The Uninvited Party
Margaret Whitmore adjusted her third outfit of the evening before the mirror when the first strains of music drifted through the thin walls from the flat next door. She frowned, set aside the blue blouse, and listened. The clock read half past seven—too early for complaints, though her neighbour, Veronica, wasn’t one for raucous gatherings.
“Perhaps someone’s birthday,” Margaret muttered, pulling on a grey cardigan. “Though a warning would’ve been polite.”
The music swelled, joined now by laughter and chatter. Margaret pressed her ear to the shared wall. Far too many voices for a quiet evening.
A knock at the door. Margaret, still in her homely cardigan, peered through the peephole. Mrs. Higgins from downstairs stood there, her smile tight with forced politeness.
“Good evening,” the woman began before the door had fully opened. “You wouldn’t happen to know what Veronica’s celebrating? The music’s shaking the whole building.”
“No idea,” Margaret admitted. “It’s odd—she’s usually so quiet.”
“Perhaps she’s not even there,” Mrs. Higgins lowered her voice. “Perhaps it’s intruders. These are strange times…”
They exchanged a glance. Veronica lived alone, worked at the library, and kept to herself. No one had ever seen her with such company.
“Let’s go up together and ask,” Margaret suggested. “If something’s amiss, we’ll call the police.”
They climbed the stairs. The music pulsed from under Veronica’s door, punctuated by raucous laughter. Margaret rang the bell.
The door swung open at once. There stood Veronica—but utterly transformed. Hair tousled, cheeks flushed, a champagne flute in hand. She wore a vibrant red dress Margaret had never seen before.
“Oh!” Veronica beamed. “My dear neighbours! Come in, come in! We’re celebrating!”
“What’s the occasion, Veronica?” Margaret asked cautiously, peering past her into the flat.
A proper crowd had gathered—eight, perhaps ten people. Men and women of all ages, dressed to the nines, glasses in hand. A lavish cake dominated the table, flanked by hors d’oeuvres and bottles of sparkling wine.
“Does it matter?” Veronica waved a hand. “Life’s the celebration! Come, join us!”
“Veronica, who are these people?” Mrs. Higgins pressed. “Where did they come from?”
“Friends!” Veronica declared. “Old, dear friends! We met, we bonded, and now we toast to it!”
A man’s voice called from inside: “Veronica! The toast won’t wait!”
“Coming!” she sang over her shoulder. “Ladies, do come in! Or I’ll pop round later with all the details!”
The door shut. The neighbours stood dumbfounded on the landing.
“Something’s not right,” Mrs. Higgins muttered. “Our Veronica, with that lot? And those men—one looked downright shady.”
“Perhaps she’s in love?” Margaret ventured. “Love changes people.”
“At fifty-five? Don’t be daft.”
Margaret nearly argued that fifty-five wasn’t a death sentence, but the music surged, drowning all conversation.
Morning brought unnatural silence. Margaret had fallen asleep to the party’s din, which had lasted until three. Now, the flat next door lay tomb-quiet.
On her way to work, she crossed paths with Mrs. Higgins in the stairwell.
“Sleep well?” the woman snipped. “I tossed all night. And this morning—fancy cars parked outside. Gone now.”
“Guests leaving, I suppose.”
“Exactly. But who were they? And what’s got into our Veronica?”
At lunch, Margaret spotted Veronica in the corner shop, back in her usual drab coat and scarf, buying bread, milk, and the cheapest sausages.
“Veronica!” Margaret called. “How was last night’s party?”
Veronica turned—Margaret gasped. Her face was ashen, eyes red-rimmed as if she’d wept for hours.
“What party?” Veronica whispered.
“The one at yours! Music, guests—you invited us in!”
“Oh… that.” Veronica turned to the till. “They had the wrong flat.”
“The wrong flat? You welcomed them yourself!”
“Don’t recall,” she murmured. “Must’ve dreamt it.”
She paid and hurried out, leaving Margaret bewildered.
That evening, Margaret knocked. Veronica hesitated before undoing the locks.
“May I come in?” Margaret asked.
“Best not,” Veronica stalled. “It’s a mess after… cleaning.”
“Veronica, what’s happened? You’ve been odd all day.”
