Regina and I had just moved into our dream home—a charming Victorian villa nestled in a quiet, tree-lined neighborhood. Everything felt perfect. The air was crisp, the neighbors were friendly, and the housewarming party we planned was meant to seal our place in this idyllic community.
As the evening began, laughter filled the rooms. Wine flowed, stories were exchanged, and the warmth of new beginnings wrapped around us like a cozy blanket. Mrs. Harper, our elderly neighbor, leaned in with a wink: “You haven’t seen anything yet.”
That’s when we noticed it.
One by one, every guest arrived wearing identical red gloves. At first, it seemed quirky—maybe a local tradition? But it was summer. No one took them off. Not to eat, not to drink. And when we looked too closely, some subtly tucked their hands away.
Regina whispered, “Is this normal?” I shook my head, unease creeping in.
The gloves weren’t just accessories. They were a signal.
Later that night, as the party wound down, Mrs. Harper approached us again. Her voice was low, almost reverent. “You’re part of us now. The gloves… they’re a promise. A pact.”
“A pact for what?” I asked, heart pounding.
She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “To protect what’s ours. To never speak of what happened here before.”
Suddenly, the house didn’t feel like home. It felt like a stage—one we’d unknowingly stepped onto, with a script we hadn’t read.
The red gloves weren’t just a welcome. They were a warning.
