The first knock on the door felt innocent enough, but as more neighbors arrived at our housewarming party, things took a strange and eerie turn. Every single one of them wore the same unsettling red gloves, concealing something we couldn’t quite figure out.
You know that feeling when everything falls into place? That was us—Regina and I had just moved into our dream home, a stunning Victorian villa nestled in a cozy, friendly neighborhood. We thought we had hit the jackpot. Little did we know, the housewarming would uncover a chilling secret about our seemingly perfect community that still sends shivers down my spine.
As I balanced the cheese platter from the kitchen, Regina smiled at me with excitement. “This is going to be perfect,” she whispered, squeezing my arm.
“I know,” I replied, grinning back. “Can’t believe we finally have our own place—and in such a great neighborhood, too!”
But as the night progressed, the party’s cheerful atmosphere took an odd turn. I started noticing it first—each guest had on the same pair of bright red gloves, which seemed out of place, especially for a summer evening.
“Hey, what’s with the gloves?” I whispered to Regina.
She scanned the room, frowning. “That is weird. Maybe it’s a local thing?”
But something felt off. No one removed their gloves, even to eat or drink. When I casually asked Mrs. Harper, our elderly neighbor, about it, she stiffened, her smile faltering. “It’s just…a neighborhood tradition,” she said cryptically before quickly changing the subject.
As the night wore on, my uneasiness grew. After the last guests left, Regina and I exchanged worried looks. “Did you notice how they all avoided talking about the gloves?” Regina asked, her brow furrowed.
I nodded. “Yeah, and no one took them off the entire time.”
The next morning, things got weirder. Regina found a small note slipped under our door. Her face paled as she read it aloud: “Welcome to the neighborhood. Don’t forget your red gloves. You’ll need them soon.”
Our unease deepened as days passed. Neighbors subtly urged us to get our own red gloves. Then strange things started happening—garden tools moved inexplicably, and odd symbols appeared around our house. Mrs. Harper eventually confronted me, whispering, “The gloves aren’t just for tradition. They protect us from the Hand of the Forgotten, a spirit that haunts this land.”
I was stunned, brushing it off as superstition. But one morning, Regina found a drawing of a hand with long fingers scratched into the dirt in our yard. That’s when we knew something was seriously wrong.
When a red-gloved voodoo doll appeared on our porch, we decided it was time for answers. We called for a neighborhood meeting, determined to confront everyone. As the living room filled with our red-gloved neighbors, I spoke up, demanding to know what was really going on.
To our surprise, the room erupted in laughter. Mrs. Harper, still chuckling, explained, “It’s just a prank! Every new couple gets the same treatment. It’s our way of welcoming you to the community.”
Regina and I were stunned, but as the realization sank in, we couldn’t help but laugh along. The gloves, the creepy occurrences—it had all been a test of our resolve.
A few weeks later, we decided to get our neighbors back. We hosted a “thank you” dinner and planted fake bugs throughout the house. By the end of the night, our neighbors were finding the fake critters everywhere, yelping in surprise. The laughter and playful pranks brought us closer, and by the end of the evening, it felt like we had truly become part of the quirky, tight-knit community.
As Mrs. Harper left, she smiled warmly. “You two will fit in here just fine,” she said. Regina leaned into me and sighed, “I think we’re going to be very happy here.”
I kissed the top of her head, smiling. “Next time, though, let’s ask about neighborhood ‘traditions’ before we move in!” We laughed, heading back into our home—a place now filled with new friends, memories, and a few red gloves tucked away just in case.