Off The Record
My Neighbor Egged My Car Over His Halloween Display—So I Set Up A Surprise He’ll Never Forget
Days before Halloween, a single mother discovers her car destroyed and is shocked to learn that her jovial neighbor is responsible. She decides to take a more sensible route, one that is paved with receipts, silent power, and a hint of caramel, rather than taking revenge.
My car was plastered in toilet paper and egg yolks when I opened the front door the morning before Halloween.
The three-year-old pointed and muttered, “Mommy… is the car sick?”
Suddenly, the day had begun.
My name is Emily. I’m 36 years old, a full-time nurse, and the single mother to Lily, Max, and Noah—three amazing, noisy, and messy children. The majority of mornings begin before sunrise and finish well after bedtime tales are muttered over drowsy yawns.
Although it’s not a glamorous life, it’s ours.
This Halloween, I didn’t ask for drama. I had no intention of starting anything. All I had to do was park near my house so I could carry two bags of groceries and a sleeping toddler without hurting my back.
However, it appears it was sufficient to set off a full-fledged holiday conflict with my neighbor, Derek.
The eggs were only the first step.
Derek’s residence is two doors away. He’s a forty-something man with too much free time and too many ornaments. Initially, I found his exhibits to be charming—expensive, perhaps, but joyous. Derek was the type of person who made the neighborhood happier.
However, it ceased to be enjoyable as time went on. His house now seems to be trying out for a movie every two months.
Christmas? Like he’s reenacting a Hallmark set, he utilizes fake snow machines and blasts music through outdoor speakers. Valentine’s Day? He replaces his porch lights with pink bulbs and garlands the bushes with crimson. Our windows shake like if we are inside a firework on the Fourth of July, which is an actual explosion.
What about Halloween? It’s Derek’s Super Bowl, I see.
Naturally, the children adore it. They watch him set it up every October, pressing their faces against the glass of the living room.
“Look! He’s putting up the witch with the glowing eyes!” Max screams. “And the skellytons.”
“Skeletons, baby,” I correct him every time, laughing.
My three-year-old son, Noah, even lets out a squeal when the fog machines activate. And if you’re not the person who lives next to it, I’ll grant that it has a peculiar sort of magic.
I returned home from a long shift a couple nights prior to Halloween. After twelve hours of standing, I had been charting, treating, and consoling. The sky was dark, my back hurt, and our driveway was once again blocked by my landlord’s maintenance truck at well past nine o’clock in the evening.
With a groan, I parked in front of Derek’s house, the sole available space.
See, that wasn’t against the law. Nor was it unusual. I had parked a lot of times there.
Because my mother watched them after school, my children were now half asleep in their car seats, wearing pajamas with a pumpkin motif. My fatigue was only exacerbated by the idea of dumping everyone and everything.
Lily said, “Mama, I’m cold,” as she rubbed her eyes.
“I know, sweet girl,” I replied as I carefully unbuckled her. “We’ll be inside soon.”
Max’s head was falling from sleep when I reached for his hand and swung Noah over my shoulder. I had bags hanging from my wrists. I was exhausted in a profound, bone-hollow manner that sleep cannot resolve.
I didn’t even give my parking spot a second glance. I simply thought it would be alright. I simply thought Derek would get it.
My stomach turned over the following morning as I was standing at the kitchen window filling three mismatched bowls with breakfast.
Toilet paper and eggs were all over my car, which is all I had.
And something cold and silent cracked inside me.
Thick streams of yellow oozed from the side mirrors. Tangled around the wipers and dangling from the antenna, toilet paper adhered to the glass and swayed in the wind like ethereal ribbons. Then came the scent, nasty and harsh, sticky and incorrect.
I froze and blinked at it. To be honest, I briefly believed that I may still be dreaming. The path, however, which led straight from Derek’s driveway, was made up of shattered eggshell fragments strewn about like breadcrumbs.
