**The Uninvited Party**
Margaret Whitmore adjusted her third outfit of the evening before the mirror when the first notes of music drifted in from the flat next door. She winced, set aside the blue blouse, and listened. The clock read half-past seven—too early for complaints, though her neighbour, Mrs. Veronica Adams, rarely hosted rowdy gatherings.
“Perhaps someone’s birthday,” Margaret muttered, tugging on a grey cardigan. “Though she might’ve given some warning.”
The music swelled, joined by laughter and voices. Margaret pressed her ear to the shared wall. Too many voices—certainly more than two or three.
A knock at the door. Margaret peered through the peephole to find Mrs. Edith Carmichael from downstairs, her polite smile strained.
“Good evening,” Edith began impatiently before the door fully opened. “Do you know what Mrs. Adams is celebrating? The noise is unbearable.”
“No idea,” Margaret admitted. “It’s odd—she’s usually so quiet.”
“Perhaps she isn’t even home,” Edith whispered. “Someone else might’ve broken in. Times like these…”
The women exchanged glances. Veronica Adams lived alone, worked at the local library, led a quiet life. No wild parties, no unseemly company.
“Let’s go 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 at once. Veronica stood there—but not the Veronica they knew. Hair dishevelled, cheeks flushed, clutching a champagne flute. A scarlet dress, one Margaret had never seen.
“Oh!” Veronica beamed. “My dear neighbours! Come in, come in! We’re celebrating!”
“What’s the occasion?” Margaret ventured, glancing past her at the strangers filling the flat—eight, maybe ten of them, smartly dressed, drinks in hand. A lavish spread covered the table: cake, hors d’oeuvres, champagne.
“Does it matter?” Veronica laughed, waving them in. “Life’s the occasion! Join us!”
“Veronica, who *are* these people?” Edith pressed.
“Friends!” she declared. “Old, wonderful friends! We met, we bonded, now we celebrate!”
A man’s voice called from inside: “Veronica! The toast!”
“Coming!” Veronica turned back, giddy. “Ladies, do stay! Or I’ll pop round later, explain everything!”
The door snapped shut. The neighbours stood frozen on the landing.
“Something’s not right,” Edith murmured. “Since when does our Veronica keep such company? And those men—one looked downright unsavoury.”
“Perhaps she’s in love?” Margaret offered. “Love changes people.”
“At fifty-five? Don’t be daft.”
Margaret might’ve argued, but the music surged, drowning all further talk.
By morning, silence rang unnervingly loud. Margaret had dozed off past three, the party still raging. Now, the flat next door lay tomb-quiet.
On her way to work, she crossed paths with Edith in the stairwell.
“Sleep well?” Edith snipped. “I didn’t. And this morning—posh cars parked outside. Gone now.”
“Guests leaving, I expect.”
“Exactly. But who *were* they? And what’s gotten into our Veronica?”
At lunch, Margaret spotted Veronica in the corner shop—back in her usual beige coat, buying bread, milk, budget sausages.
“Veronica!” Margaret called. “How was last night’s party?”
Veronica turned. Margaret gasped—her face was ashen, eyes red-rimmed.
“What party?” Veronica whispered.
“The one at yours! Music, guests—you invited us in!”
“Oh, that…” She looked away. “They had the wrong flat.”
“The *wrong flat*? You welcomed them!”
“I don’t remember,” Veronica said faintly. “Maybe you dreamed it.”
She paid and fled, leaving Margaret dumbstruck.
That evening, Margaret knocked firmly on Veronica’s door. The locks clicked open hesitantly.
“May I come in?”
“Best not,” Veronica stalled. “It’s… a mess after cleaning.”
“Veronica, what’s *happened*?”
A pause. Then, softly: “Come in.”
The flat was a disaster—plastic cups, shattered glass, a half-eaten cake. But strangest of all: the scent of foreign perfumes, cigarettes Veronica didn’t smoke.
“What *happened* here?”
