The Uninvited Party
Margaret Whitmore was adjusting her third outfit of the evening when the first strains of music drifted through the wall from the flat next door. She frowned, set aside the blue blouse, and listened. The clock read half past seven—too early for complaints, though her neighbour, Evelyn, wasn’t one for loud gatherings.
“Perhaps someone’s birthday,” Margaret muttered, pulling on a grey cardigan. “Though she might’ve mentioned it.”
The music swelled, mingling with laughter and voices. Margaret pressed her ear to the shared wall. Far too many voices for a quiet evening with just a friend or two.
A knock at the door. Margaret peered through the peephole to see Mrs. Thompson from downstairs, her smile strained.
“Evening, dear,” the older woman began, barely waiting for the door to open. “Do you know what Evelyn’s celebrating? The noise is carrying through the whole building.”
“Can’t say I do,” Margaret admitted. “It’s odd—she’s usually so quiet.”
“Or perhaps she isn’t even there,” Mrs. Thompson whispered. “Someone’s broken in, maybe? These days, you never know…”
The women exchanged a glance. Evelyn lived alone, worked at the library, kept to herself. No wild parties, no sudden visitors.
“Let’s go ask,” Margaret suggested. “If something’s off, we’ll ring the police.”
They climbed the stairs. The music pulsed from under Evelyn’s door, punctuated by bursts of laughter. Margaret pressed the bell.
The door swung open. Evelyn stood there, but not as they knew her—hair dishevelled, cheeks flushed, clutching a glass of something fizzy. She wore a scarlet dress Margaret had never seen before.
“Oh!” Evelyn beamed. “My lovely neighbours! Come in, come in! We’re having a party!”
“What’s the occasion, dear?” Margaret asked, eyeing the crowd beyond.
A proper gathering—eight or more people, men and women of all ages, dressed smartly, glasses in hand. A towering cake, canapés, bottles of champagne.
“Who cares?” Evelyn laughed. “Life’s the occasion! Come on, join us!”
“Who are these people?” Mrs. Thompson pressed. “Where did they come from?”
“Friends!” Evelyn declared. “Old, dear friends! We met, we bonded, now we’re celebrating!”
A man’s voice called from inside: “Evelyn! Toasts are starting!”
“Coming!” She turned back. “Girls, honestly, stay! Or I’ll pop round later and tell you everything!”
The door shut. The neighbours stood dumbfounded.
“Something’s off,” Mrs. Thompson muttered. “Our Evelyn 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!”
The music surged, drowning further talk.
Morning brought silence—thick, unnatural. Margaret had fallen asleep to the party’s hum, which died only near three. Now, the flat next door was tomb-quiet.
In the hall, she ran into Mrs. Thompson.
“Sleep well?” the woman snipped. “I was up half the night. Then this morning—posh cars outside. Gone now.”
“Guests leaving, I suppose.”
“Exactly. But who were they? And what’s got into our Evelyn?”
At lunch, Margaret spotted Evelyn in the Tesco—back in her usual beige coat, buying bread, milk, economy sausages.
“Evelyn! How was last night’s party?”
Evelyn turned. Margaret gasped. Her face was ashen, eyes red-rimmed.
“What party?”
“The one at yours! Music, guests—you invited us in!”
“Oh. That.” Evelyn busied herself at the till. “Wrong flat, they said.”
“Wrong flat? You practically dragged us inside!”
“Don’t remember,” Evelyn murmured. “Must’ve dreamt it.”
She left without another word.
That evening, Margaret knocked. Evelyn hesitated before opening.
“May I come in?”
“Best not. It’s… a mess after cleaning.”
“What’s going on? You’ve been strange all day.”
Evelyn wavered, then stepped aside.
The flat bore the aftermath of revelry—plastic cups, a shattered glass, cake crumbs. And the smell—strange perfumes, cigarette smoke.
“What happened here?”
Evelyn sank into a chair. “I don’t know how to explain. Yesterday, I left for work as usual. When I came back… they were here.”
“Who?”
