It all started one chilly October evening when I parked my car along the curb in front of my house, as I normally did. The neighbor next door, Mr. Hensley, had always been particular about his Halloween decorations, putting up an elaborate display every year. This time, he’d gone all out, with lights, animatronics, and a sprawling arrangement of fake tombstones. His house looked like something out of a horror movie, and as Halloween drew closer, his decorations became the talk of the neighborhood.
That night, I didn’t think much of my parking spot. It was in front of my house, and there were plenty of other spaces on the street. The next morning, I was shocked to see my car splattered with eggs. The white gooey mess covered the windows and paint, dripping down the sides. Furious and confused, I spent over an hour scrubbing the car, wondering who could’ve done it. It wasn’t until later in the day when I saw Mr. Hensley standing outside his home, glaring at my driveway, that I realized something might be up.
Curious, I approached him. “Hey, Mr. Hensley,” I began, “Do you know anything about my car being egged last night?”
He crossed his arms, his face hardening. “Maybe it wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t parked in front of my house,” he snapped.
I was taken aback. “But… it wasn’t in front of your house. It’s my driveway.”
He cut me off, “Your car blocked the view of my decorations. People can’t see the whole setup when they drive by because your car’s in the way!”
I stood there, dumbfounded. I had no idea my parking spot was causing him such frustration. Trying to stay calm, I said, “Mr. Hensley, I didn’t mean to block anything. But that doesn’t mean you—or anyone—should be throwing eggs at my car.”
His face remained stony. “Look,” he said, “I work hard on these decorations every year. People drive by just to see them. Your car ruins the whole effect. If you don’t move it, this might happen again.”
I was furious. It seemed absurd—throwing eggs at my car over a Halloween display? But I could see Mr. Hensley wasn’t going to back down. Rather than escalating things, I walked away, still seething.
Over the next few days, I made a point of parking a bit further down the street, away from his decorations. I didn’t want another egging incident, but the whole situation left a bad taste in my mouth. Sure enough, other neighbors told me they’d seen Mr. Hensley grumbling about “people blocking his masterpiece.” Some even avoided parking on the street altogether to keep the peace.
Then Halloween night arrived. The neighborhood was buzzing with excitement as kids in costumes ran from house to house, collecting candy. Mr. Hensley’s display drew quite a crowd, as usual. People stopped to admire his handiwork, taking photos and marveling at the creepy animatronics. From my porch, I could see him standing proudly in front of his house, basking in the attention.
As the night wore on, I noticed something strange. A group of older kids—probably teenagers—were gathered near Mr. Hensley’s house, whispering and pointing. Before I knew it, one of them lobbed an egg right into the middle of his prized display. Chaos ensued as more eggs followed, pelting his decorations and leaving a mess on his lawn. Mr. Hensley ran outside, shouting and cursing, but the teenagers had already taken off into the night.
I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of satisfaction. It wasn’t right, of course—vandalism is never okay—but part of me thought maybe this was karma. After all, Mr. Hensley had thrown eggs at my car just days before. Now, his own display had fallen victim to the same prank.
The next morning, I found Mr. Hensley in front of his house, cleaning up the mess. I walked over, half-expecting another confrontation. But to my surprise, he looked defeated, not angry.
“Rough night?” I asked, trying to keep my tone neutral.
He sighed, wiping his brow. “Yeah. Guess I took things a little too far.”
I nodded, unsure of what to say. After a pause, he continued, “I’m sorry about your car. I was just so frustrated with everything. I shouldn’t have done that.”
His apology caught me off guard, but I appreciated it. “It’s okay,” I said. “I get that you’re passionate about your decorations. But maybe next year, we can work something out so nobody’s view gets blocked.”
Mr. Hensley chuckled softly. “Yeah, maybe. Or maybe I’ll tone it down a bit. I think I’ve had enough drama for one Halloween.”
We parted ways on better terms than we had in weeks, and I couldn’t help but think how silly the whole situation had been. It’s amazing how small misunderstandings can spiral out of control, especially when people let their frustrations get the better of them. In the end, though, it was a lesson in communication—and maybe a little bit of humility for both of us. Halloween was meant to be fun, and in the future, we’d both try to keep it that way.
