The evening was perfect—or at least, it seemed perfect. Fairy lights twinkled in the garden, casting a soft golden glow over the tables stacked with food and sparkling glasses. Friends and family laughed, clinked glasses, and exchanged stories, each trying to outdo the last. Music played softly in the background, the kind that encourages dancing without demanding it. Everyone had been looking forward to this night for months, and for a while, it truly felt like nothing could go wrong.

I had spent the entire day preparing. Every detail mattered—the seating arrangement, the floral arrangements, even the subtle scent of candles that hovered in the air. Months of planning, weeks of organizing, and countless small decisions had led to this moment. And yet, as I surveyed the crowd, a strange sense of unease nagged at the edges of my mind. I dismissed it as exhaustion. Surely, after all this effort, the night would go smoothly.

The first few hours were idyllic. Conversations flowed, laughter echoed under the trees, and the children ran between the tables, their faces streaked with cake frosting and joy. My partner danced with old friends, clinging to a happiness that had been hard-won. We toasted repeatedly, celebrating milestones and small victories alike. The air was full of warmth, both from the heaters scattered around the patio and from the sense of togetherness that surrounded us.

And then it happened.

A scream tore through the night, high-pitched and raw, shattering the laughter like glass. Conversation stopped mid-sentence. Glasses trembled in hands, and forks clattered onto plates. No one immediately knew where it came from. The scream wasn’t long—just a single, piercing cry—but it was enough to make every head snap in its direction, every heart skip a beat.

At first, people assumed it was a child. Perhaps one of the younger guests had stumbled, scraped a knee, or been startled by the music. But when we all turned toward the sound, there was nothing visible—just the garden in its illuminated calm, the shadows of the trees stretching across the lawn. The scream had come from inside the house, yet when someone opened the door, everything seemed normal. No one was hurt. No one was crying. No one had been anywhere near the source.

A tense silence replaced the laughter. Whispers began to ripple through the crowd. Some tried to laugh it off, attributing it to a prank or the nerves of an excitable guest. Others exchanged worried glances, the kind that acknowledge a fear no one wants to voice aloud. I felt my stomach twist. Something wasn’t right. My mind raced through every possibility, each one more unsettling than the last.

We returned to the garden cautiously, but the tension lingered. Guests lingered near exits, unsure whether to stay or flee. Someone suggested checking the house again. I agreed, my hands trembling as I led a small group inside. Every room was meticulously lit, every corner examined. Yet again, nothing seemed amiss. No broken furniture, no signs of struggle, no one hiding behind the doors or under the stairs. Everything was exactly as it had been just moments before—too calm, almost unnervingly so.

And then we saw it.

In the kitchen, tucked behind a stack of chairs, was a small envelope. Plain, unmarked, with a single red wax seal. It hadn’t been there before—or at least, I didn’t remember it being there. With shaking hands, I broke the seal and unfolded the paper inside. The handwriting was unfamiliar, careful, precise. The words were short, cryptic, and terrifying:

A chill ran down my spine. My guests, now gathered behind me, exchanged frightened glances. Whispers rose into a cacophony of speculation. Who had left it? What did it mean? How had it appeared in the middle of our celebration without anyone seeing?We decided to call for help, but in the chaos, phones were missing or dead. The lights flickered briefly, casting long shadows across the walls. Something was moving, but whenever anyone tried to follow it, it seemed to vanish. Panic began to settle in, quiet but heavy. No one knew what to do next.

Hours—or maybe minutes; time had become meaningless—passed in a haze of fear and confusion. Guests whispered about leaving, but the garden doors had locked themselves somehow. The house that had once felt warm and inviting now seemed suffocating, alive with the echoes of those unseen screams. We could feel eyes on us, but when we turned, there was no one. Just shadows.