Shadows in the House by the Sea
In a coastal village where the salty wind whispered through narrow lanes, Emily spent the evening at her mother-in-law’s cottage. Waves crashed outside, and the air inside was thick with the scent of freshly made beef stew. Deep in the night, the silence shattered with a phone call. Emily glanced at the screen—her neighbor, Margaret, was calling.
“Emily, come home now!” Margaret’s voice trembled. “Someone’s just turned up at your place! Drove right into the yard, walked straight in!”
“What?!” Emily gasped, her pulse racing. “What car?”
“A big black Range Rover! Two of them, a man and a woman. She’s blonde, he’s got a moustache,” Margaret blurted.
Emily didn’t hesitate. She called a cab. An hour later, she slid the key into her front door, dread clawing at her chest. Pushing the door open gently, she stepped inside—and froze, disbelief rooting her to the spot.
—
“Oliver,” Emily dialed her son, fury lacing her tone. “Are you sneaking people into my house behind my back? No? Then who’s been traipsing around while I’m away? You’ve got keys!”
“Mum, what are you on about?” Oliver sounded baffled. “Haven’t been round in ages—I’m swamped at work! What’s happened?”
Emily listed the oddities: things misplaced, groceries vanishing from the fridge.
“I know where everything goes!” she fumed. “I come back from Gran’s, and it’s all upside down!”
—
Emily Whitmore had lived alone for three years. Her husband, William, spent most of the year working abroad, saving for retirement. She didn’t mind—they’d let the garden go, given up on keeping animals, planning to return to planting and hens once pensioned.
Lately, she’d split her time between her seaside house and the countryside, where her frail mother-in-law, Edith, lived. At eighty-seven, Edith often fell ill, and Emily spent half her weeks there, helping out.
The strangeness started recently. Returning from Edith’s once, Emily noticed unfamiliar towels in the bathroom—vivid green instead of her neatly folded blue ones. Tins of baked beans had vanished from the fridge, though she hadn’t touched them. The duvet in the bedroom was ruffled, as if someone had slept there.
At first, Emily wondered if she’d imagined it. Maybe she’d misremembered? Maybe the tins weren’t there, or she’d hung the towels herself? But the signs were too clear. Nothing was stolen—no money, no jewellery, no electronics. Locks intact, windows unbroken.
She blamed fatigue, but it happened again. The towels changed once more; tins disappeared. Emily stopped guessing and took photos before leaving for Edith’s. Returning a week later, she compared them—no doubt remained: someone had been living in her house.
Emily rushed to Margaret’s. Her neighbour, hearing her out, frowned.
“Didn’t see anyone, love. Your fence is too high to peek over. What’s the matter?”
“Things aren’t where I left them!” Emily shared. “Towels switch, food goes missing. I don’t know what to think!”
“Listen, maybe it’s Oliver? He’s got keys. Might be bringing someone round?” Margaret suggested.
Emily considered it. Her son and his wife, Charlotte, were happy—but what if he really was letting people in? To ease her conscience, she called Oliver.
“Mum, seriously?” Oliver huffed. “A mistress? I’m buried at work—ask Charlie! Don’t believe me? Let’s fit an alarm. Open the door without the code, and police show up.”
“An alarm?” Emily scoffed. “It’s not a bank! All I’ve lost is a few tins. Fine, I’ll think about it. Sorry for doubting you.”
After hanging up, she rang William. He laughed when she explained.
“Em, you’ve always got your head in the clouds! Remember missing our anniversary dinner, mixing up the time? Probably did the same now.”
Emily calmed slightly. True, she’d nearly missed their vow renewal by misreading the clock. But the photos? They didn’t lie.
—
Before her next trip to Edith’s, her daughter-in-law Charlotte called.
“Emily, how are things?”
“Just packing,” Emily replied. “Off to Edith’s tomorrow, must pop to Boots first. Swamped!”
“How long will you be gone?” Charlotte asked.
“Two weeks, as usual. You lot keeping busy?”
“Not much—fed the kids, about to iron. Ring before you come back, yeah? Fancy bringing the grandkids over, don’t want to miss you.”
Emily agreed—but a faint suspicion prickled.
Before leaving, she asked Margaret,
“Keep an eye out, would you? If something’s off—lights on late, strange cars—call me. I’ll cab back.”
“Course,” Margaret nodded.
—
Three nights later, Margaret’s call came in the dead of night.
“Emily, get home! Someone’s just pulled up—black Range Rover, a couple. Blonde woman, bloke with a ’tache.”
Emily’s blood ran cold. Only one man she knew had a moustache—Charlotte’s father, George. The blonde? Spitting image of her own mother, Patricia.
Emily hailed a cab. An hour later, she unlatched the garden gate. Parked in the drive was the in-laws’ Range Rover—she recognised the plate. Peering through the kitchen window, she saw Patricia setting the table with her food, George uncorking wine from her cellar.
Silently, Emily slipped inside, toeing off her shoes before stepping into the kitchen.
“Evening, lovely guests,” she said sweetly. “Bit late for a visit, isn’t it? And unannounced?”
The pair jolted.
“Emily—you’re meant to be at Edith’s!” George choked out.
“Oh, so you know my schedule?” Emily’s voice iced over. “Explain. Now.”
“Don’t make a fuss,” George soothed. “Just fancied a quiet getaway. What’s the harm?”
“You couldn’t ask?” Emily’s hands shook. “Who said you could treat my home like a hotel?”
“We’re family,” Patricia cut in. “Must we beg permission every time?”
“So this isn’t new?” Emily narrowed her eyes. “Who gave you keys?”
Silence.
“I’m calling the police,” Emily threatened.
“Charlotte did,” George muttered.
Emily dialled her daughter-in-law at once. Charlotte answered, groggy.
“What’s wrong? Why so late?”
“Your parents are in my house!” Emily snapped. “Explain.”
“Sorry, Emily,” Charlotte stammered. “I gave them the keys…”
“Charlotte, I’d never expect this from you!” Emily’s voice cracked. “I’ve been paranoid, thinking intruders were here! Was it too hard to ask?”
“Didn’t mean for it to go like this,” Charlotte mumbled.
Emily didn’t make a scene. She let the in-laws stay the night—they slipped away at dawn. By morning, she’d hired a locksmith, changed the barrels, and kept the new keys to herself. Oliver wouldn’t get spares—not now.
Leaving for Edith’s after, Emily no longer worried about the house. But the bitterness lingered. How could family do this? She’d learned: trust isn’t unconditional, even with kin.