Veronica sank into a chair, cradling her head.
“I don’t know how to explain. Yesterday morning, I went to work as usual. When I came back… they were already here.”
“Who?”
“Strangers. At *my* table, eating, drinking, music blaring. A man in a sharp suit greeted me—’Veronica! We’ve waited so long!'”
Margaret perched on the sofa edge.
“What did you do?”
“What *could* I do? I thought—maybe I’d forgotten inviting them? Age, you know… They were so *kind*. Said they’d heard so much about me. One woman, elegant, said she’d been a librarian too—we chatted for hours.”
“But you’d never met them?”
“Never! Yet they knew things—my parents, even my cat, Whiskers, who died last year.”
“Could someone have told them?”
“Who? I’ve no one but coworkers. And the details they knew…” Veronica shuddered. “Margaret, I wondered if they were angels.”
“*Angels*?”
“Mum always said angels walk among us. Maybe this was a gift? I’ve been so *lonely*…”
Margaret eyed the wreckage, Veronica’s tear-streaked face.
“Where did they go?”
“Vanished. Woke up—gone. Just this mess left. And a note.” She handed Margaret a crumpled sheet: *”Thanks for your hospitality. We’ll return.”* An illegible signature.
The paper was thick, expensive.
“Has anything gone missing?”
“Quite the opposite.” Veronica reddened. “The fridge is stocked—expensive things I’d never buy. And money… in my handbag. A lot.”
“How much?”
“Nearly three thousand pounds. Imagine! I thought I was down to my last fiver.”
Silence fell. Children shrieked outside; a dog barked—ordinary sounds in a world gone uncanny.
“Margaret,” Veronica whispered. “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 even *danced*, Margaret. I haven’t danced in twenty years.”
“But they’re strangers. We don’t know their intentions.”
“What have I left to lose?” Veronica smiled bitterly. “This flat? Old furniture? Books? Let them take it. For one night, I was *happy*.”
Margaret opened her mouth—but the doorbell chimed. A melodic, unfamiliar tone. Veronica startled.
“They’re back,” she breathed, lunging for the door.
“Wait!” Margaret grabbed her wrist. “Check the peephole first!”
But Veronica was already undoing the locks.
The elegant woman from last night swept in, followed by the suited man and others.
“Darling Veronica!” The woman embraced her. “We *did* promise!” Her gaze flicked to Margaret.
“My neighbour, Margaret Whitmore,” Veronica said.
“Perfect!” The man smiled. “We’d hoped to meet her.”
“How do you know Veronica?” Margaret demanded.
“Oh, it’s a long tale,” the woman demurred. “We’re old friends. *Very* old. Isn’t that right, Veronica?”
Veronica nodded, though doubt flickered in her eyes.
“And what is it you *do*?” Margaret pressed.
“We help people,” the man said. “Those who need… companionship. Understanding. A little support. Veronica is exactly such a person.”
“What sort of support?”
“Whatever’s needed. Sometimes just conversation. Sometimes… more.”
Margaret’s skin prickled. These people were too polished, too *knowing*.
“Veronica,” she said firmly, “perhaps we should—”
“Oh, come *on*!” Veronica laughed. “They’re *here*! Come in, darlings!”
And it began again—music, laughter, stories. This time, Margaret watched up close.
The guests were *charming*. They listened intently, asked just the right questions. Veronica glowed. Tales she’d thought dull suddenly captivated them.
“Remember,” the elegant woman said, “how you dreamed of being a ballerina?”
Veronica blinked. “How did you—? I’ve never told anyone.”
“You told *us*. Last night. Don’t you remember?”
“I… suppose…”
But Margaret *knew*—that hadn’t happened.
By midnight, the guests made to leave.
“We’ll return,” the man promised.**”But when the clock struck twelve and the front door clicked shut behind them, Veronica found only a single black rose on the table—and the chilling realization that her reflection in the mirror no longer moved when she did.”**
