theories, neatly color-coded by species. Then, a laminated veterinary report showing something about "neurological signatures in reptilian brain patterns."

I won't lie, I didn't understand most of it, but the word "transcendence" came up three times in the first paragraph.

"I don't mean to be rude," I said slowly, "but this turtle belongs to my neighbor. I'm just the weekend nanny."

"But spiritual bonds," she said calmly, "transcend mortal leasing rights. He belongs with me, and you must hand him over immediately. We've been separated too long!"

That's when I decided it was nap time.

"For both of us. Good luck with finding Gerald." I added, gently beginning to close the door.

I spent the rest of the day trying to make sense of what had happened. Was it a scam? A woman going through an extremely creative midlife crisis?

Hugo remained unbothered, nibbling lettuce and refusing to validate my feelings, typical guy.

He didn't even flinch when I tried to explain what had happened, although he did stop chewing once when I used the word "husband." That kinda creeped me out, not gonna lie.

In the afternoon, I cheerily opened my door and found a flyer had been slid under it. The flyer was written in all caps and said "FREE HUGO" with a photoshopped image of a turtle with angel wings and a tiny harp!

It looked like someone had used Microsoft Paint and a lot of hope. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry!

I checked the hallway. Empty. Hugo side-eyed me from the coffee table like he was waiting for me to do something useful.

On Sunday morning, I tried to return him early, but Renee still wasn't back. The spare key she'd given me wouldn't turn in her door. I knocked, but got nothing. I texted, and got no answer. Apparently, goat yoga retreats take place in remote, signal-free areas where cellular service has been replaced by crystal vibrations and kale smoothies.

Then Susan cornered me

Besides being the caretaker, she's our building's unofficial announcer. She's around the same age as crazy Paula. Susan retired from teaching science and now spends her days wandering the halls with a mug of tea and unsolicited commentary.

"Saw your little visitor," she said casually as I wrestled with my mailbox.

"Paula?" I asked, already bracing myself.

Susan nodded. "She was in the stairwell yesterday. Chanting to a quartz rock."

I blinked. "Of course she was."

Susan sipped her tea. "She's got style, though. I like a woman with conviction."

"Conviction about what? That my turtle is her ex-husband?"

Susan shrugged. "Ha! I've heard worse theories! I once had a student claim her goldfish was psychic!"

"Was it?"

"Oh no. It died during a spelling test."

When I parted ways with Susan, I was still mulling over what she said about Paula lurking around and the flyer she left under my door. That's when I noticed the camera I'd set up for Hugo had been tampered with.

When it glitched at first, I thought it was just lagging. Then the video became a little fuzzy, and the audio started playing faint harp music in the background. I figured maybe Hugo had developed a taste for lo-fi ambiance.

But then I noticed the title had changed.

"He's Not Just a Pet," it now read, and it was streaming Hugo live with over 80 viewers!

I clicked into the chat. Messages were rolling in like it was a live concert.

"Look at those wise eyes."

"Is this the reincarnated guy???"

My turtle camera had been hacked!

I pulled the stream down and locked everything. I also changed my Wi-Fi password to "NotGerald123" and threw away the paper sitting next to the tripod with my phone's login password. I created another one, just in case.

"Susan," I muttered, trying to figure out how she'd gotten into my apartment.

I am not going to lie, I was kinda scared at that point.

Hugo was basking under his lamp like nothing had happened, possibly unaware of his brief stint as a viral sensation. Possibly not. I couldn't tell anymore.

That evening, I couldn't focus on the shows Hugo and I loved. Not just because I was scared, no, but because I was starting to question everything.

Had I missed signs?

Was Hugo weirdly... aware?

What if Paula's not wrong?

What if she were only slightly unhinged, and also slightly correct?

But mostly... what if this woman kept coming back?

So, I took action.

I installed a baby monitor in Hugo's tank so I could hear if any whispering ghost husbands started channeling him after midnight. My brother had left the baby monitors behind the one time he came over with my baby nephew, Theo.

I also moved a frying pan next to my bed, not for violence, just for noise-making, in case I needed to scare off another kaftan-wearing interloper.

And because I am a planner, I made Hugo a tiny felt beret. I figured he needed to go into disguise. I mean, no one suspects a French turtle, right?

I told him, "We may need to flee in the night, buddy. You'd better get used to the name 'Jean-Claude.'"

He blinked twice and knocked over a ceramic palm tree. Disapproval or fear?

When Monday arrived, I came home from work prepared to decompress, while hoping Renee was back. Instead, I found my apartment door ajar. Now, I am not the type to jump to conclusions, but something is unsettling about returning to your place and seeing the door gaping as if it had just heard a piece of shocking gossip.

