Regina and I had just moved into our dream home—a beautiful Victorian villa in a quiet, tree-lined neighborhood. Everything seemed perfect: crisp air, friendly neighbors, and a lively housewarming party to celebrate. The laughter was warm, the wine flowed easily, and we felt at ease—until we noticed something strange.
One by one, every guest arrived wearing identical red gloves. In the middle of summer, it felt odd, but no one removed them—not to eat, not to drink. When our eyes lingered too long, some guests subtly tucked their hands away. Unease crept in.
As the night wound down, our elderly neighbor, Mrs. Harper, leaned close. “You’re part of us now,” she said softly. “The gloves are a promise. A pact.”
Chills ran through me. “A pact for what?” I asked. Her smile didn’t touch her eyes. “To protect what’s ours. To never speak of what happened here before.”
The cozy house suddenly felt different—less like a home, more like a stage we’d stepped onto without knowing our lines. The red gloves weren’t just a quaint tradition. They were a warning, binding us to something we hadn’t agreed to, but were now undeniably part of.
