Derek lives two doors down. He’s in his forties, with an excessive amount of energy, too many decorations, and an obsession with every holiday. At first, I admired the effort — it was festive, even charming. Derek had a way of making our block feel alive. But over the years, it stopped feeling fun. His displays became so elaborate they bordered on theatrical. Christmas meant outdoor speakers blasting nonstop music, fake snow machines running late into the night, and windows glowing with lights like a movie set. Valentine’s Day brought garlands of pink and red, hearts wrapped around the bushes, and pink porch bulbs that lit the street like candy-colored lanterns. And the Fourth of July? Explosions of lights and sound that made our windows tremble. But Halloween — Halloween was his ultimate obsession.
My kids loved it, of course. Every October, they’d press their little faces against the living room window to watch Derek carefully arrange his creatures, fog machines hissing, animatronic monsters creaking. “Look! He’s putting up the witch with the glowing eyes!” Max would shout. “The skeletons, Max,” I would correct gently. Even Noah squealed at the fog machine’s eerie mist, eyes wide with wonder. I’ll admit, from a distance, there was something magical about Derek’s dedication. But living next door? It could be exhausting.
A few nights before Halloween, I came home after a twelve-hour shift on my feet — charting, comforting, and running from patient to patient. It was past nine p.m., the sky pitch black, and my back aching from hours of lifting and bending. On top of that, my landlord’s maintenance truck was once again blocking my driveway. Sighing, I pulled into the only available spot — directly in front of Derek’s house. It wasn’t illegal. It wasn’t unusual. I’d parked there before. My kids were half-asleep, pumpkin-pajama-clad, and I was already carrying bags and one very heavy toddler. The thought of hauling everyone and everything further was unbearable. I assumed Derek would understand. I assumed he would let it slide.
The next morning, my assumptions shattered. I stood in the kitchen, pouring cereal into mismatched bowls, when my stomach dropped. My car — my only car — was vandalized. Eggs oozed down the side mirrors in thick, sticky streams. Toilet paper clung to the windshield, fluttered in the morning breeze, and wrapped itself around the antenna like a ghostly ribbon. The sharp, sour smell made my nose wrinkle. And in that moment, something quiet and icy clicked inside me.
I followed the trail of broken eggshells across the lawn — a breadcrumb path pointing directly to Derek’s driveway. “Of course,” I muttered under my breath. I told the kids to stay seated, and without changing out of my slippers or even tying my hair back, I marched across the street and knocked on Derek’s door. Hard. He answered wearing an orange hoodie meant to resemble a pumpkin, eyes blinking at me like I was an inconvenience he hadn’t anticipated. Behind him, blinking skull lights flickered, and the animatronic reaper stared down from the porch. “Derek,” I said, voice steady though my jaw ached with tension, “did you egg my car?”Car dealership
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