The morning before Halloween, I opened my front door and froze. My car — my only car — was dripping with egg yolks, streaked and slimy, and covered in strings of toilet paper that flapped in the breeze like ghostly ribbons.
“Mommy… is the car sick?” my three-year-old, Noah, whispered, pointing with wide eyes.
And just like that, the day began.
I’m Emily, 36 years old. A nurse. A single mom of three very loud, very sticky, and very incredible kids: Lily, Max, and Noah. My mornings usually start before the sun’s up and end long after bedtime stories are finished. Life isn’t glamorous, but it’s ours.
This Halloween, I wasn’t looking for drama. I wasn’t looking for trouble. I was just trying to park close enough to carry a half-asleep toddler and two bags of groceries without collapsing. But apparently, that was enough to spark a war with my neighbor Derek.
And the eggs? They were only the beginning.
Derek lives two doors down. He’s in his 40s, with way too much free time and way too many decorations. At first, I thought his holiday setups were sweet. Fun, even. But over the years, it stopped being festive. Now it feels like his house is auditioning for a movie every other month.
Christmas? He blasts carols so loud our windows shake, and he runs fake snow machines all night. Valentine’s Day? The bushes glow with red lights, and his porch bulbs are pink. The Fourth of July? Don’t even get me started — it’s like a firework show went off in our living room.
But Halloween? That’s Derek’s Super Bowl.
The kids adore it. Every October, they press their faces against the living room window as he sets it all up.
“Look! He’s putting up the witch with the glowing eyes!” Max shouts.
“And the skellytons!”
“Skeletons, baby,” I always correct him, smiling.
Even Noah squeals when Derek’s fog machines kick in. And I’ll admit, it does have a strange magic to it — if you’re not living next to it.
A few nights before Halloween, I came home from a brutal 12-hour shift. My back ached, the sky was black, and once again the landlord’s maintenance truck blocked the driveway. I sighed, pulled into the only open spot left — right in front of Derek’s house — and just prayed I could get the kids inside without dropping anyone.
“Mama, I’m cold,” Lily mumbled, rubbing her sleepy eyes.
“I know, sweetheart. We’ll be inside soon,” I whispered, unbuckling her gently.
With Noah slung over my shoulder, Max’s tiny hand in mine, and grocery bags dangling from my wrists, I didn’t give Derek’s house a second thought. I just parked. It wasn’t illegal. It wasn’t unusual. I figured it’d be fine.
I was wrong.
The next morning, my car was a vandalized mess. Egg yolk dripped from the mirrors, toilet paper clung to the windshield, and the sour smell made my stomach turn. And then I noticed the trail — broken eggshells scattered like breadcrumbs — leading straight to Derek’s driveway.
“Of course,” I muttered, my chest tight.
I left the kids inside, marched straight to his door, and pounded until my hand hurt.
He opened it wearing a bright orange hoodie shaped like a pumpkin. Behind him, skull lights flashed, and his animatronic reaper groaned on the porch.
“Derek,” I said, struggling to stay calm, “did you seriously egg my car?”
He didn’t even blink.
“Yeah,” he said flatly. “You parked in front of my house. People couldn’t see the whole setup because of your stupid car.”
I blinked at him. “So… you egged my car because it blocked your decorations?”
“You could’ve parked somewhere else,” he shrugged. “It’s Halloween. It’s all good fun. Don’t be dramatic.”
“Good fun?” My voice rose. “You couldn’t leave a note? Knock on my door? I have to work at 8 a.m., and now I get to scrape egg off my windshield because you wanted a better angle for your fog machine?”
“The neighbors come to see my decorations every year,” he snapped. “Even your kids love them! Don’t deny it, I’ve seen them watching. And you parked right in front of the graveyard scene. That one took a lot of work.”
My jaw clenched. “I’m a single mom, Derek. I have three kids. I parked close because I had no choice. I’m not breaking any laws.”
