I’ve always loved Halloween. Every year, I go all out decorating the yard with cobwebs, ghosts hanging from trees, big plastic spiders crawling up the porch, and gravestones in the flowerbeds. It’s spooky, and the neighborhood kids love it.

This year, I went bigger than ever. I constructed a haunted maze in the front yard and installed a giant inflatable witch that glowed at night. I got a lot of compliments, even from people just walking by. But, of course, not everyone was a fan.

Gary and Brenda, my neighbors two doors down, have never liked anything I’ve done, Halloween or otherwise. “Entitled” doesn’t begin to cover them. They think everyone in the neighborhood is there to make their lives easier.

Last year, they complained about my Christmas lights being “too bright.” The year before, Brenda demanded I move my garden because it “blocked her view.” And don’t get me started on their complaints about my dog barking.

So, Halloween came and went, and I planned to clean up everything, but work got crazy, and the decorations stayed up a bit longer than usual.

One morning, I opened the door to grab my paper, and the smell hit me. It was foul, like something had died right there on my lawn. I glanced around, and my stomach turned.

There, right in the middle of my yard, was a heap of rotting pumpkins, dead cornstalks, and broken skeleton pieces. Flies buzzed around, and the smell was unbearable. I stepped closer and saw a note stuck to one of the pumpkins.

The smudged note read, “Figured you’d want the rest of the neighborhood’s decorations too. Enjoy cleaning it up, since you love decorating so much!”

I knew that handwriting: my neighbor Brenda. My blood boiled.

I clenched my fists. Of course. Only she would pull something like this. I stormed back inside, tossed the newspaper onto the table, and grabbed my coat. I wasn’t going to let this slide.

Marching over to their house, I barely noticed the crisp autumn air or the crunch of leaves under my feet. My mind was a jumble of anger and disbelief. I knocked, and it wasn’t long before Gary opened the door, a smug grin plastered on his face.

“Morning,” he said, crossing his arms. “Something you need?”

I took a deep breath, trying to keep my voice steady. “Is there a reason your junk is all over my lawn?” I asked, giving him a pointed look.

He shrugged, barely hiding his smirk. “Well, since you’re the last one with Halloween stuff out, we thought you wouldn’t mind picking up ours too. Figured you’d want it all together, seeing as you’re the ‘Halloween Queen’ around here.”

I covered my face, stunned by the audacity. “So you just… dumped it all on my yard?”

Gary leaned against the doorframe, unfazed. “Look, the whole block’s tired of your spooky junk lingering around. We’re just doing you a favor. Brenda said you’d appreciate it.”

“A favor?” I repeated, my voice thick with disbelief.

He grinned wider. “Think of it as community service.”

Gary gave me a little wave. “Anything else, or are we good here?”

I bit my tongue, holding back every sharp word that was begging to be said.

That night, I stewed over Gary and Brenda’s little “favor.” I replayed the smug smirk on Gary’s face, the way he had casually called my decorations “spooky junk” in my head. I tossed and turned for hours, my mind racing with ideas.

Finally, just before dawn, a plan clicked into place. If they wanted to share their Halloween mess, I’d be more than happy to “return” the favor.

The next evening, after work, I gathered every rotting pumpkin, dead cornstalk, and broken skeleton from my yard, holding my breath as I piled the rank decorations into my wheelbarrow. The smell was horrendous, and I had to fight back the urge to gag. But my anger kept me going.

I wheeled everything over to Gary and Brenda’s house, checking to make sure nobody was around. Their lights were off; they weren’t home yet. Perfect.

With painstaking care, I arranged the rotting decorations all over their front lawn, lining the pathway with moldy, collapsing pumpkins. I set up the skeletons in twisted, eerie poses—one “guarding” their mailbox, another “climbing” their porch railing.