My Neighbor Threw Eggs at My Car Because It Was ‘Blocking the View’ of His Halloween Decorations

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Egged, Exhausted, and Ready for Revenge

I was so tired I could barely tell if I’d brushed my teeth or just dreamed about it. Ever since the twins, Lily and Lucas, were born, my life had become a nonstop blur of feeding, burping, rocking, and praying they’d sleep for more than forty-five minutes at a time.

I loved them more than anything, but motherhood had turned me into a zombie with messy hair and permanent dark circles under my eyes. The whole neighborhood buzzed with excitement about Halloween, but me? I was just trying to survive it.

And then there was Brad.

Brad was my neighbor — and, unfortunately, the self-proclaimed “Halloween King” of our suburban block. Every October, he transformed his house into a haunted carnival. There were fake gravestones, life-size skeletons, glowing pumpkins, creepy music, fog machines, even a motion-activated witch that cackled when you walked by.

People actually drove in from nearby towns just to see his display. And Brad soaked up every bit of attention, flashing that smug grin like he’d just won an Oscar for Best Overgrown Child.

I didn’t have time for Halloween drama. Between diapers, bottles, and exhaustion, I was just proud of myself for remembering to eat something other than coffee and crackers.

But one chilly October morning, that smug man gave me a reason to care.

I stumbled out of the house, Lily on one hip, Lucas in my arm, ready to run the shortest list of errands possible. Then I froze.

My car — my poor, tired mom-mobile — was covered in eggs. Gooey yolk oozed down the windshield, and bits of shell clung to the sides like some breakfast nightmare.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered, feeling my blood pressure spike.

I’d parked in front of Brad’s house the night before. It was the only spot close enough for me to haul the twins and their stroller inside. It wasn’t like the curb belonged to him — it was public property. But as I glanced toward his over-decorated lawn, something clicked.

The eggs splattered all the way to his front porch.

“Oh, no way…” I whispered, glaring at his inflatable skeleton band still playing their endless tune. “Brad.”

I marched straight to his door, trying to keep my voice calm but failing miserably. I banged on it hard enough that a fake spider web shook loose.

A few seconds later, the door swung open. There stood Brad — in a black hoodie, fake vampire teeth, and that irritatingly confident smirk.

“Morning, Genevieve,” he said casually, crossing his arms. “Something wrong?”

“Yeah, Brad, something’s definitely wrong,” I snapped. “Did you happen to see who egged my car?”

He didn’t even flinch. “Oh, that was me.”

I blinked, sure I’d misheard. “You what?”

“Your car was blocking the view of my decorations,” he said matter-of-factly, like it was the most reasonable thing in the world.

I stared at him, completely stunned. “You egged my car because it was parked in front of your house?”

He nodded, looking proud of himself. “How can people appreciate my haunted display if they can’t see it from the road? I spend months planning this. You can’t just ruin the vibe.”

“The vibe?” I could barely believe what I was hearing. “Brad, I have newborn twins! I parked close to make it easier to carry them inside!”

He just shrugged. “Not my problem. Park somewhere else until Halloween’s over.”

I wanted to scream. But exhaustion is a strange thing — it dulls your anger, turns it into quiet, simmering resolve.

“Fine,” I said, voice tight. “Whatever you say.”

I turned on my heel, stormed back home, and spent an hour scrubbing egg yolk off my car. The whole time, I replayed his smug face in my head.

By the time the windshield was clean, I wasn’t just angry anymore. I was determined.

Brad wanted to play dirty? I could play smarter.

That night, while rocking Lily to sleep, an idea formed — one so perfect it made me smile for the first time all week.

Brad’s pride was his weak spot. He lived for admiration. So, I’d give him a little “helpful” advice.

The next afternoon, I saw him in his yard, adjusting a giant inflatable Frankenstein. I plastered on my friendliest smile and strolled over.

“Hey, Brad!” I called.

He looked up warily. “Oh. Hey, Genevieve.”

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” I began. “You put so much effort into your decorations — they really are… impressive.”

His chest puffed up immediately. “Well, thank you.”

“But you know what could make them even better?” I said sweetly. “Some high-tech upgrades. Like fog machines, ghost projectors… maybe even some motion sensors for extra scare effects.”

His eyes gleamed. “Really? You think that’d make it stand out more?”

“Oh, absolutely,” I said, nodding earnestly. “People would be talking about your house for weeks.”

He was hooked. I rattled off a few “brands” I’d found online — all of which had terrible reviews. Cheap, unreliable, and guaranteed to fail.

“Wow,” he said, rubbing his chin. “You might be onto something, Genevieve.”

I smiled. “Just trying to be a good neighbor.”

And then I waited.

Halloween night arrived, and Brad’s house was glowing like a monster movie set. Fog rolled across his lawn, green lights flickered in the windows, and the crowd outside clapped in awe.

I sat on my porch with Lily and Lucas bundled in blankets, watching. For a moment, I almost admired his setup. Almost.

Then it happened.

The fog machine sputtered, hissed, and suddenly sprayed a jet of water straight at the crowd.

Kids screamed and laughed as Brad scrambled to fix it. “It’s fine! It’s just a minor malfunction!” he shouted, frantically pressing buttons.

But the chaos had only begun. The ghost projector started glitching, flickering between creepy ghouls and a badly drawn cartoon ghost that looked like a dancing potato.

Parents started laughing.

“Is it supposed to do that?” one man asked.

Brad’s face turned beet red. “It’s not supposed to do that!”

Then, like a cherry on top, his giant inflatable Frankenstein began to deflate. Slowly. Tragically. Its massive green head sagged, then rolled dramatically down the lawn like a beheaded monster.

The kids howled with laughter. Some mischievous teens decided to join the fun — they grabbed cartons of eggs and launched them at his house.

“Stop! Stop that right now!” Brad yelled, trying to block the eggs with his arms.

But it was too late. His haunted masterpiece had turned into the neighborhood’s biggest joke.

The next morning, I was feeding Lucas when I heard a knock on the door.

I opened it to find Brad standing there — no smug smile this time. Just a defeated man with egg stains still on his hoodie.

“I, uh… wanted to apologize,” he muttered, not meeting my eyes. “For egging your car. I overreacted.”

I crossed my arms. “Yeah, you did.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “I didn’t realize how hard it must be for you… with the twins and all. I’m sorry.”

I let the silence stretch just long enough for him to squirm. “Thanks for apologizing, Brad. I’m sure it won’t happen again.”

He nodded quickly. “No, it won’t.”

As he turned to leave, I couldn’t resist one last line.

“Funny how karma works, huh?”

He glanced back, deflated as his Frankenstein, and for the first time ever, Brad had nothing to say.

And as I shut the door, I smiled. Sleep-deprived or not, I still had enough energy to outsmart the Halloween King.

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