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My cousin Sarah texted me yesterday morning, "Can't wait for the boys to show off their zombie costumes at your party tonight!"

My blood ran cold. I never invited her kids—not after the nightmare they created last Halloween.

For background, I've thrown the ultimate Halloween bash for six years straight. It's become legendary among my friends. I spend weeks perfecting every detail: hand-carved pumpkins, a fog machine setup, and a haunted house walkthrough in my basement that people talk about all year.

Last October, Sarah called me in tears two hours before the party. "My ex was supposed to take the boys, but he bailed. Please, Katie, I haven't had a night out since the divorce. They're eight now—much more mature."

I caved. How much damage could two eight-year-olds really do?

The answer: $3,000 worth.

They arrived dressed as pirates and immediately started "sword fighting" with my decorative medieval weapons display. Within minutes, they'd shattered my grandmother's antique mirror—seven years bad luck, apparently.

Sarah just laughed it off. "Boys will be boys! At least they're having fun."

Twenty minutes later, I heard screaming from the basement. The kids had gotten into my haunted house early and decided to "improve" it by dumping an entire bottle of fake blood on my white carpet.

But that wasn't the worst part.

While I was frantically trying to clean the carpet, they found my fog machine and cranked it to maximum. The basement filled with so much fog that my smoke detectors went off, triggering the fire department.

Six firefighters showed up in full gear, axes ready, while my party guests stood outside in their costumes watching my house get "rescued."

The fire chief was not amused when he discovered two giggling kids hiding behind my furnace.

But the real catastrophe happened upstairs. In the chaos, nobody noticed the boys had gotten into my kitchen and decided to make "witch's brew" in my stand mixer.

They'd dumped in Halloween candy, soda, raw eggs, and—for reasons I'll never understand—an entire container of protein powder.

The mixer couldn't handle it. It exploded, coating my entire kitchen in a sticky, glittery mess that took three days to clean.

Sarah's response the next day? "Kids need to explore and be creative. Maybe next time don't have so many tempting things around if you can't handle children."

This year, I sent crystal-clear invitations: "STRICTLY ADULTS ONLY—NO EXCEPTIONS."

I even had a phone conversation with Sarah where she agreed it was "probably for the best."

Yet here she was, assuming her boys were invited.

I texted back immediately: "Sarah, absolutely no kids. Remember last year? I'm still paying off the damages."

Her reply came fast: "That was months ago! They've grown up so much. Besides, I already promised them. You can't break a promise to children on Halloween. What kind of person does that?"

The manipulative kind, apparently. And I was about to prove it.

My brother Jake is a special effects makeup artist for horror movies. He owes me a favor after I helped him move last month.

I called Jake and explained my situation. He was immediately on board.

"I've got the perfect setup," he said. "Give me two hours."

That evening, as my adult guests started arriving, Jake's masterpiece was ready.

He'd transformed my front yard into a legitimate crime scene. Police tape, chalk outlines, fake blood splatter, and realistic body parts scattered around.

Jake himself sat motionless on my porch steps, dressed as a detective, holding a clipboard and wearing the most convincing fake wounds I'd ever seen.

A sign by the door read: "ADULTS ONLY. Children's safety cannot be guaranteed."

At 7:45 p.m., Sarah's SUV pulled up. Through my window, I watched her park and start unbuckling the boys from their car seats.

Then she saw Jake.

He slowly turned his head toward her car, revealing a grotesque "injury" across half his face, and began writing on his clipboard while staring directly at her.

Sarah's face went white. She frantically started rebuckling the kids, who were now crying and asking why there was "blood everywhere."

She peeled out so fast she left tire marks on my driveway.

My phone exploded with angry texts: "This is sick! You traumatized my children!"

I simply replied: "Adults only means adults only. Have a safe Halloween."

The party was flawless. No property damage, no fire department, and not a single pumpkin was weaponized.

Sarah blocked me on social media.