**Shadows in the Seaside House**
In a quiet coastal village where the salty breeze drifted through narrow lanes, Elizabeth spent the evening at her mother-in-law’s cottage. The distant crash of waves outside mingled with the rich scent of roast beef simmering in the kitchen. But deep in the night, the silence was shattered by a ringing phone—her neighbor, Margaret, was calling.
“Lizzie, come quick!” Margaret’s voice trembled. “Someone just pulled up to your house! Parked in the drive, walked right in!”
“What?” Elizabeth gasped, her pulse racing. “What kind of car?”
“A big black Range Rover! A man and a woman—blonde, and him with a thick mustache!”
Without wasting a moment, Elizabeth hailed a cab. An hour later, she slid her key into the front door, dread tightening her chest. Stepping inside, she froze, eyes wide in disbelief.
—
“Oliver,” Elizabeth called her son, voice shaking with anger. “Have you been sneaking people into my house behind my back? What do you mean, no? Then who’s been traipsing in while I’m gone? You’ve got keys!”
“Mum, what’s got into you?” Oliver sighed. “I haven’t been round in ages. Work’s been mad! What’s wrong?”
Elizabeth listed the oddities: misplaced items, food vanishing from the fridge.
“I know where everything belongs!” she snapped. “I come back from Gran’s, and it’s all been rifled through!”
—
Elizabeth Taylor had lived alone for three years. Her husband, William, worked abroad most of the year, saving for their retirement. She didn’t complain—they’d let the garden go, given up keeping chickens, promising to return to it later.
Lately, she split her time between her home and the countryside, where her mother-in-law, Evelyn, a frail woman of eighty-seven, needed constant care.
Then the strangeness began. Returning one day, Elizabeth noticed unfamiliar towels—bright red instead of her neatly folded blue ones. Tins of baked beans had vanished from the fridge, though she swore she hadn’t touched them. The duvet in the bedroom was rumpled, as though someone had slept there.
At first, she blamed forgetfulness. Maybe she’d imagined the tins? Hung the red towels herself? But the signs were too deliberate. Nothing was stolen—no money, no jewelry, no electronics. Locks intact, windows sealed.
She chalked it up to exhaustion—until it happened again. Different towels, more missing food. This time, she took photos before leaving for Evelyn’s. A week later, comparing them to reality, the truth was undeniable: someone *was* living in her house.
She rushed to Margaret’s. The neighbor frowned.
“Haven’t seen a soul, Lizzie. Your hedge is too high to see through. What’s the matter?”
“Things keep moving!” Elizabeth confessed. “Towels change, food disappears. I don’t know what to think!”
“Could it be Oliver? He has keys,” Margaret suggested.
Elizabeth hesitated. Her son and his wife, Charlotte, were happy. But what if…? To clear her mind, she called him.
“Mum, honestly!” Oliver groaned. “What ‘other woman’? I’m swamped at work—ask Charlotte! If you’re that worried, let’s get a burglar alarm. Open the door without the code, and the police come.”
“An alarm?” She scoffed. “It’s not a bank! All I’ve lost are a few tins of beans.”
She rang William next. He chuckled.
“Liz, you’ve always mixed things up. Remember missing the Johnson’s anniversary? You got the time wrong. Bet it’s the same this time.”
She almost believed him—until she remembered the photos.
—
Before her next trip, Charlotte phoned.
“Elizabeth, how are you?”
“Packing,” Elizabeth said. “Off to Evelyn’s tomorrow. Pharmacy, chores—so much to do!”
“How long will you be gone?”
“Two weeks, usual. What about you?”
“Oh, just the usual. Fed the kids, ironing piled up. Ring me before you come back, will you? I’d like to bring the grandkids over.”
Elizabeth agreed—but unease pricked at her.
She turned to Margaret. “Keep an eye on things? If you see lights at night, a strange car—call me straight away.”
—
Three nights later, Margaret’s call came.
“Lizzie—they’re back! That Range Rover’s in your drive! Blonde woman, mustached man!”
Elizabeth’s blood ran cold. Only one man she knew had *that* mustache—Charlotte’s father, Geoffrey. And the blonde? His wife, Diane.
The cab ride home felt endless. Peering through the kitchen window, she saw Diane setting the table with *her* food, Geoffrey uncorking *her* wine.
Elizabeth stepped inside, her voice icy.
“Lovely evening for a visit. Shame I wasn’t invited.”
The pair startled.
“Elizabeth! You’re meant to be at Evelyn’s!” Geoffrey blurted.
“Ah, so you *do* know my schedule.” She crossed her arms. “Care to explain?”
“Just needed time alone,” Diane said airily.
“You couldn’t *ask*?” Elizabeth’s voice shook.
“We’re family!” Geoffrey protested.
“Then why hide it? Who gave you keys?”
Silence.
“I’m calling the police.”
“Charlotte did,” Geoffrey muttered.
Elizabeth dialed her daughter-in-law.
“What’s happening? It’s the middle of the night!” Charlotte mumbled.
“Your parents are in *my house*,” Elizabeth hissed.
Charlotte stammered apologies.
“I *trusted* you!” Elizabeth’s throat tightened. “I thought I was losing my mind!”
She let the pair stay the night, but by dawn, they’d fled. A locksmith changed every lock. She kept Oliver’s new key—just in case.
Returning to Evelyn’s no longer filled her with dread—but the betrayal lingered. She’d learned a hard truth: trust, even in family, must have its limits.
