The Uninvited Party
Margaret Simmons was trying on her third outfit of the evening when the first notes of music drifted through the thin walls from the flat next door. She grimaced, set aside the blue blouse, and listened closely. The clock showed half-past seven—too early to complain, though her neighbour, Vera Nicholson, wasn’t the type for raucous gatherings.
“Perhaps it’s someone’s birthday,” Margaret muttered, pulling on a grey cardigan. “Though she could’ve given us a heads-up.”
The music grew louder, now accompanied by laughter and chatter. Margaret pressed her ear to the shared wall. Definitely more than a few people.
A knock at the door. Margaret, still in her house clothes, peered through the peephole. It was Barbara Whitmore from the floor below, her face fixed in a tight, polite smile.
“Evening,” Barbara said the moment the door cracked open. “Any idea what Vera’s celebrating? The music’s rattling the whole building.”
“No clue,” Margaret admitted. “Bit odd, honestly. She’s usually so quiet.”
“What if she’s not even there?” Barbara lowered her voice. “What if it’s strangers? These days, you can’t be too careful.”
They exchanged glances. Vera lived alone, worked at the local library, kept to herself. No one had ever known her to host so much as a tea party.
“Let’s go up together and ask,” Margaret suggested. “If something’s off, we’ll call the police.”
They climbed the stairs. The music pulsed from under Vera’s door, punctuated by shouts and raucous laughter. Margaret rang the bell.
The door swung open almost instantly. Vera stood there—but not the Vera they knew. Her hair was wild, cheeks flushed, a champagne flute in hand. She wore a vibrant red dress Margaret had never seen before.
“Oh!” Vera beamed. “My lovely neighbours! Come in, come in! We’re celebrating!”
“Celebrating what, Vera?” Margaret asked cautiously, peering past her into the flat.
The place was packed. At least eight people, maybe more—men and women of all ages, dressed sharply, glasses in hand. A massive cake dominated the table, surrounded by snacks and bottles of champagne.
“Does it matter?” Vera laughed, waving them in. “Life’s the celebration! Come on, join us!”
“Vera, who are these people?” Barbara pressed. “Where’d they come from?”
“Friends!” Vera declared. “Old, dear friends! We met, we bonded, and now we’re toasting to it!”
A man’s voice called from inside:
“Vera! Get over here! We’re doing a toast!”
“Coming!” She turned back to them. “Honestly, do pop in! Or I’ll drop by later and fill you in!”
The door shut. The neighbours stood frozen on the landing.
“Something’s not right,” Barbara muttered. “Our Vera, with that lot? And some of those men looked downright shady.”
“Maybe she’s fallen in love?” Margaret offered. “People change.”
“At fifty-five? Don’t be daft.”
Margaret might’ve argued that fifty-five wasn’t a life sentence, but the music swelled, drowning out all conversation.
The next morning, Margaret woke to silence—an eerie, ringing quiet. She’d fallen asleep to the party’s din, which had only faded around three. Now, the flat next door was tomb-still.
On her way to work, she ran into Barbara in the hallway.
“Sleep well?” Barbara snipped. “I tossed and turned all night. Then this morning, I spotted fancy cars outside. Gone now.”
“Guests must’ve left.”
“Exactly. But who were they? And what’s got into Vera?”
At lunch, Margaret popped into the grocer’s. There, by the till, stood Vera—back in her usual grey coat and scarf, buying bread, milk, and the cheapest sausages.
“Vera!” Margaret called. “How was last night’s party?”
Vera turned. Margaret gasped. Her face was ashen, eyes red-rimmed, as if she’d cried all night.
“What party?” Vera whispered.
“Your guests, the music…”
“Oh, that.” Vera turned back to the cashier. “They got the wrong flat.”
“Wrong flat? You invited us in!”
“Don’t remember.” Vera shook her head. “Maybe you dreamed it.”
She paid and hurried out, leaving Margaret stunned.
That evening, Margaret knocked on Vera’s door. It took ages for her to answer.
“Can I come in?” Margaret asked.
