Emily froze by the front door, key in hand. A faint rustling and murmuring came from inside the flat. James was at work, and shed returned early, deciding to treat herself to a half-day off after an exhausting week. But now her heart pounded. Burglars? She cautiously cracked the door open and heard a familiar voice:
“Oh, Emily, James, youre such a mess! Dust on the windowsill, crumpled curtains! You ought to hire a cleanerwhat sort of home is this?”
In the hallway, clutching a broom, stood Auntie Margaret, their neighbour. Emily was stunned.
“Auntie Margaret? How did you get in?” Her voice trembled with shock and irritation.
“Oh, just being neighbourly, dear!” Auntie Margaret beamed as if her presence in their flat were perfectly normal. “I saw the door ajar and thought Id check if everything was alright. And what a state! Well, I couldnt just leave it, could I?”
“The door was locked,” Emily said coldly, gripping her bag. “I know it was.”
“Oh, dont be sillylocked, unlocked, whats the difference?” Auntie Margaret waved a hand as if shooing a fly. “Were all friends here, no need for secrets! At least its me and not some ruffian!”
Emily didnt know what to say. Her new home, hers and Jamess first proper flat, suddenly felt violated. She muttered a half-hearted “thanks” and ushered the older woman out, but resentment simmered inside. How did Auntie Margaret have access? And why did she act like she had the right?
This had started six months ago, when Emily and James, a young couple, moved into an old but cosy building on the outskirts of town. The flat was their pridethree years of saving for a deposit, taking out a mortgage, scrimping on everything from coffee to holidays. When they finally got the keys, Emily nearly cried with joy, and James, usually reserved, spun her around the empty living room, laughing.
“This is our home, Em! Ours!” hed said, eyes shining.
They settled in graduallybought a sofa, hung pale curtains, placed a potted ficus on the windowsill. But the little things thrilled them most: morning coffee in their tiny kitchen, cosy film nights under a blanket, plans for redecorating.
The day after moving in, the doorbell rang. A petite woman in her sixties, hair neatly styled, stood holding a basket.
“Hello, dears! Im Margaret ThompsonAuntie Margaret to you. Live just upstairs. Brought you some scones. Neighbourly welcome!” Her smile was so wide Emily couldnt help returning it.
“Oh, thank you!” Emily took the basket, flustered. “Would you like tea?”
“Just a quick visit,” Auntie Margaret said, stepping inside, eyes scanning the flat. “Oh, what an interesting layout! Though these walls could do with a fresh coat. And the kitchens a bit snug, isnt it?”
Emily hesitated but nodded politely. James, making tea, added, “Were planning renovations, but budgets tight. Well get there.”
“Quite right, good for you!” Auntie Margaret patted Emilys shoulder. “If you need help, just ask. I know everyone herecan point you to the best deals.”
The scones were delicious, and Auntie Margaret was chatty. She shared gossip about neighbours, the buildings history, even tips for getting the caretaker to clear snow earlier. Emily and James exchanged glancesmaybe theyd found an ally.
But soon, Auntie Margarets visits became frequent. Shed drop by “just to say hello,” bring more baked goods, or insist on “checking the plumbing” because “these old pipes burst if you blink.” Emily, raised to respect elders, stayed polite, but the comments grated.
One day, Auntie Margaret barged in while they painted the living room.
“Emily, why this colour?” She wrinkled her nose at the pale blue tin. “So cold! You want something warmer, like peach. And that rollers all wrongyoull get streaks.”
“We like blue,” Emily said tightly, gripping her brush. “Its our style.”
“Style, schmyle,” Auntie Margaret huffed. “Ive lived here forty years. Take my advicerepaint before its too late.”
James, wiping his hands, cut in: “Thanks, but weve decided. Fancy a cuppa?”
Auntie Margaret pursed her lips but stayed. Over tea, she mentioned complaints about their DIY noise and “incorrect” bin sorting. Emilys stomach twisted. Were they already being judged?
“Are we doing something wrong?” she whispered to James later.
“Em, were fine,” he said, hugging her. “Auntie Margaret just loves sticking her nose in. Lets keep our distance.”
But Auntie Margaret didnt retreat. She ambushed Emily by the bins, probing about jobs, salaries, baby plans. Once, Emily returned to find their postbox open, bills neatly stacked on the bench.
“Did you take our post?” Emily asked when she spotted her outside.
“I was helping! Your box was overflowingthought youd lose something. Oh, and your electric bills so high! I can show you how to adjust the meter.”
Emilys face burned. She mumbled something and fled, suspicion growing. Why this obsession with their lives?
It worsened when a cheaply suited man knocked, claiming to be an estate agent. He pushed them to sell, insisting the building was “falling apart.” Emily refused, but he left a card, adding, “Think it over. These flats dont stay empty long. Margaret speaks highly of you.”
“Margaret?” Emily frowned. “Whats she got to do with this?”
“Oh, she recommended you!” He smiled. “Said you might reconsider for the right price.”
Emily slammed the door, seething. Auntie Margaret was discussing them with strangers? Why?
A week later came the “open door” incident. Emily couldnt shake it. James, usually calm, was livid: “She broke in, Em! Howd she get a key? We changed the locks!”
“I dont know,” Emily fretted. “Maybe from the old tenants? Dima, I think shes up to something.”
They checked the buildings new CCTV. The footage horrified them: Auntie Margaret, smiling, used a key to enter their flatmultiple times while they were out.
“Is she spying? Stealing?” Emilys throat tightened.
“Nothings missing,” James said. “But this is insane. Were confronting her.”
The talk was tense. Emily knocked, steeling herself.
“Auntie Margaret, we need to talk. Why were you in our flat? Howd you get a key?”
“Oh, Emily, what nonsense!” Auntie Margaret flapped her hands. “I was helping! The door was open. The keys oldfrom the previous owners, Id forgotten I had it!”
“Youve been in multiple times,” James said firmly. “Weve seen the CCTV. Explain.”
Auntie Margaret paled but rallied. “How dare you accuse me? Forty years Ive lived here! I brought you scones, gave advice, and this is my thanks?”
“We appreciate the scones,” Emily said evenly. “But you crossed a line. Hand over the key and stay out.”
Grudgingly, Auntie Margaret surrendered it, muttering about “ingratitude.” Relief was short-livedinstinct said this wasnt over.
Days later, Emily overheard Auntie Margaret gossiping by the bins:
“Those newbies on the third floorso rude! I helped them, and they threatened the police! Good thing I told that agenthell have them out soon. This buildings for decent folk, not their sort.”
Emily froze. Agent? Out? She called James, who suggested legal help. Their lawyer discovered Auntie Margaret colluded with a shady agent, feeding him intel on new residents. The agent scared owners into selling cheap, and Auntie Margaret got a cut. Their flat, in a rising area, was prime bait.
“This is fraud,” the lawyer said. “Gather evidence, and well report it.”
They set a trap, inviting Auntie Margaret for “peace talks,” recording the chat.
“That agent you mentionedis he reliable?” Emily asked innocently.
“Oh, absolutely, dear!” Auntie Margaret brightened. “Ive told him all about youhell give top price. This place is falling apart anyway.”
“How long have you worked with him?” James asked casually.
“Oh, a good ten years,” she boasted. “I refer all the new ones. He shows his appreciation.”
The recording went to the police. The agent was fined; Auntie Margaret, exposed, moved to her daughters in Manchester. The flat was finally theirs. They finished decoratingwalls blissfully blueand bought a second ficus. The postbox stayed private.
“You know, Em,” James said, pouring coffee, “I thought a new home was just walls and furniture. Turns out, its
