You know that feeling when everything seems perfect? That’s how Regina and I felt when we bought our dream house—a stunning Victorian villa in a quaint neighborhood with tree-lined streets, flower beds blooming on every corner, and neighbors who waved like old friends. We were over the moon, convinced we’d found not just a house, but a home.

Little did we know, our housewarming party would reveal a side of this idyllic community that still gives me chills when I think about it.

“Gabby, honey, can you grab the cheese platter from the kitchen?” Regina called, her voice humming with excitement.

“Coming, babe!” I replied, carefully balancing the heavy platter as I returned to the living room.

Regina’s eyes sparkled as she squeezed my arm. “This is going to be perfect.”

“I know,” I said, grinning. “Our first night as official homeowners. And in such a great neighborhood, too.”

The doorbell chimed, and we exchanged giddy glances before welcoming our first guests.

At first, everything seemed normal. Laughter filled the rooms, glasses clinked, and friendly chatter wrapped around us like a warm blanket. Mrs. Harper, our elderly next-door neighbor, assured us, “You’re going to love it here. It’s such a close-knit community.”

“We already do,” I replied.

“Oh, just wait,” she said with a wink. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

It was meant playfully, but the words stuck in my mind.

As the evening progressed, I noticed something strange—something so small at first, I almost brushed it off. Every single guest was wearing red gloves. Identical ones.

I leaned toward Regina and whispered, “Hey… what’s with the gloves?”

Her brow furrowed. “That is weird. Maybe some quirky local tradition?”

“But it’s summer,” I said. “And they’re all the exact same shade.”

No one removed them, not to eat, drink, or even fan themselves when the room grew warm. When I tried to ask casually, Mrs. Harper’s smile faltered for the briefest moment.

“Oh, these? Just… a neighborhood tradition. You’ll understand soon.”

Her tone was light, but her eyes darted nervously before she walked away.

By the time the last guest left, Regina and I were unsettled. That night, while cleaning up, she found a note slipped under our door.

Welcome to the neighborhood. Don’t forget your red gloves. You’ll need them soon.

“Gabby…” she whispered, her face pale.

I stared at the words. My chest tightened. “What the hell does this mean?”

The following days only deepened our unease. Tools in our shed moved on their own. Symbols—jagged, cryptic—appeared etched into the dirt around our home. At night, whispers slithered under our windows.

When I asked Mrs. Harper again, her voice dropped low. “The gloves aren’t just tradition. They protect us from the Hand of the Forgotten. The spirit that haunts this land.”

I laughed nervously. “A spirit?”

Her eyes burned into mine. “Mock it if you want. But get your gloves. Or you’ll regret it.”

Regina and I dismissed it as superstition—until one morning she called me outside. In the dirt, someone had drawn a grotesque hand with long, spindly fingers. Days later, we found a red-gloved voodoo doll waiting on our porch.

That was it. We demanded answers.

We invited the neighbors back for a meeting, determined to confront them. As our living room filled with red-gloved hands, I stood tall.

“Enough. What’s the deal with the gloves? With the notes? With the whispers outside our house?”

For a beat, silence hung heavy in the air. Then—laughter erupted.

Mrs. Harper stepped forward, tears of mirth in her eyes. “Oh, Gabriel, Regina. You two were priceless! The gloves, the ‘Hand of the Forgotten’—it was all a prank. Every new couple gets it. Our little way of… welcoming you.”

Regina’s jaw dropped. I blinked, stunned.

“A prank?” I repeated.

“Exactly,” another neighbor said. “We outdo ourselves every time. And you two—well, you were the most fun yet.”

It took a moment, but eventually, we laughed along. Relief mingled with embarrassment.

A few weeks later, we plotted playful revenge. At a “thank you” dinner for the neighbors, we slipped realistic fake bugs into napkins and drinks. The shrieks, yelps, and laughter that followed bonded us in a way words couldn’t.

By the end of the night, Mrs. Harper patted my shoulder warmly. “You’ll fit in here just fine.”

I grinned. “We’re keeping our red gloves—just in case.”

She chuckled. “That’s the spirit.”

As Regina and I stood at our doorway, watching our neighbors disappear into the summer night, hand in hand, we finally felt at home. The villa wasn’t just ours anymore—it was part of something larger.

And though we knew the prank was only a prank, every so often, when the wind rattles the windows just right, I swear I hear the faintest whisper… a hand brushing against the glass.