The first knock on the door seemed innocent enough. Regina and I were hosting a housewarming party, and we were thrilled to meet all our new neighbors. But as the night went on, things started to feel… off. Every guest that walked in was wearing the same eerie red gloves. At first, it was subtle—easy to miss.

But as more people arrived, those gloves became impossible to ignore, like some kind of strange signal that something wasn’t right.

It all started when we bought our dream home—a beautiful Victorian villa in a charming neighborhood filled with tree-lined streets and seemingly friendly faces. It was perfect. Regina and I felt like we’d hit the jackpot. “We’re finally starting the next chapter of our lives,” she said, and we both believed it.

The house looked like something out of a fairytale, with its intricate details and wide porch. We couldn’t wait to move in, settle down, and throw our first party for the neighbors. “Gabby, can you grab the cheese platter from the kitchen?” Regina called out as she busily set up the living room. I rushed to help, my heart racing with excitement. Everything was going perfectly.

“This is going to be amazing,” Regina beamed, squeezing my arm. “Our first house, and in such a wonderful neighborhood!”

I smiled back, feeling the same. “It’s like a dream come true,” I said.

Then the doorbell rang.

We both exchanged excited glances before hurrying to open the door. At first, the party was everything we’d hoped for. Neighbors mingled, laughing and chatting as they explored our new home. Mrs. Harper, the sweet elderly woman from next door, was the first to introduce herself. She seemed lovely.

“You’re going to love it here,” she said, her eyes crinkling with warmth. “We’re a tight-knit community. You’ll see.”

“Thank you,” I replied. “We already feel so welcome.”

But as I stood there, something tugged at the back of my mind. Something wasn’t right. I glanced around the room. That’s when I noticed it—everyone was wearing the same red gloves.

I leaned over to Regina, whispering, “Why is everyone wearing gloves? And why are they all the same color?”

She frowned, glancing around. “That is weird… maybe it’s a local tradition?”

“In the middle of July? No way,” I said, feeling a chill creep over me.

As more guests arrived, the feeling of unease grew. No one took off their gloves—not to eat, not to drink. It was getting hard to ignore. Finally, I decided to ask Mrs. Harper about it.

“Those are some interesting gloves,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Is there some kind of occasion I missed?”

For a split second, Mrs. Harper’s warm smile flickered. She hesitated. “Oh, the gloves? It’s… just a little neighborhood tradition. You’ll get used to it.”

I raised an eyebrow. “A tradition? What’s it for?”

She glanced around, clearly uncomfortable. “Let’s just say it’s something we’ve all agreed on for a long time. You’ll understand soon enough.”

“Why red? And why gloves?”

Her eyes darted around the room before she responded, her voice firmer now. “All in good time, Gabriel. Why don’t you check on your other guests?”

With that, she quickly moved away, leaving me standing there with more questions than answers.

By the end of the night, Regina and I were both on edge. “Did you notice how no one answered when we asked about the gloves?” she asked, her voice low as we started cleaning up.

“I did. And the weirdest part—they never took them off,” I muttered, shaking my head.

The next morning, as we were picking up the last bits of the party decorations, Regina bent down and found something under the front door. “Gabby,” she whispered, her face pale. “Look at this.”

It was a note. “Welcome to the neighborhood. Don’t forget your red gloves. You’ll need them soon.”

My stomach turned as I read it. “What does that mean?” Regina gasped, clutching the paper.

“I don’t know,” I muttered, feeling a cold dread wash over me. “But something definitely isn’t right.”

Over the next few days, the neighbors kept subtly pressuring us to get red gloves of our own. At first, it seemed harmless, like they were just suggesting it. But the more they hinted, the more unsettling it became. Then one morning, Mrs. Harper caught me while I was grabbing the mail.

“The gloves aren’t just a tradition,” she said quietly, looking over her shoulder. “They protect us from the Hand of the Forgotten—the spirit that haunts this land.”

I blinked, trying to understand if she was serious. “A spirit?” I asked, my voice dripping with disbelief. “Mrs. Harper, come on, this can’t be real.”

Her face was grim. “Ignore this at your own risk, Gabriel. Don’t wait too long to get your gloves.”

I watched her walk away, frozen in place. Could she actually believe that?

That night, I told Regina everything. We both laughed it off, chalking it up to small-town superstition. But over the next few days, strange things started happening. First, our garden tools were mysteriously moved. Then, odd symbols appeared, scratched into the dirt around our house. Whispers and footsteps echoed outside our windows late at night. We tried to stay rational, but the fear was growing.

One morning, Regina called me into the backyard. Her voice trembled. “Gabby, look at this.”

There, scratched into the dirt, was a crude drawing of a hand—long, spindly fingers reaching out.

“I didn’t do this,” I whispered, shaking my head.

“Neither did I,” Regina said, her voice barely audible. “What if Mrs. Harper was right?”

The final straw came when we found a small, red-gloved voodoo doll on our porch. I froze, a chill running down my spine.

“That’s it,” I said, anger and fear boiling up inside me. “We need answers.”

We called a meeting, inviting all the neighbors to our house. As the living room filled with people, each one of them still wearing their red gloves, I couldn’t take it anymore. I took a deep breath and stepped forward.

“Okay, what’s going on?” I demanded. “Why are you all wearing these gloves? And what’s with the creepy stuff happening around our house?”

To my shock, the room erupted in laughter. Mrs. Harper, barely able to contain her amusement, walked up to us.

“Oh, Gabriel, Regina,” she chuckled, “I think it’s time we let you in on the secret.”

She explained everything. The gloves, the ghost stories, the creepy occurrences—they were all part of an elaborate prank. It was a tradition to welcome new residents and see how they handled the pressure. “You two passed with flying colors!” she said, beaming with pride.

Regina and I stood there, stunned. Slowly, as the truth set in, we began to laugh too.

“So… this was all a joke?” I asked, shaking my head.

“Exactly!” Mr. Richards chimed in. “Every new couple gets the same treatment, and you two were great sports about it.”

A few weeks later, Regina and I decided to get even. We hosted another party, but this time, we planted fake bugs all around the house. As the night went on, our guests found them, shrieking in surprise.

“You two are something else!” Mrs. Harper said, laughing as she pulled a plastic spider from her napkin. “I knew you’d fit right in.”

And just like that, we were part of the community. As the last guest left that night, 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 neighbors had won us over. And though we never did get our own red gloves, we knew we’d found our place in this strange, wonderful corner of the world.

“I think we’re going to be very happy here,” Regina said, leaning into me.

“Me too,” I agreed with a laugh. “But next time, maybe we’ll ask about the traditions before moving in.”