The first knock at the door was innocent enough, but as more neighbors arrived at our housewarming party, things quickly took a strange and unsettling turn. Every guest wore the same eerie red gloves, hiding something that felt like a secret in plain sight.
You know that feeling when everything seems perfect? That’s how Regina and I felt when we bought our dream home—a beautiful Victorian villa in a lovely neighborhood with tree-lined streets and friendly faces. We were thrilled. It was the perfect place to start the next chapter of our lives.
Little did we know, our housewarming party would reveal a side of this seemingly idyllic community that we never saw coming.
The villa looked like it belonged in a fairy tale. Regina and I couldn’t wait to host our new neighbors and show off the house.
“Gabby, can you grab the cheese platter from the kitchen?” Regina called from the living room. She was busy setting up the decorations, and I was just as excited as she was.
“Coming, babe!” I said, balancing the tray in my hands, my heart racing with anticipation. Everything was going perfectly.
“This is going to be amazing,” Regina said, smiling brightly as she gave my arm a gentle squeeze. “Our own place—in such a wonderful neighborhood!”
The doorbell rang, and we exchanged excited glances before rushing to greet the first guests.
At first, the party seemed flawless. Laughter filled the room, and the clinking of glasses mingled with the hum of conversation. Neighbors introduced themselves, and the atmosphere felt warm and welcoming. Mrs. Harper, the sweet elderly woman who lived next door, approached us with a kind smile.
“You’re going to love it here,” she said warmly. “We’re a close-knit community. Just wait and see.”
I smiled back at her. “We already feel so welcome.” But as the evening went on, something strange began to catch my attention.
Everyone was wearing red gloves.
I nudged Regina and whispered, “Why is everyone wearing gloves? And why are they all the same color?”
She glanced around the room, frowning. “Weird. Maybe it’s a neighborhood tradition?”
“But it’s summer,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “Who wears gloves in July?”
More guests continued to arrive, all of them wearing those red gloves. No one took them off—not to eat, not to drink. It was unsettling. My curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to ask Mrs. Harper about it.
“Those are some interesting gloves, Mrs. Harper,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Are they for something special?”
For a moment, her smile faltered, and she looked uncomfortable before quickly recovering. “Oh, the gloves? It’s just… a little neighborhood tradition. You’ll get used to it.”
“A tradition?” I asked, feeling even more intrigued. “What’s it for?”
She glanced around nervously. “It’s something we’ve all agreed on for a long time. You’ll understand soon enough.”
“But why red? And why gloves?”
Her eyes darted around the room before she leaned in slightly, giving me a cryptic response. “All in good time, Gabriel. Now, why don’t you go check on your other guests?”
With that, she quickly moved away, leaving me more confused than ever.
By the end of the night, Regina and I were both on edge. As we cleaned up, she said, “Did you notice how no one answered when we asked about the gloves?”
“I did. And they never took them off. Not even once,” I replied, my mind racing.
The next morning, as we tidied up the house, Regina found a small note slipped under our door. Her face turned pale as she read it out loud:
“Welcome to the neighborhood. Don’t forget your red gloves. You’ll need them soon.”
“What does that mean?” Regina gasped, holding the note tightly.
“I don’t know,” I said, staring at it. “But something definitely feels off.”
Over the next few days, our neighbors subtly hinted that we should get our own red gloves. They acted like it was completely normal, but the way they kept bringing it up was unnerving. One morning, Mrs. Harper caught me while I was grabbing the mail. Her tone was serious.
“The gloves aren’t just a tradition,” she whispered. “They protect you from the Hand of the Forgotten—the spirit that haunts this land.”
I blinked, taken aback. “A spirit? Mrs. Harper, are you serious?”
Her expression was deadly serious. “Ignore this at your own peril, Gabriel. Don’t wait too long to get your gloves.”
As she walked away, I stood frozen, trying to make sense of what she had just told me. That night, I shared the story with Regina. We both laughed it off, thinking it was just a small-town superstition. But soon, strange things started happening.
At first, it was small stuff—garden tools would move on their own, and odd symbols were scratched into the dirt around our house. Then came the whispers outside our windows at night, and the sound of footsteps creeping around in the dark. We tried to stay rational, but it was getting harder to ignore.
One morning, Regina called me into the backyard, her voice trembling. “Gabby, look at this.”
In the dirt was a crude drawing of a hand with long, spindly fingers.
“I didn’t do this,” I said, shaking my head.
“Neither did I,” Regina replied, her voice shaking. “What if Mrs. Harper was right?”
The final straw came when we found a small voodoo doll on our porch—its hands covered in tiny red gloves. A chill ran down my spine as we stood there, speechless.
“That’s it,” I said, my resolve firm. “We need answers.”
We decided to confront the neighbors and invited everyone over for a meeting. As our living room filled up, each person still wearing their red gloves, I took a deep breath and addressed them.
“Okay, what’s going on? Why are you all wearing these gloves? And what’s with the strange things happening around our house?”
To our surprise, the room burst into laughter. Mrs. Harper stepped forward, barely able to contain her amusement.
“Oh, Gabriel, Regina,” she chuckled, “I think it’s time we let you in on the secret.”
She explained that the gloves, the ghost story, and all the creepy things happening were part of an elaborate neighborhood prank—a tradition to welcome new residents and test how well they could handle a bit of fun.
“You both passed with flying colors!” she said, beaming.
Regina and I were stunned. Slowly, we began to laugh along with them.
“So all of this was just a prank?” I asked, still shaking my head.
“Exactly!” Mr. Richards, another neighbor, chimed in. “It’s a tradition. Every new couple gets the same treatment, and you both handled it like pros.”
A few weeks later, Regina and I decided to get back at them in a playful way. We threw another party, but this time we planted fake bugs around the house. As the night wore on, our guests started discovering them, jumping and laughing in surprise.
“You two are something else!” Mrs. Harper said, pulling a plastic spider from her napkin. “I knew you’d fit right in.”
Just like that, we had become true members of the community. As the last guest left, Mrs. Harper smiled at us and said, “You’re going to love it here. Welcome to the neighborhood—for real this time.”
As Regina and I closed the door, we couldn’t help but smile. Our quirky, strange neighbors had won us over. And though we never did get a pair of red gloves, we knew we had found our place in this unique little corner of the world.
“I think we’re going to be very happy here,” Regina said, leaning into me with a contented sigh.
“Me too,” I agreed. “Though maybe next time, we’ll ask about the neighborhood traditions before we move in!”