When Regina and I bought our dream house—a charming Victorian villa—we were ecstatic. We were finally in the perfect neighborhood: peaceful, friendly, and picturesque. But what started as a simple housewarming party quickly turned into something much more unsettling.

The first guests arrived, and everything seemed normal. Laughter, wine, and warm conversations filled the room. But then I noticed something odd. Every single person, young and old, was wearing the same red gloves.

“Regina, do you see that? What’s with all the gloves?” I whispered.

She frowned, glancing around. “Maybe it’s some local tradition?”

“But it’s summer,” I said, uneasy. “And they’re the exact same shade of red.”

No one took the gloves off—even to eat or drink. Some even seemed to avoid showing their hands. I decided to ask Mrs. Harper, our elderly next-door neighbor, about it.

“Mrs. Harper, those gloves are interesting. Is there a special occasion?” I asked casually.

She stiffened, then lowered her voice. “Oh, they’re just… a tradition. You’ll get used to it soon enough.”

“Why red? Why gloves?” I pressed.

Her eyes darted nervously. “Let’s just say, it’s something we all agreed upon a long time ago. You’ll understand soon.”

The evening ended, and as Regina and I cleaned up, we found a note slipped under the door: *”Welcome to the neighborhood. Don’t forget your red gloves. You’ll need them soon.”*

I frowned, confused. The next day, we noticed strange things around the house—garden tools moved, odd symbols in the dirt, and whispers outside our windows at night. But when we ran into Mrs. Harper again, she dropped a bombshell.

“The gloves protect you from the Hand of the Forgotten, the spirit that haunts this land. Everyone wears them to stay safe,” she explained seriously.

“Wait, what? A spirit?” I was stunned.

She nodded. “You’ll see soon enough. Don’t ignore this.”

Despite laughing off her warning, Regina and I couldn’t shake the fear that was slowly creeping in. Then we found something that made our blood run cold: a small, red-gloved voodoo doll on our porch.

We decided to confront our neighbors, so we organized a meeting. As everyone gathered in our living room, I asked, “What’s the deal with the gloves? We’ve been finding strange things, and it’s freaking us out.”

To my surprise, they all burst out laughing. Mrs. Harper stepped forward, grinning.

“Oh, Gabriel, Regina, you two were such good sports! It’s just a neighborhood prank. Every new couple gets the same treatment. It’s our way of welcoming you.”

I blinked in disbelief. “So, all of this was just a joke? The creepy symbols, the whispers?”

“Exactly!” Mrs. Harper laughed. “You two passed our little test with flying colors.”

Relieved, we joined in the laughter. But a few weeks later, it was our turn for payback. We invited the neighbors over for a casual dinner and planted fake bugs around the house. The reactions were priceless.

“Ah! There’s a spider in my napkin!” Mr. Richards screamed.

As the room erupted in laughter, I couldn’t help but smile. We had officially become part of the neighborhood’s quirky traditions.

Later that night, Mrs. Harper turned to us with a wink. “You know, Gabriel, I think you two will fit in here just fine.”

“I think you’re right,” I replied. “Though next time we move, we’ll ask about any ‘traditions’ before signing the papers.”

Regina and I laughed, heading back inside to our new home, now filled with memories and friends—red gloves and all.