The first knock at the door seemed harmless. It was just the beginning of our housewarming party. But as more neighbors trickled in, something strange crept over the night. Every single guest wore the same eerie red gloves, hiding something sinister in plain sight.
You know that feeling when everything feels just right? That’s how Regina and I felt when we moved into our dream home—a stunning Victorian villa in a charming neighborhood with tree-lined streets and friendly faces. We were over the moon, certain this was where we’d build the next chapter of our lives.
Little did we know that our housewarming party would uncover a side of this seemingly perfect community that we could never have imagined.
Our Victorian villa looked like it had leaped straight out of a fairytale. We couldn’t wait to get settled and meet our new neighbors. Regina was already bustling around, setting up snacks. “Gabby, can you grab the cheese platter from the kitchen?” she called from the living room.
I grabbed the platter, heart pounding with excitement. “Coming, babe!” I called back, balancing the tray in my hands. Everything felt like it was falling into place.
“This is going to be perfect,” Regina said with a radiant smile, giving my arm a squeeze. “We finally have our own place—and in such a wonderful neighborhood!”
The doorbell rang, and we exchanged giddy looks before hurrying to greet our first guests.
At first, everything was normal. The house filled up with chatter, laughter, and the clinking of glasses as neighbors got to know each other. Mrs. Harper, the sweet old lady next door, shuffled over to us with a warm smile.
“You’re going to love it here,” she said kindly. “We’re a tight-knit community. Just wait and see.”
I smiled back. “We already feel so welcome.” But as the evening continued, I noticed something weird.
Everyone was wearing red gloves.
I nudged Regina, whispering, “Why is everyone wearing gloves? And why are they all red?”
She furrowed her brow, glancing around. “Weird. Maybe it’s some local custom?”
“In the middle of summer?” I pointed out. “Who wears gloves in July?”
As more guests showed up, I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling building in my gut. No one took their gloves off—not to eat, not to drink. It was disturbing. My curiosity finally got the better of me, and I decided to ask Mrs. Harper about it.
“Those are some interesting gloves, Mrs. Harper,” I said casually. “Are they for something special?”
For a moment, her smile flickered, but she quickly recovered. “Oh, the gloves? It’s just… a little neighborhood tradition. You’ll get used to it.”
“A tradition?” I asked, feeling a little unsettled. “What’s it for?”
Mrs. Harper glanced around nervously before saying, “Let’s just say it’s something we’ve all agreed on for a long time. You’ll understand soon enough.”
“But why red? And why gloves?” I pushed, hoping for a clearer answer.
Her eyes darted around before she looked back at me, her voice firm but mysterious. “All in good time, Gabriel. Now, why don’t you go check on your other guests?”
With that, she slipped away, leaving me more confused than ever.
By the end of the night, Regina and I were both uneasy. “Did you notice how no one answered when we asked about the gloves?” she said while we cleaned up.
“I did,” I replied, shaking my head. “And they never took them off. Not once.”
The next morning, as we cleaned up the last of the party mess, Regina found a small note slipped under our door. Her face went pale as she read it aloud:
“Welcome to the neighborhood. Don’t forget your red gloves. You’ll need them soon.”
“What does that mean?” Regina gasped, gripping the note tightly.
I stared at the note, my mind racing. “I don’t know, but something’s not right.”
In the following days, things got even weirder. Neighbors kept hinting—subtly but constantly—that we should get our own red gloves. They acted like it was the most normal thing in the world, but the more they hinted, the more unnerving it became.
One morning, as I was grabbing the mail, Mrs. Harper approached me again. This time, 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, shocked. “A spirit? Mrs. Harper, you can’t be serious.”
Her face was grim. “Ignore this at your own peril, Gabriel. Don’t wait too long to get your gloves.”
She walked away, leaving me standing there, frozen, trying to make sense of what she’d just said. That night, I told Regina what Mrs. Harper had told me. We laughed it off, calling it a silly small-town superstition. But then strange things began happening.
At first, it was small stuff—garden tools shifting places, odd symbols scratched into the dirt around our house. But soon, it got worse. Whispers and footsteps outside our windows at night. We tried to stay calm, telling ourselves there had to be a logical explanation.
Then, one morning, Regina called me into the backyard, her voice trembling. “Gabby, come here. Look.”
In the dirt was a crude drawing of a hand with long, spindly fingers.
“I didn’t do this,” I said, feeling my heart race.
“Neither did I,” Regina replied, her voice shaking. “Do you think 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 stared at it, speechless.
“That’s it,” I said firmly. “We need answers.”
We called a meeting with the neighbors at our house. As our living room filled with people—each still wearing their red gloves—I took a deep breath and faced them.
“Alright, what’s going on? Why is everyone wearing these gloves? And what’s with all the strange things happening around our house?”
To our shock, the room erupted in laughter. Mrs. Harper, struggling to keep a straight face, stepped forward.
“Oh, Gabriel, Regina,” she chuckled, “I think it’s time we let you in on the joke.”
She explained that the gloves, the ghost story, and the creepy occurrences were all part of an elaborate prank—a neighborhood tradition to welcome new residents and test how well they handled a little fun. “You both passed with flying colors!” she added with a grin.
Regina and I were stunned. Slowly, as the realization sank in, we started laughing along with them.
“So… all of this was just a prank?” I asked, shaking my head in disbelief.
“Exactly!” Mr. Richards, another neighbor, chimed in. “It’s a tradition. Every new couple gets the same treatment, and you two handled it like pros.”
A few weeks later, Regina and I decided to get even in a lighthearted way. We hosted another party, this time planting fake bugs around the house. As the night went on, our guests started finding them, shrieking with surprise and laughter.
“You two are something else!” Mrs. Harper exclaimed, pulling a plastic spider from her napkin. “I knew you’d fit right in.”
And just like that, we had become true members of the community. As the last guest left, Mrs. Harper smiled warmly at us. “You’re going to love it here,” she said. “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’d 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 with a grin. “But maybe next time, we’ll ask about the neighborhood traditions before we move in!”
