Strangers in My House
That Saturday, Emily decided to visit her parents’ old home. It had only been three months since her mother passed, and she hadn’t been able to bring herself to sort through her things. The house stood empty, neglected. The neighbors—mostly elderly—had either moved in with their children or rented out their homes. The Wilsons, whose kids she’d played with as a child, were long gone, replaced by strangers. There was no one left to ask for help.
Her husband, Henry, had left at dawn for a fishing trip, and her teenage daughter, Lily, barely glanced up from her headphones when Emily asked if she wanted to come. So she made up her mind—no more delays. She’d start clearing things out, then pop over to her friend Sophie’s for tea. She hailed a cab, waiting outside, her mind drifting back to her childhood street—quiet, cozy, bathed in its own golden light. With every passing minute, the ache in her chest grew sharper. She missed her parents desperately.
A few blocks from the house, she stepped out, deciding to walk the rest of the way. But the closer she got, the weirder she felt. At the gate, she froze.
“What the—,” she whispered.
An upstairs window stood open, curtains pulled back. She *knew* she’d locked everything. The front door’s latch was broken. Someone had been inside. Or worse—was still there.
She called Henry—no signal. The street was deserted, the crisp autumn air too perfect for anyone to linger outside. She debated calling the constable, but then a chilling thought gripped her.
“Could it… be Henry?”
Lately, he’d been acting odd—distant one moment, oddly cheerful the next. Maybe “fishing” was a cover. Maybe he was inside right now, with *her*. The idea burned through her like ice. She couldn’t picture it… yet the doubt wouldn’t leave.
For ten minutes, she stared at the windows. Then—laughter. Light, carefree, like someone was having the time of their life… in *her* parents’ house. Her stomach twisted.
The front door banged open. Out stepped a slim woman in a short robe, towel in hand, heading toward the garden sauna.
“Darling, come *with* me! It’s no fun alone!” she called over her shoulder.
Emily’s blood ran cold. Young. Pretty. Of *course* he’d traded her for *this*. Suddenly, everything made sense.
Jaw clenched, she marched through the gate. Spying a sturdy stick, she wedged it against the sauna door—trapping the intruder inside. Then, on the porch, she spotted her father’s old belt—thick, with a heavy buckle. *Perfect.*
She stormed inside. The dining table was set, a bottle of sparkling wine chilling, the telly blaring. And on the sofa—a man, dozing.
“You *rotten* liar! We have a *daughter*!” she shrieked, swinging the belt.
“AH! What the—?! Em—it’s *me*, it’s *Simon*!”
She halted. Not Henry. *Simon*—her husband’s nephew.
“What are you *doing* here? How’d you even get in?”
“Come off it! The lock was *pathetic*! I’ve got nowhere to stay—thought the place was empty, so I… moved in for a bit. With my girl.”
“Your *girl*?!” Emily went pale. “You thought that was *acceptable*? This isn’t a *hotel*!”
“Relax, Em! Have a cuppa, we’ll be out of your hair soon.”
“No. Pack up. *Now.* And you’re fixing that lock. *Yourself.*”
“Claire…?” Simon stammered. “Where’s she gone?”
“Sauna. Locked in. She won’t be *interrupting* again.”
Claire soon burst free, storming inside, flushed and furious.
“This is *my* house, Simon—tell her! I already *transferred* you the money for the furniture!”
“*Yours*?” Emily scoffed. “This house belonged to my *mother*. You’ve just been swindled by a con artist.”
Claire screamed, “Give me back my *money*, you *thief*! I’ll report you!”
Simon groaned. “Brilliant.”
Later, at Sophie’s, Emily recounted everything—the dread, the sauna, the belt. Sophie howled with laughter.
“Emily, you *legend*! I’d have just rung the police!”
“At least it wasn’t Henry,” Emily sighed. “But that lock’s getting replaced. And the door. *Steel.*”
“To bold women!” Sophie cheered, raising her glass.
“To *us*,” Emily smiled.
