After a last-minute business trip, I rushed home to enjoy Halloween, only to find my front yard completely bare. But across the street, I spotted all my decorations—skeletons, tombstones, the 8-foot spider—set up in my neighbor Sandra’s yard. She’d stolen everything.
I fumed but held back. Halloween night passed, and when the street quieted, I grabbed red and black spray paint and went to work on Sandra’s white fence, boldly writing: “I STEAL MY NEIGHBOR’S DECORATIONS TO WIN A PRIZE FOR THE BEST DECORATED HOUSE!”
It felt like a cathartic release, watching the paint drip down. Just as I finished, a light flicked on in her house, and I froze, heart racing. Luckily, she didn’t come outside. I returned home, satisfied.
The next morning, the neighborhood Halloween judges came by to judge the decorations. Sandra, pale and panicked, stared at her fence, reading my message. The judges stopped at her house, and one even chuckled. They made their way to mine, where I feigned innocence.
One judge, Mrs. Delaney, smiled and said, “I think it’s safe to say, you’ve earned Best Decorated House.”
When Sandra stormed out, shouting about vandalism, the judges turned to her. “Did you ask permission?” they asked.
Sandra glared at me, but I just shrugged. “Happy Halloween, Sandra.”
