We had moved into our neighborhood three months earlier.
It was our first house.
Brand-new.
Nobody had lived there before us.
I loved everything about it.
Especially the idea of finally putting down roots somewhere.
My husband, Lucas, had been supportive.
He seemed almost as excited about our new beginning as I was.
I wanted us to make friends.
Have people over.
And become the kind of couple whose neighbors stopped by without needing an invitation.
So I decided to throw a Halloween party.
Nothing fancy.
Pumpkin cookies.
Cheap decorations.
A ridiculous amount of candy.
And a blacklight I’d ordered online after remembering how much fun they’d been in college.
I was ridiculously excited.
And honestly, I hoped the party would help us make some real friends.
Settling into the neighborhood had been harder than I’d expected.
People were polite.
Friendly enough.
But somehow, every promising connection seemed to disappear before it became a friendship.
Except for Katresa.
She was a sarcastic, 40-year-old accountant who lived a few houses down and claimed her cat was the only creature she’d ever met with reasonable expectations.
We’d clicked almost immediately.
During our first month, she’d started coming over on Fridays with two coffees.
We’d sit in my kitchen while she complained about her clients and showed me pictures of her cat looking offended.
It became our little tradition.
I looked forward to Fridays.
Then, one week, she didn’t come.
When I mentioned it, Lucas said she’d told him work was getting busy.
“Don’t chase people who aren’t making an effort,” he told me.
I tried not to take it personally.
But I did.
After that, Katresa remained friendly, although something had changed.
She seemed guarded.
I assumed I’d somehow annoyed her.
Eventually, I stopped suggesting things to people first.
I was tired of feeling like the only person who wanted to be friends.
Lucas always reassured me.
“You don’t need to impress these people,” he’d say, pulling me close.
“You’ve got me.”
I believed him.
There was also Grace.
Petite.
Polished.
A few years younger than me.
She worked in the same professional field as Lucas.
And her company had an office nearby.
Lucas had been talking about finding a job closer to home.
I thought Grace might help.
Personally, I found her slightly intimidating.
She always seemed to know something everyone else didn’t.
Still, I invited her.
The night of the party, Lucas helped me arrange the decorations.
We plugged in the blacklight.
Turned off the regular lamps.
And suddenly, our living room glowed purple.
Then I noticed the wall.
Behind the couch.
Handprints scattered across it.
Some overlapping.
Others stretched into long streaks.
They covered the wall just above the cushions.
I stared.
“What is that?”
Lucas didn’t answer.
I turned toward him.
His face had gone pale.
He crossed the room and switched off the blacklight.
Immediately.
“Probably cleaning products,” he said.
“Or something from the movers.”
“Lucas, this house was brand-new.”
“Could be the paint.”
But he wouldn’t look at me.
Then the doorbell rang.
Our guests started arriving.
Within minutes, the living room filled with costumes, laughter, and people reaching for snacks.
I kept glancing at the wall.
Every time Lucas caught me looking, he found another reason to distract me.
A drink.
A guest who needed introducing.
Another tray of food.
Eventually, someone asked why the blacklight wasn’t on.
Before Lucas could answer, they switched it back on.
The handprints reappeared.
I was still staring at them when the doorbell rang.
Grace.
She stepped inside, hugged me, and complimented the decorations.
I was about to thank her when something caught my eye.
Her hands.
They were glowing.
Brightly.
“Oh, it must be my hand cream,” she giggled.
She stepped farther into the living room.
Saw the wall.
And stopped.
Her smile disappeared.
She looked toward Lucas.
Then back at me.
“This is not what you think,” she whispered.
I felt sick.
“What exactly am I supposed to think?”
Grace glanced toward the kitchen.
“Can we talk privately?”
I led her inside.
The moment the door closed, I turned around.
“Have you been in my house?”
She looked down.
“Yes.”
“With my husband?”
“Yes.”
I gripped the counter.
“How many times?”