“Of course,” I secretly said.
I pivoted, instructed the children to remain at the table, and strode outdoors. I chose not to take off my slippers. Not even tying my hair back was a concern for me.
I knocked on Derek’s door more forcefully than I meant to.
Wearing an orange hoodie that should have been pumpkin, he opened it as if he was expecting me. I saw that terrible mechanical reaper on his porch with blinking skull lights behind him.
“Derek,” I murmured, straining to speak evenly. “Did you seriously egg my car?”
The man did not flinch at all.
He said, “Yeah,” as if we were discussing trash day. “You parked right in front of my house, Emily. People can’t see the whole setup because of your stupid car.”
“So… you egged my car because it blocked your juvenile decorations?”
He shrugged and remarked, “You could’ve parked somewhere else,” “It’s Halloween. It’s all good fun. Don’t be so dramatic.”
“Good fun? You couldn’t have knocked on my door? Or left a note? I have to be at 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 single year,” he remarked, scoffing. “You know that. Even your kids look through the windows! Don’t deny it, I’ve seen them! And anyway, you blocked the graveyard. I worked hard on that one.”
“I’m a single mom, Derek,” I explained, gritting my teeth. “I have three kids. I carry diaper bags, backpacks, toys, groceries — sometimes all at once. I parked there because it’s close, and I got home late last night. I’m not breaking any laws.”
Derek murmured, “Sweetheart,” with a smug, lazy smile. “That’s really not my problem. You chose to have those kids. And maybe next time, you’ll choose to park somewhere else.”
I looked at him for a while. I then gave one nod.
“Okay,” I muttered.
He tilted his head and said, “Okay?” again.
“Yes, that’s all.”
I turned and headed home on foot. Max and Lily stood at the window, their faces against the glass.
Lily said, “Did the decoration guy yell at you?”
“No,” I managed to say with a smile. “But he definitely messed with the wrong mom.”
After the children had finally gone to sleep that evening, I spent a considerable amount of time in the kitchen simply gazing out the window.
In reality, I had two days off to spend with my children, but I had lied about my job. The truth wouldn’t have mattered anyhow, I realized now. Derek simply needed to be disciplined since he was a self-centered individual.
The egg had dried into streaks during the day. The dew-soaked toilet paper hung like a flag of surrender. I was too angry to go to sleep and too exhausted to cry.
So I grabbed my phone and began recording everything.
I photographed everything, including the toilet paper twisted around the mirrors, the yolk collected at the base of the windshield, and the shell bits near the tires. After that, I made a quick video and narrated it, making care to include the time and date, in a voice that was steadier than I felt.
Every tap on my screen sounded like a rhythm in the quiet of my home. It seemed deliberate and scientific, as if I were tending to a wound.
I then put on a sweater, picked up the baby monitor, and walked across the street to Marisol’s house. The light in the living room remained on. Wearing a face mask, slippers, and a cup of chamomile tea in one hand, she responded.
She looked at me tenderly and said, “You okay, honey?” “The babies are okay?”
“They’re fine. And I will be,” I replied. “But listen, did you see anything strange last night? Outside my house, along the street — that kind of thing?”
She winced as she looked at my automobile.
“Yeah, Em,” the woman replied. “I saw Derek outside around 11 p.m. I thought he was just fixing those stupid decorations of his. How much do you think he spends on them? For a grown man… that’s weird, right?”
“Marisol, focus,” I asked with a smile. “Would you be willing to say that you saw him if someone asked?”
“Of course, Em,” she straightened and said. “That man takes the holidays way too seriously.”
“Thank you,” I murmured, my heart bursting with appreciation. “I really appreciate it.”
I went down a few doors to Rob’s apartment. He was eating a popsicle and taking out the trash.
His words were, “Don’t tell Maggie,” “She’s been going on about my blood sugar levels again.”
He nodded when I posed the same query to him.