“People. Strangers. At my table, eating, drinking, music blaring. A man in a suit said, ‘Evelyn! We’ve waited so long!’”
Margaret perched on the sofa edge. “What did you do?”
“What could I do? I thought—maybe I forgot inviting them? Memory slips at my age… They were so kind. Asked about my life, my parents, even my cat, Whiskers—gone a year now.”
“You’d never met them?”
“Never. Yet they knew things… I wondered—were they angels?”
“Angels?”
“Mum said they walk among us. Maybe this was my gift? So long alone…”
Margaret eyed the wreckage, Evelyn’s tear-stained face.
“Where’d they go this morning?”
“Vanished. Woke up—gone. Just this mess. And a note.”
She handed over a crumpled sheet.
“’Thanks for your hospitality. We’ll return.’ Signature’s illegible.”
Fancy paper, elegant script.
“Anything missing?”
“No. More—the fridge’s packed with posh food. And money…” Evelyn flushed. “In my purse. Lots.”
“How much?”
“Fifteen grand. Can you believe it? I was down to my last fiver.”
Silence settled. Outside, children shrieked; a dog barked. Normal sounds in an unnerving quiet.
“Margaret,” Evelyn whispered. “What if they come back?”
“Do you want them to?”
Evelyn gazed out the window. “Last night… I felt seen. Heard. We laughed. Danced. Twenty years since I last danced.”
“But they’re strangers. Who knows what they want?”
“What have I got to lose?” Evelyn smiled sadly. “This flat? Old furniture? Books? Let them take it. For one night, I was happy.”
The doorbell chimed—a melodic, unfamiliar tone. Evelyn startled.
“They’re back.”
“Wait!” Margaret grabbed her arm. “Check the peephole!”
But Evelyn was already at the door. The elegant woman from before stepped in, followed by the suited man and others.
“Darling!” The woman embraced Evelyn. “We promised we’d return. And who’s this?”
“My neighbour, Margaret.”
“Perfect! We wanted to meet Evelyn’s friends.”
“How do you know her?” Margaret demanded.
“Oh, it’s a long story,” the woman smiled. “Old friends. Very old. Isn’t that right?”
Evelyn nodded, though doubt flickered in her eyes.
“What do you do?” Margaret pressed.
“We help people,” the man said. “Find those needing… companionship. Understanding. A little aid. Evelyn’s just such a soul.”
“What kind of aid?”
“Whatever’s needed. Sometimes company, conversation. Sometimes more.”
Margaret’s unease grew. They were too polished, too knowing.
“Evelyn,” she whispered, “let’s discuss—”
“What’s to discuss?” Evelyn laughed. “They’re here! For me!”
The night repeated—music, laughter, stories. Up close, the guests were charming, attentive. Evelyn glowed.
“Remember,” the woman said, “how you dreamed of being a ballerina?”
Evelyn frowned. “I never told anyone that.”
“You did. Last night.”
“Did I…?”
Margaret knew she hadn’t.
By midnight, the guests made to leave.
“We’ll return,” the man promised.
“When?”
“Soon.”
Again, they left money—more this time.
“Evelyn,” Margaret said once alone. “This isn’t right.”
“What do you mean?”
“They know too much. That money—where’s it from?”
“Who cares? Maybe they’re wealthy philanthropists.”
“Why you? Why like this?”
Evelyn sighed. “Margaret, I don’t care if they’re con artists. For years, I’ve been invisible. At work—just the librarian. At home—the lonely spinster. Last night, someone cared. Even if it’s a lie, it felt real.”
“And if they’re dangerous?”
“Then at least I’ll have been happy first.”
Margaret had no reply. The raw truth in Evelyn’s words ached.
“Next time,” she said finally, “I’ll stay with you. Just in case.”
“You think they’ll come back?”
“I do. And I want to know who they really are.”
Evelyn nodded, smiling properly forThe next time they returned, Margaret saw their reflections cast no shadow in the hallway mirror, and she understood at last what kind of guests they truly were.
