When we pulled into our driveway that chilly October evening, I thought at first we’d been vandalized by teenagers. The pumpkins were smashed, the lights ripped down, and the cobwebs shredded. But the truth behind who destroyed our Halloween decorations was far more shocking.

Halloween has always been our holiday.

Some families go all out for Christmas, but we go all out for the spooky season.

My husband, Mark, our daughter Emma, and our son Luke start talking about it the moment the school year begins. Emma, who’s seven, loves making “witch potions” with glitter and food coloring. Luke, six, prefers skeletons and ghost stories.

For years, we’ve made it a family tradition to transform our front yard into a little haunted wonderland.

We live in a quiet neighborhood where kids play tag in the cul-de-sac and neighbors borrow cups of sugar.

The whole block gets into Halloween. Every porch is lined with pumpkins, fake spiders dangle from trees, and at night, the street glows orange and purple.

Last year, we went all out. Cobwebs draped over the bushes, glowing ghosts hung from the trees, a fog machine crept mist across the yard, and a motion-sensor witch screamed whenever someone walked by.

The kids loved it. They’d giggle hysterically every time the witch cackled.

A few days before Halloween, I told Mark I wanted to visit my mom out of town for the weekend. She’d recently had knee surgery and needed some help around the house.

He agreed immediately.

We packed our bags, tucked the kids into the backseat, and drove away, watching our glowing pumpkins fade in the rearview mirror.

We expected to come back Sunday night to the same cheerful scene, and maybe even find a few new candy wrappers from excited trick-or-treaters passing early. But instead, we returned to a sight that made my heart sink straight to the pit of my stomach.

The front yard was wrecked.

The witch lay face down in the mud, one of her plastic hands torn off. The fake cobwebs were ripped down, tangled across the grass like shredded fabric.

Our string lights had been yanked down and broken, their bulbs scattered like glass teeth. The pumpkins were smashed to pieces, orange pulp smeared across the walkway.

Emma gasped first. Then Luke whimpered, “Mr.

Bones!” and ran to the spot where our skeleton had stood. Only his leg remained, snapped in half, buried in the dirt.