The Uninvited Party
Margaret Whitmore adjusted her third outfit of the evening before the mirror when the first notes of music drifted through the thin walls from the next flat. She frowned, set aside the teal blouse, and listened. The clock read half past seven—too early for complaints, though her neighbor, Veronica, wasn’t one for rowdy gatherings.
“Perhaps someone’s birthday,” Margaret muttered, pulling on a grey cardigan. “Still, she could’ve warned us.”
The music swelled, now joined by laughter and chatter. Margaret pressed her ear to the shared wall. Far more than two or three voices filled the flat next door.
A knock startled her. Margaret peered through the peephole to find Mrs. Wilkins from downstairs, her smile tight.
“Evening,” Mrs. Wilkins began before Margaret had fully opened the door. “Any idea what Veronica’s celebrating? The racket’s shaking the whole building.”
“No clue,” Margaret admitted. “Odd, isn’t it? She’s usually so quiet.”
“Suppose she’s even there,” Mrs. Wilkins lowered her voice. “Times being what they are—could be strangers inside.”
The women exchanged glances. Veronica lived alone, worked at the library—a woman of routine. No wild parties in her past.
“Let’s check together,” Margaret suggested. “If something’s wrong, we’ll call the police.”
They climbed the stairs. The music pulsed under Veronica’s door, punctuated by raucous laughter. Margaret pressed the bell.
The door swung open. Veronica stood there—but not the Veronica they knew. Hair dishevelled, cheeks flushed, clutching a champagne flute. A crimson dress Margaret had never seen before hugged her frame.
“Oh!” Veronica beamed. “My lovely neighbors! Come in, come in! We’re celebrating!”
“What’s the occasion, dear?” Margaret asked, eyeing the flat behind her.
A crowd filled the space—at least eight strangers, smartly dressed, glasses in hand. A lavish cake dominated the table, surrounded by canapés and champagne bottles.
“Does it matter?” Veronica waved a hand. “Life’s the occasion! Join us!”
“Veronica, who *are* these people?” Mrs. Wilkins pressed.
“Friends!” Veronica laughed. “Old, dear friends! We’re toasting our bond!”
From inside, a man’s voice called: “Veronica! The toast!”
“Coming!” She turned back. “Do stay! Or I’ll visit later with all the details!”
The door shut. The women stood frozen on the landing.
“Something’s off,” Mrs. Wilkins muttered. “Our Veronica with that lot? And those men—one looked downright shady.”
“Maybe she’s in love?” Margaret offered. “Love changes people.”
“At fifty-five? Don’t be daft.”
Margaret might’ve argued, but the music drowned all thought.
Dawn brought silence—deep, eerie. Margaret had fallen asleep to thumping bass that ceased near three. Now, the flat next door lay tomb-quiet.
In the hallway, she crossed paths with Mrs. Wilkins.
“Sleep well?” the woman snipped. “I tossed all night. And this morning—posh cars lined the curb. Gone now.”
“Guests must’ve left.”
“*Exactly.* But who were they? And what’s gotten into our Veronica?”
At lunch, Margaret spotted Veronica in the supermarket, back in her drab coat and scarf. Bread, milk, economy sausages in her basket.
“Veronica!” Margaret called. “How was last night’s party?”
Veronica turned. Margaret gasped. Her face was ashen, eyes red-rimmed.
“What party?”
“The one at your flat! Music, guests—you *invited* us!”
“Oh… that.” Veronica turned to the till. “They’d mistaken the address.”
“Mistaken? You welcomed them!”
“Don’t recall.” She hurried out, leaving Margaret bewildered.
That evening, Margaret knocked. Veronica fumbled with locks before opening.
“May I come in?”
“Best not. It’s… messy after cleaning.”
“What’s *happened*, Veronica?”
A pause. Then: “Come in.”
The flat bore the scars of revelry: plastic cups, shattered glass, cake remnants. Strangers’ perfume and cigarette smoke lingered.
“Explain this.”
Veronica sank into a chair. “Yesterday morning, I left for work. When I returned… they were here.”
“Who?”
“People. Strangers. Eating, drinking, music blaring. A man in a suit said, ‘Veronica! We’ve waited so long!’”
“And you just… allowed it?”
“What could I do? They *knew* me. An elegant woman—said she’d been a librarian too. They asked about my parents, even…” Her voice cracked. “Even my late cat, Whiskers.”
“Someone must’ve told them.”
“But who? I’ve no one but coworkers. And the details they knew…” She whispered, “I wondered if they were angels.”
“*Angels?*”
“Mum said angels walk among us. Maybe… it was a gift? I’ve been so alone…”
Margaret eyed the wreckage. “Where’d they go this morning?”
“Vanished. Only this mess remained. And a note.”
She handed Margaret a crumpled sheet: *”Thanks for your kindness. We’ll return.”*
Unease prickled Margaret’s neck. “Anything missing?”
“No. Quite the opposite—the fridge is stocked with posh food I’d never buy. And money…” Veronica reddened. “Over three hundred quid in my bag. Where from?”
They sat in heavy silence.
“Marg,” Veronica finally said, “what if they *do* come back?”
“Do you *want* them to?”
Veronica gazed out the window. “Last night… I felt *seen*. They listened, laughed at my jokes—no one’s done that in years. We *danced*, Marg. Twenty years since I’ve danced.”
“But they’re strangers! Who knows their game?”
“What have I left to lose?” Veronica smiled bitterly. “This flat? Old furniture? Let them take it. For one night, I was happy.”
A chime cut through—a melody Margaret didn’t recognize. Veronica bolted up.
“They’re back,” she breathed.
“Wait!” Margaret grabbed her arm. “Check first!”
But Veronica was already flinging the door open. The elegant woman from before stepped in, flanked by the suited man.
“Darling!” The woman embraced Veronica. “We promised, didn’t we?” Her gaze flicked to Margaret. “And who’s this?”
“My neighbor, Margaret. A dear friend.”
“Splendid!” The man grinned. “We’d love to know Veronica’s neighbors.”
“How *do* you know her?” Margaret demanded.
“A long story,” the woman purred. “We’re *very* old friends. Isn’t that right, darling?”
Veronica nodded, though doubt flickered in her eyes.
“What exactly do you do?” Margaret pressed.
“We help those in need,” the man said. “Those craving… connection. Understanding. A little aid.”
“What *kind* of aid?”
“Oh, various. Sometimes, just company. Sometimes… more.”
Margaret’s skin prickled. They were *too* charming, *too* knowing. How did they understand Veronica’s loneliness so well?
That night repeated—music, laughter, Veronica glowing under their attention.
“You wanted to be a ballerina as a girl, yes?” the woman asked.
Veronica startled. “I never told anyone that.”
“You did. Last night.”
Margaret *knew* that was a lie.
At midnight, they left, promising to return. More money appeared.
Margaret gripped Veronica’s hands. “This isn’t right. They *know* too much.”
“What does it *matter*?” Veronica clutched the cash. “Maybe they’re wealthy do-gooders.”
“Why *you*?”
Veronica exhaled. “Marg, I don’t *care* if they’re con artists. For years, I’ve been invisible. Last night, I *wasn’t*. Even if it’s a trick… let me have this.”
Margaret swallowed the lump in her throat.
“Next time,” she said firmly, “I’m staying. We’ll learn who they really are.”
Dawn crept in as they cleaned. Margaret wondered about the strangers’ motives. Veronica simply waited—hoping, *needing* them to return. Above all, she wanted to feel that warmth again, if only for another night.
