Jakob A Hall & Candace E Hall v. Destiny DeVarez & Colton R Gonsioroski

Let’s get one thing straight: this isn’t just a roommate who overstayed their welcome and left a few dirty dishes in the sink. No, this is a full-blown occupy-the-house situation, where someone got legally booted and still refused to leave — like they were playing a real-life game of “This Is Not My Home, But I’m Staying Anyway.” In a small town in Oklahoma, a couple is suing their former roommates for, among other things, not leaving their own house, and yes — it’s as absurd as it sounds.

Meet Jakob and Candace Hall, the kind of people who probably thought they were doing a solid by letting others crash in their Wellston home at 102 Ash Street. Maybe it started as a temporary arrangement — a friend in need, a relative down on their luck, a “just until you get back on your feet” kind of deal. But somewhere between handshake and eviction, things went full Real World: Oklahoma Trailer Park Edition. The tenants-turned-squatters? Destiny DeVarez and Colton R. Gonsioroski, who apparently took the “live-in” part of the agreement way too seriously. According to the court filing, the Halls weren’t just landlords — they were co-residents, meaning this wasn’t some distant rental property with a delinquent tenant. No, this was their actual home. Picture it: four adults sharing a house, likely one bathroom, one fridge, one Wi-Fi password, and increasingly, one very strained sense of personal boundaries.

Now, how does a situation like this spiral into a court summons? Let’s follow the paper trail. At some point, the Halls decided they’d had enough. Maybe the rent stopped getting paid. Maybe the trash piled up. Maybe someone used the last of the milk and didn’t replace it — the true crime of domestic cohabitation. Whatever the breaking point, the Halls moved to legally reclaim their property. They filed an affidavit — a sworn statement — claiming that Destiny and Colton owed money for unpaid rent and had caused damages to the premises. The exact dollar amount? Mysteriously left blank, with a placeholder that says “$ RESERVED.” Which, honestly, feels like someone got distracted mid-form and thought, “I’ll fill that in later when I remember how many times they left wet towels on the couch.” But here’s the kicker: the Halls aren’t even suing for money. Not really. The real demand? “Possession of the property.” Translation: Get out of our house. Like, right now.

And yet, the defendants didn’t leave. They didn’t pack up their stuff. They didn’t hand over the keys. They just… stayed. Which is how we end up with a trespassing claim — not the kind involving shady figures creeping through backyards, but the far more passive-aggressive kind: “You were told to leave, and you didn’t, so now you’re trespassing on property you once had permission to be on.” It’s like when your cousin crashes on your couch for “a few days” and three months later is still eating your cereal and pretending he lives there. Except now it’s a court case. With notaries.

The legal claims here are actually pretty straightforward, even if the situation feels like a sitcom gone wrong. First, breach of lease — meaning, “you agreed to certain terms (probably pay rent, not destroy the place), and you didn’t follow them.” Second, trespass — which, in this context, means “you no longer have the right to be here, but you’re still hanging around like you own the place.” And technically, the Halls don’t even want a dime — at least not in the paperwork. The “monetary damages” box is filled with a big fat zero. What they do want is injunctive relief, which is legalese for “make this person stop doing the thing they’re doing.” In this case: stop living in our house. They want a court order forcing Destiny and Colton out, and if they still refuse, a sheriff’s deputy showing up with a writ of assistance — which, despite sounding like a motivational pamphlet, is actually the legal muscle to physically remove them.

Now, you might be wondering: why not just call the cops and say, “These people won’t leave”? Well, because in most places, including Oklahoma, you can’t just have someone arrested for overstaying their welcome unless they’re trespassing after being formally evicted. And eviction is a process. There are forms. There are notices. There are court dates. And in this case, the Halls are at the final stage: they’ve filed, they’ve sworn under oath, and now they’re asking the court to step in and say, “Yes, this is your house, and those people need to go.”

What’s wild here isn’t just the refusal to leave — it’s the sheer audacity of treating someone else’s home like your own personal sovereign state. Imagine the daily awkwardness. Breakfast in the kitchen. “Morning.” “Hey.” “So… you’re still here?” “Yep.” “We filed papers.” “Cool. Pass the syrup.” There’s a surreal passive resistance at play, like Destiny and Colton are engaged in a quiet protest against the very concept of personal property. Or maybe they just really like the couch.

And let’s talk about the lack of a lawyer. The Halls are representing themselves — a move that says either “we’re confident in our case” or “we can’t afford a lawyer because someone hasn’t been paying rent.” Either way, it adds to the DIY drama of it all. No fancy legal team, no $400/hour attorneys parsing lease clauses — just a couple from Wellston, Oklahoma, trying to get their house back using form packets and sheer willpower.

So what’s our take? Honestly, we’re equal parts impressed and horrified. Impressed by the Halls’ persistence — they didn’t scream, they didn’t change the locks illegally, they went through the proper channels. That’s civic responsibility in action. But horrified by the sheer nerve of the defendants. This isn’t a dispute over a security deposit or a noisy pet. This is a fundamental misunderstanding of how cohabitation works. You don’t get to ignore an eviction and just… keep existing in someone’s life like a permanent houseguest from hell.

And yet — and this is the twist — the Halls aren’t asking for money. They’re not demanding $50,000 in damages or punitive fines. They just want their home back. Which makes this less a greed-fueled lawsuit and more a desperate plea for basic autonomy. It’s not about the rent. It’s about the principle. It’s about being able to walk into your own kitchen without side-eyeing someone who should not be there.

So who are we rooting for? The Halls, obviously. Not because they’re perfect — maybe they were late with repairs, maybe the Wi-Fi was spotty — but because this is their home. And if there’s one thing the American dream promises, it’s that you can at least control who sleeps on your couch. Or, you know, lives in your house for months after being told to leave.

Bottom line: if you’re going to be a roommate, be a good one. Pay your share. Clean up after yourself. And for the love of all things holy, leave when asked. Otherwise, you might just end up on the docket at the Lincoln County Courthouse, with a sheriff waiting to escort you out. And honestly? That’s just bad roommate etiquette.