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

I was too shocked to reply. Exhaustion had a way of muting my anger before it could fully surface. Instead of screaming, I muttered, “Fine,” and turned on my heel, seething with frustration.

As I washed the egg off my car later, a plan began to form. Brad wasn’t just an overzealous neighbor—he was a bully, and I wasn’t going to let him get away with it. He lived for attention, and if I couldn’t argue with him, I could hit him where it hurt: his precious Halloween display.

A day later, I casually approached Brad while he was adding even more decorations to his yard. “Hey, Brad,” I said sweetly, “I’ve been thinking—you really put a lot of effort into your display. Have you ever considered upgrading it with high-tech features? Like fog machines or ghost projectors?”

His eyes lit up with interest. “Really? You think that would take it up a notch?”

“Oh, absolutely. You’d be the talk of the neighborhood. I know a few brands that would make it even more impressive.” I rattled off names of the worst-reviewed machines I’d researched, knowing full well they’d malfunction at the worst possible moment.

Brad, always eager to outshine the neighborhood, fell for it. He didn’t need to know they were notorious for breaking down.

Halloween night arrived, and Brad’s house was packed with people. Kids and parents marveled at the fog rolling across his lawn and the ghostly projections flickering in his windows. I watched from my porch, Lily and Lucas snuggled in my lap, waiting for the show to begin.

Sure enough, right on cue, the fog machine sputtered, spraying water instead of mist. Kids giggled, parents chuckled, and Brad frantically tried to fix it. Then, the ghost projector started malfunctioning, casting a distorted blob instead of a ghost. The crowd’s laughter grew louder. Finally, his giant inflatable Frankenstein began to deflate, its head rolling across the yard in slow motion. A group of mischievous teens couldn’t resist the chaos and pelted his display with eggs.

Brad was running around, trying to salvage what was left of his masterpiece, but it was too late. His haunted house of horrors had become the laughingstock of the neighborhood.

The next morning, there was a knock at my door. I opened it to find Brad, deflated just like his Frankenstein. He looked embarrassed and muttered, “I’m sorry about egging your car. I overreacted.”

I crossed my arms, savoring the moment. “Yeah, you did.”

He shifted awkwardly. “I didn’t realize how tough it must be for you with the twins and all. I was out of line.”

After letting him squirm for a moment longer, I replied, “Apology accepted. I’m sure it won’t happen again.”

As he turned to leave, I couldn’t resist adding, “Funny how things have a way of balancing out, huh?”

For once, Brad had nothing to say.