I was bone-tired, navigating the fog of twin motherhood since Lily and Lucas were born. Sleep felt like a distant memory, and wrangling two newborns mostly by myself was a Herculean task. While the neighborhood buzzed with Halloween excitement, I could barely muster the energy to decorate. Then there was Brad, our neighbor, who took Halloween so seriously you’d think his life depended on it. Every year, he transformed his house into a ludicrous, haunted carnival with gravestones, skeletons, and huge jack-o’-lanterns. He loved the spectacle, and I despised the smug look he wore whenever someone complimented his ridiculously over-the-top display.
It was a typical October morning when everything started to unravel. I shuffled outside with Lily on one hip and Lucas in my arm and froze. My car was covered in broken eggshells and congealed goo, dripping down the windshield like a twisted breakfast special. I had parked close to our door the night before—a necessity when juggling twins and a stroller—right in front of Brad’s house. I immediately knew who the culprit was; Brad was notoriously territorial about his curb during “his” season. I marched over and banged on his door, the rage finally bubbling up, fueled by months of exhaustion and this blatant disrespect.
Brad opened the door, radiating arrogance and standing among his fake cobwebs and waving plastic skeleton. I didn’t waste time: “Did you see who egged my car?” He didn’t even blink. “I did it,” he declared, as if stating the time of day. “Your car’s blocking the view of my decorations.” I was stunned. He hadn’t asked me to move it; he just ruined it because he couldn’t stand the sight of my vehicle obstructing his artistic vision. He had the audacity to shrug, telling me, “I’m the Halloween King! People come from all over to see this display, Genevieve. I’m just asking for a little cooperation.”
His words about cooperation, considering I was barely functioning with two newborns, snapped my patience. “I’m sorry my life gets in the way of your spooky graveyard,” I snapped back, but exhaustion snuffed out the full blast of my rage. I turned on my heel, shaking with disbelief. Later, as I scrubbed the slimy mess off my windshield, a realization clicked: Brad wasn’t just zealous; he was a bully. I had had enough. I didn’t have the energy for screaming, but revenge? That, I could handle. His weakness was his pride, and I knew exactly how to make his haunted house spectacle collapse under its own ego.
I waited a day, then strolled over to his yard while he was adding more decorations. “Hey, Brad,” I chirped, trying to sound cheerful. “I’ve been thinking, you should really give this an upgrade—some high-tech stuff like fog machines and ghost projectors.” His eyes lit up, suspicious but immediately hooked by the possibility of greater glory. I rattled off brands I’d researched—all terrible, one-star machines notorious for breaking down in spectacular fashion. “You’d be the talk of the neighborhood,” I assured him, knowing his predictable urge to outshine everyone would make him overlook any potential flaws in the recommendation.
Halloween night arrived. Brad’s yard was packed with admiring crowds, and he was basking in the glory. Then, the magic failed. The fog machine sputtered and sprayed water like a leaky garden hose. The ghost projector flickered, casting a jittery, cartoonish blob instead of a ghoul. Finally, his giant Frankenstein inflatable collapsed in slow motion. The crowd laughed, and then, a group of mischievous teenagers seized the opportunity to egg Brad’s house with gleeful precision. The next morning, a deflated, humbled Brad was at my door. “I wanted to apologize,” he mumbled, admitting he overreacted. I accepted the apology, adding, “Funny how things have a way of balancing out, huh?”