He smirked. “Sweetheart, that’s not my problem. You chose to have those kids. Maybe next time, you’ll park somewhere else.”
I stared at him. Then I nodded once.
“Okay,” I said quietly.
He tilted his head. “Okay?”
“Yes. That’s all.”
I turned and walked home. Through the window, Lily and Max were waiting, their little faces pressed to the glass.
“Did the decoration guy yell at you?” Lily asked.
“No,” I smiled. “But he definitely messed with the wrong mom.”
That night, after the kids were asleep, I got to work. My exhaustion had turned into something sharper: determination.
I photographed everything — the egg yolk streaks, the toilet paper, the broken shells near the tires. I even recorded a video, stating the date and time in a steady voice. Then I went door to door.
Marisol, my sweet neighbor across the street, answered with a face mask and chamomile tea.
“You okay, honey? The babies are okay?” she asked.
“They’re fine,” I said. “But did you see anything strange last night?”
She winced at my car. “Yeah, Em. I saw Derek outside around 11. Thought he was fiddling with his decorations again. Honestly, how much does that man spend on them? For a grown man, it’s weird, right?”
“Would you be willing to say you saw him?” I asked.
“Of course,” she said firmly. “That man takes holidays way too seriously.”
Rob, another neighbor, confirmed it too. “He was muttering about ‘view blockers,’” he said while eating a popsicle. “Emily, eggs are acidic. You’d better wash it off quick.”
“Would you write that down, Rob?”
“Not a problem,” he said.
The next morning, I filed a police report. Officer Bryant came by, calm and kind, letting Max hold his badge while he took notes. The auto shop quoted over $500 for the cleanup. I printed everything — photos, police report, witness statements, and the repair estimate.
Then I wrote a short letter demanding payment and slid it under Derek’s door. For good measure, I emailed it to the HOA too.
Two days later, Derek showed up on my porch, cheeks flushed.
“This is ridiculous,” he barked. “It’s just Halloween, Emily.”
“You damaged my property,” I said, arms crossed. “The police know. The HOA knows. Do you want to take this to court?”
His jaw worked, but he finally handed me a receipt — proof he’d already paid the detailing shop in full.
That weekend, he came back with a bucket, rags, and guilt written all over his face.
“I paid the detailer,” he muttered. “But I thought maybe I could help clean the rest… before you take it in.”
I opened the door halfway. “Start with the mirrors. And the front tires are still a mess.”
He nodded and got to work in silence.
From inside, the kids pressed their noses to the window.
“The skellyton man is washing our car? Why?” Max asked.
“Because he made it dirty,” Lily explained. “And he got caught.”
“That’s right,” I said, smiling. “Bad behavior might feel fun in the moment, but it always leaves a mess. And someone always sees.”
That afternoon, we baked cupcakes and dipped apples in sticky caramel. The kids decorated with candy eyeballs and black sugar spiders, giggling with frosting on their cheeks.
“Are we giving these to people who come?” Max asked.
“Nope,” I said, tapping his nose with a sprinkle-covered finger. “This year, Halloween is just for us.”
By Halloween night, Derek’s decorations were still standing, but the fog machines were off, the creepy music gone. The crowds didn’t gather like before.
And inside my house, there was laughter, sugar highs, and peace.
The holiday taught me something important: you can’t control your neighbors, but you can control how you respond. Sometimes the strongest answer isn’t shouting — it’s receipts, quiet strength, and caramel apples with your kids.
The next day, Max asked, “Mom, are you mad at the skellyton man?”
“Skeleton, baby,” I corrected him gently. “And no, I’m not mad. I’m proud.”
“Proud of what?” Lily asked.
“Proud I didn’t let someone treat us badly. Proud I handled it without becoming someone I don’t want to be.”
They nodded like it made perfect sense.
Justice, I realized, looks like sipping coffee at your kitchen window, watching someone else scrub the mess they made. And knowing you didn’t just hold your ground — you built something stronger in its place.