“Best not,” Vera hedged. “Place is a mess after… cleaning.”
“Vera, what’s going on? You’ve been acting strange.”
Vera hesitated, then stepped aside. “Fine. Come in.”
The flat looked post-party—plastic cups, a shattered glass, cake remnants. But the strangest thing was the smell: foreign perfumes, cigarette smoke (Vera didn’t smoke).
“Vera, what happened?”
Vera sank into an armchair, head in hands. “I don’t know how to explain. Yesterday morning, I went to work as usual. Came home, and… they were already here.”
“Who?”
“People. Strangers. Eating at my table, drinking, music blaring. This well-dressed man walked up and said, ‘Vera! We’ve been waiting!’”
Margaret perched on the sofa edge. “What’d you do?”
“What could I do? I thought—maybe I’d forgotten inviting them? Age, you know… But they knew things. My job, my parents, even my old cat, Whiskers.”
“Could someone have told them?”
“Who? I’ve got no one but coworkers.” Vera paused. “I even wondered… if they were angels.”
“What?”
“Mum always said angels could walk among us. Maybe this was a gift? I’ve been so lonely…”
Margaret eyed the wreckage, Vera’s tear-streaked face. “Where’d they go this morning?”
“Vanished. Woke up, and they were gone. Just left this… and a note.”
She handed Margaret a crumpled slip of expensive paper:
*Thanks for your hospitality. We’ll be back.*
—An illegible signature.
Margaret frowned. “Anything missing?”
“No. Oddly, my fridge is stocked with posh food I’d never buy. And money…” Vera reddened. “Over five hundred quid in my purse. No idea where from.”
They sat in silence, the ordinary sounds of kids playing outside stark against the flat’s heavy quiet.
“Margaret,” Vera whispered. “What if they really come back?”
“Do you want them to?”
Vera stared out the window. “Yesterday… I felt wanted. Important. They listened. Laughed. I hadn’t danced in twenty years.”
“But you don’t know them.”
“What have I got to lose?” Vera smiled bitterly. “This flat? My old books? Let them take it. For one night, I was happy.”
Margaret opened her mouth—then the doorbell chimed, a melodic, unfamiliar tone. Vera gasped.
“They’re back,” she breathed, scrambling up.
“Vera, wait—” Margaret grabbed her arm. “Let’s check first.”
But Vera was already flinging the door open. The elegant woman from yesterday swept in, followed by the suited man and others.
“Darling Vera!” The woman embraced her. “We promised we’d return. And who’s this?” She eyed Margaret.
“My neighbour, Margaret. A dear friend.”
“Perfect!” The man smiled. “We’d love to meet Vera’s neighbours.”
“How do you know Vera?” Margaret demanded.
“Oh, it’s a long story,” the woman said cryptically. “We’re old friends. Aren’t we, Vera?”
Vera nodded, though her eyes flickered with doubt.
“What exactly do you do?” Margaret pressed.
“We help people,” the man said. “Those who need… company. Understanding. A little support. Vera’s exactly that sort.”
Margaret’s unease grew. Something was off—their charm, their knowledge.
“Vera,” she said tightly, “shouldn’t we—”
“What’s to discuss?” Vera laughed. “They’re here! For me!”
The party reignited—music, laughter, stories. Up close, the guests were mesmerizing. They listened intently, making Vera’s mundane tales sound thrilling.
“Remember,” the woman said, “how you wanted to be a ballerina?”
Vera blinked. “How’d you know? I’ve never told anyone.”
“You told us yesterday.”
Vera faltered. “Right…”
But Margaret knew that was a lie.
By midnight, the guests prepared to leave. “We’ll return,” the man promised. “Soon.”
Vera’s face fell. “When?”
“Soon enough.”
They left behind the same festive chaos. More money appeared—double last time’s.
“Vera,” Margaret said once they were alone. “This isn’t right.”
“What do youAs Margaret turned to say more, she caught a glimpse of Vera’s reflection in the mirror—smiling, radiant, and for the first time in years, utterly at peace, no matter what darkness might come with these mysterious visitors.