I nudged it open with my foot and called out, "Hello?"

Inside, Paula was seated calmly in my chair, legs crossed, sipping from my favorite mug! Steam rose from the cup as if this was just another polite house visit and not, you know, breaking and entering!

"What the hell!" I shouted.

"Oh, good," she said calmly with a serene smile. "You're back. I boiled the water to exactly 185 degrees. Gerald used to hate scalding tea."

I looked at the coffee table.

Hugo was perched comfortably in the center, now draped in a miniature crocheted cape that fluttered slightly under the ceiling fan. He looked majestic, but also mildly embarrassed.

"What is going on here?! How did you get into my apartment, and why are you so determined to take Hugo?!"

Before Paula could respond, the door swung open again, and in walked Renee, holding a small handheld camera and looking way too pleased with herself!

"Surprise!" she said brightly. "Smile, you're on 'Past Life Pets!'"

I blinked.

Hugo blinked.

You blinked? Yes?

Paula gave me a thumbs up, like this was all perfectly reasonable.

I found my voice again and launched into what I hoped was a stern, no-nonsense tone. "Someone better explain what in the name of herbal tea is going on!"

Renee set the camera down and looked sheepish, which was impressive for someone wearing cosmic print leggings and earrings shaped like Saturn. "Okay, calm down, Camila. Sit down and I'll explain everything."

I didn't have a choice but to sit because this woman practically pushed me down onto the couch!

"So, Paula and I run a YouTube channel. It's called 'Past Life Pets.' The idea is to document heartfelt reunions between people and animals who might, just might, be reincarnated loved ones."

"People actually believe that?" I asked.

"Well," Paula said, "I believed Gerald would come back. Just not this... scaly."

Susan appeared behind them from the kitchen, because of course she did! She was carrying a small sound recorder and a plate of lemon squares.

"I did some of the audio," she said helpfully, "gave access to your apartment, sorry, and snacks."

Renee continued, gesturing like she was pitching to a room of investors. "We were trying to grow the channel. So we thought, why not stage a really compelling story? Something with heart, mystery, drama..."

"...and a turtle," I muttered, feeling annoyed but calmer.

"Exactly!" Paula beamed.

"We figured you were the perfect person for it. Quiet, polite, and also new to the building. You talked to your ficus as if it was a moody coworker. So, we assumed you'd go along with the bit, maybe get weirded out, and boom. Great content!"

"What you didn't count on," I said, picking up the nearest object, an open one-kilogram bag of jasmine rice, "was that I would take turtle safety extremely seriously."

And I chucked it! The rice, not the turtle!

Not directly at their faces, obviously, I have self-control. But it did land squarely on their heads and bodies, the sack making a satisfying thud that said, We Are Done Here.

They were shocked but laughed at my reaction and comeback. After a series of overly sincere apologies, explanations of how they all had and hid those tiny portable cameras, and a long sigh from me, Renee made an offer.

"Look, Camila, Hugo clearly loves you. I love him, too, but energies don't lie, and you two are perfectly suited. Also, I think he's better off with someone... less spiritual. More stable. Plus, taking him can serve as some sort of payment for the heartache we put you through."

And just like that, Hugo was mine!

Paula's video, which I consented to, was mainly due to how impressed I was with these women's skills with technology and pranks. The story did go viral, but not for the reasons she hoped.

The comments were less about past lives and more about things like:

"That turtle has seen things."

"I trust this woman. Her snack shelf was flawless."

"Why does the turtle blink like he's judging my choices?"

On the other hand, I started a blog called "Turtle and I." It chronicles Hugo's daily thoughts (possibly imagined), reviews of leafy greens, and dramatic re-creations of neighborhood gossip using interpretive shell poses.

Susan became my forced agent; I didn't ask or need one. Paula and Renee, weirdly, became my unofficial publicists. They send me analytics updates and notes, like, "Hugo polls well in sunglasses."

As for me? I still can't believe I was pranked by an older generation. But I finally feel like a part of the community! Although it was a little against my will, sure. But it's the most fun I've had outside of alphabetizing mystery novels at the library!

And Hugo? He's thriving. He's got his lamp, his log cabin, three capes, and a roommate who no longer pretends anything about their life is normal, because it isn't.

It's better!

If you're interested in more stories like this, here's another one: When Savannah woke up to find her husband Liam's car covered in glitter, she thought it was another prank by their neighbor, Mark. However, when the neighborhood busybody told the real truth behind Liam and Mark's feud, she was shocked.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided "as is," and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.