Shadows in the House by the Sea
In a little seaside village where salty winds whistled through narrow lanes, Emma was spending the evening at her mother-in-law’s cottage. Outside, waves crashed against the shore, while inside, the rich smell of beef stew filled the air. Late that night, the silence was shattered by her phone ringing—her neighbor Margaret was calling, voice trembling.
“Emma, come home, quick! Someone just pulled up to your place—a big black SUV drove right into your driveway, and two people went inside!”
“What?!” Emma’s heart hammered. “Who were they?”
“A man and a woman—blonde, and he had a thick mustache!”
Emma grabbed her coat, hailed a cab, and within an hour, she was fumbling with her house key, dread pooling in her stomach. Pushing the door open carefully, she froze, staring in disbelief.
—
“Oliver,” Emma hissed into the phone, her voice tight with anger. “Are you sneaking people into my house behind my back? No? Then who’s been rummaging through my things when I’m gone? You’ve got keys!”
“Mum, what on earth?” Her son sounded baffled. “I haven’t been round in ages—I’ve been swamped at work! What’s happened?”
Emma listed the oddities: misplaced belongings, food vanishing from the fridge.
“I know where I left everything! I come back from Gran’s, and it’s all rearranged!”
—
Emma Davies had lived alone for three years. Her husband, James, was usually overseas for work, saving up for their retirement. Emma didn’t mind—they’d let the garden go wild, no chickens or veg patches to tend. These days, she split her time between her cottage and the countryside, where her mother-in-law, Margaret, lived. At eighty-seven, Margaret needed help, so Emma spent half each month there.
The strangeness started small. Returning home once, Emma noticed unfamiliar towels in the bathroom—bright green instead of her neatly folded blue ones. Tins of baked beans were missing from the cupboard, though she swore she hadn’t touched them. The duvet in her bedroom was crumpled, as if someone had slept there.
At first, she doubted herself. Maybe she’d misremembered? But the evidence piled up—nothing stolen, no broken locks, just eerie little shifts.
Then it happened again. Different towels. Missing groceries. This time, she snapped photos before leaving. A week later, comparing them to the scene before her, the truth was undeniable: someone was using her home.
She rushed to Margaret’s. “Have you seen anyone lurking?”
“Not a soul, love,” Margaret said, frowning. “Your fence is too high—can’t see a thing. What’s going on?”
“Things keep moving! First it’s the towels, then food vanishes. I’m going mad!”
Margaret tilted her head. “Could it be Oliver? He’s got keys.”
Emma hesitated. Her son and his wife, Rebecca, were happy—but what if he was bringing someone over? She called him.
“Mum, are you joking?” Oliver groaned. “I’m buried in deadlines—ask Becky! If you’re that worried, let’s get a security system. Open the door without disarming it, and police show up.”
“This isn’t Fort Knox!” Emma scoffed. “We’re talking a few tins of beans. Fine, I’ll think about it. Sorry for doubting you.”
Next, she rang James. He laughed. “Em, you’ve always been scatterbrained! Remember when you mixed up the time for our anniversary dinner? You’ve probably just forgotten where you put things.”
She almost believed him—until she remembered the photos.
—
Before her next trip, Rebecca called. “Emma, how are you?”
“Packing,” Emma said. “Off to Margaret’s tomorrow—still need to pop to Boots.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“Two weeks, usual. Why?”
“Oh, nothing! Just wondered if the kids could visit when you’re back—let me know when you’re home, yeah? Don’t want to miss you.”
Emma agreed, but unease prickled.
As she left, she asked Margaret, “Keep an eye out, will you? If you see lights or strange cars, call me. I’ll take a cab straight back.”
—
Three nights later, the call came. “Emma, hurry! That SUV’s back—mustached man and blonde woman, just walked in!”
Emma’s blood ran cold. Only one man she knew had a mustache like that—Rebecca’s dad, Geoffrey. And the blonde? His wife, Patricia.
She raced home. Geoffrey’s Range Rover sat in the drive. Peering through the kitchen window, she saw Patricia setting the table with Emma’s dishes while Geoffrey uncorked her wine.
Emma stepped inside, icy calm. “Lovely evening for uninvited guests.”
They jumped. “Emma!” Geoffrey spluttered. “You’re meant to be at Margaret’s!”
“And you’re meant to ask before breaking into my house.”
Patricia waved a hand. “We’re family! Must we beg permission?”
“So this isn’t your first time?” Emma’s voice sharpened. “Who gave you keys?”
Silence.
“I’m calling the police.”
“Rebecca did,” Geoffrey muttered.
Emma dialled her daughter-in-law. “Your parents are in my house.”
Rebecca gasped. “I—I lent them the keys…”
“Do you have any idea how *violated* I’ve felt?” Emma’s throat ached. “You could’ve *asked*!”
“It was stupid, I’m sorry—”
Emma let them stay the night. By morning, they’d slunk away. She changed the locks, kept the new keys to herself.
Now, leaving for Margaret’s, Emma no longer glanced back in worry. But the sting lingered. Family—the ones you *should* trust—had crossed the line. Some lessons cut deepest when they come from home.