A pause. Then, softly: “Come in.”
The flat bore all the signs of revelry—plastic cups, a shattered glass, cake remnants dried on the table. Strangest of all was the lingering scent of foreign perfumes and cigarettes Veronica never smoked.
“What happened here?”
Veronica sank into an armchair, cradling her head.
“I don’t know how to explain. Yesterday morning, I went to the library as usual. When I returned… they were already here.”
“Who?”
“Strangers. At my table, eating, drinking, music playing. A distinguished man in a suit approached me and said, ‘Veronica! We’ve waited so long!’”
Margaret perched on the sofa’s edge.
“What did you do?”
“What could I do? I thought perhaps I’d forgotten inviting them—age, you know. They were so warm, said they’d longed to meet me, knew all about me. One elegant woman—a former librarian—we talked shop for hours.”
“But you’d never seen them before?”
“Never! Yet… it felt like they truly knew me. Asked about my parents, even remembered my cat, Whiskers—gone a year now.”
“Perhaps mutual friends mentioned you?”
“What friends? Only my colleagues. But they knew details…” Veronica faltered. “I wondered… if they were angels.”
“Angels?”
“Mum always said they could walk among us. I’ve been so alone—perhaps this was a gift?”
Margaret eyed the wreckage, Veronica’s tear-streaked face.
“And in the morning?”
“Gone. Only this mess remained. And a note.” She handed Margaret a crumpled sheet.
“‘Thank you for your hospitality. We will return.’ Signature illegible.”
The paper was expensive, the handwriting neat.
“Anything missing?”
“No. Quite the opposite—my fridge is stocked with delicacies I’d never buy. And money…” Veronica flushed. “In my handbag. A great deal.”
“How much?”
“Nearly five hundred pounds. Can you imagine? I’d thought I was down to bread till pension day.”
Silence fell. Outside, children shrieked, a dog barked—ordinary sounds underscoring the flat’s eerie stillness.
“Margaret,” Veronica whispered. “What if they do return?”
“Do you want them to?”
For a long moment, Veronica gazed out the window.
“Yesterday, with them… I felt needed. Important. They listened to my stories, laughed at my jokes. No one’s laughed at my jokes in years. And we danced—I hadn’t danced in twenty years.”
“But they’re strangers. Who knows their intentions?”
“What have I left to fear losing?” Veronica smiled bitterly. “This flat? My worn-out furniture? Books? Let them take it. For one night, I was happy.”
Margaret’s protest died unspoken—Veronica’s words held too much truth.
Then, a chime—an odd, melodic ring. Veronica startled.
“They’re back,” she breathed, rushing to the door.
“Wait!” Margaret grabbed her arm. “Let’s check first!”
But Veronica was already undoing the locks. “Good Lord! You came!”
The elegant woman from before stepped in, followed by the suited man and others.
“Darling Veronica!” The woman embraced her. “We promised, didn’t we? And who’s this?”
“My neighbour, Margaret. A dear friend.”
“Splendid!” The man smiled. “We’d hoped to meet Veronica’s neighbours.”
“How do you know her?” Margaret demanded.
“Oh, that’s a long tale,” the woman demurred. “Old friends. Very old. Isn’t that right?”
Veronica nodded, though doubt flickered in her eyes.
“What exactly do you do?” Margaret pressed.
“We help people,” the man said. “Those needing… companionship. Understanding. Small kindnesses. Veronica is precisely such a soul.”
“What kind of help?”
“Varied. Sometimes a visit suffices. Sometimes… more.”
Margaret’s unease grew. Their charm felt too practised, their knowledge of Veronica too intimate.
“Veronica,” she urged, “perhaps we should—”
“What’s to discuss?” Veronica laughed. “They’re here! For me! Please, come in!”
The evening repeated itself—music, laughter, stories. Now among them, Margaret observed closely.
The guests were undeniably captivating. They listened intently as Veronica spun tales of her life—mundane recollections transformed into grand adventures under their rapt attention.
“Remember,” the elegant woman said, “”And as the clock struck midnight, Margaret glimpsed the strangers’ reflections in the mirror—where no one stood—and understood at last why Veronica’s laughter had sounded so much like an echo from long ago.”