“He was out there, Emily,” Rob responded. “I heard him muttering something about ‘view blockers.’ I figured it was about your car. You should hose it down as soon as possible. Eggs are acidic; they’re going to ruin your paint.”
“Would you mind writing that down, Rob? Please.”
“Not at all.”
I reported vandalism the following morning by calling the police station’s non-emergency line. That afternoon, Officer Bryant arrived with a clipboard and a composed demeanor. After hearing what I had to say, he let Max have his badge and suggested that I take the car downtown to get a detailing quotation.
A little over $500 was the shop’s quote. I printed the estimate, the police report, the neighbor statements, and the pictures. I wrote a brief letter requesting damages and placed it in an envelope.
I slipped it beneath Derek’s door after walking it over to his.
I sent a copy to our local Homeowners Association Board via email just for peace of mind.
After two days, there was a knock.
Derek was standing on my porch, his cheeks heated and his jaw clenched.
“This is ridiculous,” he yelled back. “It’s just Halloween, Emily.”
I folded my arms and said, “You damaged my property.” “The police know. The HOA knows. So, tell me, Derek, do you want to take it to court?”
After a little interval, he gave me a folded itemized receipt without saying anything. It was the quotation I gave for the car’s cleaning, together with evidence that he had made the entire payment.
Derek knocked on my door that weekend with a bucket, a pair of rags, and a folded piece of paper.
“I paid the detailer,” he added softly, avoiding eye contact. “I thought maybe I could help clean the rest… before you take it downtown to him.”
Taking him into consideration, I only partially opened the door. His voice was lower than normal, his shoulders were slumped, and his face was etched with remorse. Though it wasn’t much, it had significance.
“Start with the mirrors. And the front tires are still a mess,” I replied.
Without saying another word, he nodded back and went to work.
The children, their eyes wide, pressed their noses to the glass from the living room.
“The skellyton man is washing our car? Why?” replied Max.
Lily clarified, “Because he made it dirty,” “And he got caught.”
I grinned and sat down with them on the couch.
“That’s right,” I informed them. “Bad behavior might feel fun in the moment, but it always leaves a mess. And someone always sees.”
We coated apples in sticky caramel and created Halloween cupcakes later that day. As the children giggled with icing on their noses, I let them to decorate with candy eyeballs and black sugar spiders.
“Are we giving these to anyone that comes?” Max inquired.
I said, “We’re keeping them,” as I tapped his nose with a finger smeared in sprinkles. “This year, Halloween’s just for us.”
Derek quietly completed his scrubbing. After finishing, he pointed toward the car, wiped his hands on a towel, and turned to go.
His decorations were still up by Halloween night, but the fog machines had stopped making noise. And the eerie music had ceased. Additionally, the throng did not congregate as they formerly did.
It was also quiet inside my house. My children were giddy and full of sugar. My heart was at last at rest, and my car was spotless.
I learned more than I anticipated from the vacation. Your neighbors are beyond your control. When they don’t get their way, you can never tell who will become petty. However, you have power over your reaction. And occasionally, that’s what separates chaos from serenity.
I refrained from screaming. I didn’t give in. I asked inquiries, I kept track of everything, and I safeguarded what was important. Not just the automobile, but our house, my children, and my peace of mind.
The following day, Max exclaimed, “Mom,” as we gathered the final Halloween projects he and Lily had made. “Are you mad at the skellyton man?”
“Skeleton, baby,” I told him. “And no, I’m not mad. But I’m proud.”
Lily peered up from her couch corner and said, “Proud of what?”
“Proud that I didn’t let someone treat us badly,” I replied. “And proud that I handled it without becoming someone I don’t want to be.”
Both of them nodded as if it were obvious.
Justice, I’ve discovered, is like watching someone else clean up the mess they made while enjoying a cup of coffee at your kitchen window.
and being certain that you did more than simply hold your ground. Instead, you replaced it with something far more robust.
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