The morning before Halloween, I stepped onto the porch and froze. My car looked like it had caught a nasty case of the flu—eggs splattered across the windshield, yolk dripping down like yellow tears, and toilet paper fluttering in the breeze like ghostly ribbons.
“Mommy… is the car sick?” my youngest, Noah, asked, eyes wide with innocent concern.
I forced a smile. “A little,” I said softly. But inside, I was fuming. Because I already knew who had done it.
I’m Emily—36, a nurse, and a single mom to three kids: Lily, Max, and little Noah. I barely have time to breathe between shifts, school runs, and bedtime chaos. The last thing I needed was drama. But when you live next to Derek, peace isn’t exactly an option.
Derek is my neighbor—two doors down—and he treats Halloween like it’s a national holiday. Each year, his decorations get louder, brighter, and more outrageous. Fog machines fill the street, skeletons scream from every corner, and the crown jewel—a 10-foot animatronic reaper—greets everyone with a bone-chilling laugh.
Last night, I had parked in front of his house. It wasn’t intentional. The street was packed, and it was the only space left. But apparently, my minivan “blocked” the perfect viewing angle of his beloved display. And in Derek’s world, that was an unforgivable crime.
I spotted the trail of eggshells leading from my car straight to his driveway. My hands clenched. I told the kids to stay inside and stormed over.
Derek answered the door wearing his bright orange “King of Halloween” hoodie, smirking like he’d been expecting me.
“Morning, Emily,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Rough night?”
“Cut the act, Derek,” I snapped. “You egged my car.”
He shrugged. “Maybe you shouldn’t park in front of someone’s display. People come from all over to see it. You ruined the vibe.”
I stared at him, disbelief turning into cold anger. “You egged my car because of a vibe?”
“Maybe next time you’ll think before you block art,” he said, and shut the door in my face.
That was it. The switch flipped. I wasn’t just mad—I was done.
That night, after the kids were in bed, I went to work. Literally. I had just finished a late hospital shift, and let’s just say I had access to certain… medical supplies.
At midnight, under the dim streetlights, I transformed Derek’s precious display into something truly terrifying. His animatronic reaper? Wrapped in medical gauze like a mummy. The fog machine? Rigged with a motion sensor that triggered a blast of hospital-grade disinfectant mist. The fake gravestones? Replaced with cardboard signs that read, “REST IN PEACE, CLEAN HANDS ONLY” and “CONTAMINATED ZONE.”
And right in the center of his lawn, taped to a skeleton, was a bright red biohazard bag—filled with spaghetti noodles soaked in ketchup. It looked… disturbingly real.
By dawn, the neighborhood was buzzing. Parents pulled their kids back, whispering about “some contamination scare.” Derek stumbled outside, pale as a ghost, when he saw the hazmat chaos that had replaced his masterpiece.
“WHAT IS THIS?!” he shouted, spinning in circles as the disinfectant mist whooshed again.
I leaned on my porch railing, coffee in hand. “Looks like your house caught something,” I called out sweetly. “Maybe you shouldn’t have parked your ego in front of mine.”
For once, Derek had no comeback. He just stood there, mouth open, surrounded by what looked like the set of a zombie outbreak movie.
That night, he quietly took down half his decorations. No more fog, no more fireworks. Just a few pumpkins by the door—and one very humbled Halloween king.
I didn’t hear a word from him after that, but I did notice one thing: from then on, he never complained about where I parked again.
Sometimes revenge doesn’t need to be loud or cruel. Sometimes, it just needs a little creativity… and a touch of disinfectant.