When Regina and I moved into our dream Victorian home, the neighborhood seemed perfect—until our housewarming party. Every guest arrived wearing identical red gloves. No one took them off, even to eat. When I asked Mrs. Harper about it, she smiled oddly: “It’s a neighborhood tradition.” The next morning, a note appeared under our door: Welcome. Don’t forget your red gloves. You’ll need them soon.
Strange noises followed—tools moving, symbols in the dirt. Then a red-gloved doll appeared on our porch. We finally confronted everyone, demanding answers. The room erupted in laughter—it was a prank, a rite of initiation for new neighbors. Relief washed over us. Weeks later, we plotted our revenge with fake bugs, turning fear into laughter. We’d finally found our place—among playful, glove-wearing friends.
