“The Witch of Pineview Avenue”
I thought I knew my neighbors — or at least, I thought I knew who I could trust. But when I came home early from a business trip on Halloween night, I found something that made my blood run cold.
My front yard — once the pride of Pineview Avenue — was stripped bare. Every ghost, every glowing pumpkin, every perfectly placed tombstone… gone. And then, across the street, I saw it.
My haunted masterpiece — resurrected on someone else’s lawn.
After two grueling weeks of business travel, all I wanted was to kick off my heels, light a pumpkin candle, and sink into my favorite night of the year. Halloween wasn’t just a holiday to me — it was a ritual. A reminder that creativity could still conquer monotony.
At thirty-two, newly divorced and child-free, I found joy in transforming my small house into the block’s spooky showstopper. Neighbors affectionately called it The Witch House. Every October, fog slithered across my lawn, skeletons swung from tree branches, and tombstones glowed beneath flickering orange lights. It was my pride, my outlet — my magic.
This year, I’d gone all out: a twelve-foot spider, animatronic ghosts, sound effects, jack-o’-lanterns that laughed when you passed. But just as the display was perfect, my boss called — “urgent trip to Chicago.” I begged, I bartered. No use. Work always won.
Before leaving, I took one last look at my eerie masterpiece. The lights pulsed through the mist, the ghosts swayed gently in the breeze. I’ll be back for Halloween, I promised myself.
Fate, apparently, had other plans.
When my meeting wrapped early, I caught the next flight home — excited to surprise the neighborhood kids. But as the taxi turned onto Pineview Avenue, my heart stuttered.
My yard was empty.
No fog. No lights. Just a barren patch of grass and a few sad cords in the dirt.
And then I saw it — across the street, glowing proudly beneath the oak tree. My spider. My pumpkins. My entire Halloween display, resurrected on Heather Collins’s lawn.
Heather — who’d never so much as hung a plastic bat before — was out front, waving at families and accepting compliments like she’d just conjured it all herself.
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. Then came the slow burn — the kind of rage that hums in your chest and makes your fingertips tingle. But Halloween night wasn’t the time for revenge. I waited.
When the last trick-or-treater disappeared, I sat in the dark, watching my stolen display shimmer across the street.
At one in the morning, I grabbed my car keys and drove to the all-night hardware store. Two cans of red spray paint later, I was back — standing before Heather’s pristine white fence under a cold, cloudless sky.
With a steady hand, I wrote:
“I TAKE MY NEIGHBOR’S DECORATIONS TO WIN CONTESTS.”
Each word hissed into the night, bright and dripping like blood.
As I finished, a light flicked on inside her house. My heart leapt. I ducked behind the bushes, breath held. Heather appeared in the window, poured herself a glass of water, and vanished again — never glancing outside.
I crept back home, grinning like the witch they all called me.
By morning, the street was buzzing. Parents stopped mid-walk, whispering and pointing. Heather stood frozen on her porch, staring at the message blazing across her fence.
At nine sharp, the Pineview Neighborhood Committee arrived to judge the annual Halloween contest. Mrs. Callahan, clipboard in hand, surveyed the scene with a knowing smile.
“Heather,” she said gently, “these decorations look awfully familiar.”
Heather’s face flushed scarlet. “She vandalized my fence!”
Mrs. Callahan turned to me. “Lauren, did you lose your decorations recently?”
I sipped my coffee. “Seems they wandered off while I was away.”
The silence stretched, delicious and heavy.
“Did you, or did you not, use her decorations without permission?” Mrs. Callahan asked.
“I… borrowed them,” Heather muttered.
“Then perhaps,” said Mrs. Callahan, “you should return them.”
She smiled, handing me the blue ribbon. “Congratulations, Lauren. Best Decorated House — again.”
Polite applause rippled through the cul-de-sac. Heather gaped.
By evening, every decoration was back where it belonged. I switched on the fog machines, and the mist returned — swirling around the spider that once again ruled my roof.
Halloween was mine again.
Conclusion
That night, as laughter echoed down Pineview Avenue, I realized something: revenge doesn’t always need to be loud or cruel. Sometimes, it’s poetic.
My decorations were home, justice was done, and my crimson confession had made its mark.
Halloween was never about winning a contest. It was about reclaiming joy — and maybe adding a touch of mischief.
And this year, I had all three. 🎃