The next morning, the house looked innocent.
Too innocent.
Sunlight spilled through the kitchen windows, warming the cracked tile and chipped porcelain sink. Dust hung in the air like glitter. Birds sang outside, perfectly unaware that the property had almost eaten two humans and a ghost twelve hours earlier.
Lena stared at the toaster suspiciously.
"I don't trust any appliance that hums at me," she muttered.
Eli leaned against the counter, flipping through Julian's old notebook, which he'd found wedged behind the parlor bookshelf. "You said that about me when we met."
"That's because you were humming and bleeding at the same time."
He smiled faintly. "Fair."
She poured herself another mug of coffee, black as her sense of humor, and sat opposite him. The night before felt like a fever dream—Julian's final smile, the blinding light, the house falling eerily still. She could almost pretend it hadn't happened.
Almost.
Her gaze drifted to the parlor doorway. The floor looked perfectly normal, no trace of the crack or the blue glow. But every time she blinked, she swore she saw faint outlines moving beneath the rug. Shadows pacing. Waiting.
Eli noticed her stare. "You think it's over?"
She hesitated. "You?"
He closed the notebook. "No."
That afternoon, the townspeople started showing up.
It began with the mailman—Mr. Holtz, a wiry man with nicotine fingers—who refused to step onto the porch. "Heard you two been fixing up the Mortimer place," he said, holding a stack of bills at arm's length. "You know that house eats folks, right?"
Lena smiled sweetly. "Good thing I'm vegan."
He didn't laugh.
By sunset, two reporters, a paranormal vlogger, and one extremely confident medium were camped on the front lawn. Someone had spread the story online: Haunted House Revived by Comedian and Exorcist. The locals called it "the resurrection party."
"Fantastic," Lena groaned, peering through the blinds. "We survived eldritch laughter, and now we're going viral."
Eli pinched the bridge of his nose. "We can't let them in. The house isn't stable."
"Try telling that to the medium."
The woman in question—a silver-haired psychic named Madame Vex—stood on the porch chanting over a bowl of salt and glitter. Every time she tossed a handful into the air, the house's lights flickered like a strobe.
"She's going to blow a fuse," Lena said.
Eli sighed. "Or worse, wake something."
He turned toward her, eyes serious. "Lena, promise me you won't go near that door."
She grinned. "I'll only open it a little."
Ten minutes later, the door was wide open.
The camera crew pushed inside first, trailing wires and microphones. Madame Vex swept in behind them, shawls fluttering dramatically. "The energy in this place is delicious," she declared.
Lena crossed her arms. "If you start licking the walls, I'm calling the cops."
Eli appeared behind her, expression grim. "We didn't invite you."
"Spirits invited me," Madame Vex said grandly. "And they're restless."
At that, the chandelier trembled slightly. Dust rained down.
Lena forced a smile. "Yeah, they're hangry. Someone tell them Postmates isn't coming."
The psychic ignored her, gliding toward the fireplace. "So much laughter. So much grief. The veil is thin here, children. Tell me—what did you awaken?"
Eli opened his mouth, but Lena beat him to it. "Bad Yelp reviews and one very moody ghost."
Madame Vex placed her palms on the mantel. The air shifted—cool, electric. "There is something here still. Watching."
The camera light blinked red. A faint hum vibrated through the floorboards.
Then the house laughed.
Not loud—just a soft, distant chuckle, like someone telling an inside joke under their breath.
Everyone froze.
"Did—did you get that?" the cameraman whispered.
"Keep rolling!" Madame Vex hissed. "Show me your face, spirit!"
The laughter grew. Lights flickered. One of the mirrors on the wall warped, glass bending like liquid.
Eli's voice was sharp. "Stop the séance. Now."
But Vex was already chanting, hands raised. The room dimmed, the air vibrating with tension.
Lena stepped closer, heart hammering. "Eli…"
He moved fast, grabbing the psychic's wrist. "You don't understand—"
Something exploded.
A shockwave rippled through the room, sending everyone sprawling. The chandelier crashed to the floor, shattering into glittering shards. From the mirror came a shape—long, dark, rippling like smoke but with teeth.
The laughter turned hysterical.
"Move!" Eli yelled.
Lena dragged the cameraman toward the hallway as the spectral figure burst from the glass, snapping its jaws. It had no eyes—just a hollow, grinning mask where a face should've been.
"Holy hell!" she gasped. "It's like Salvador Dalí designed a demon!"
Eli raised his sigil charm, chanting under his breath. The spirit flinched but didn't fade.
"It's feeding on attention," he shouted. "Cameras—turn them off!"
The crew panicked, fumbling for switches. One light went out, then another. The laughter faltered.
Madame Vex staggered to her feet, furious. "I can control it!"
"Lady, you can't even control your own eyeliner!" Lena shouted.
Vex lifted her hands again—and the spirit lunged, wrapping her in shadow. Her scream choked off, muffled, then silenced. When the smoke cleared, she was gone. Only her glitter remained, falling like ash.
The house sighed, content.
Silence returned, broken only by Lena's ragged breathing.
Then she laughed—a small, shaky sound that cracked halfway through.
"Okay," she said weakly. "So, no refunds for the séance, right?"
Eli turned to her, eyes wide but alive. "You're impossible."
"Admit it. That's why you keep me around."
He smiled despite himself. "Yeah. Maybe it is."
Their eyes met—just for a moment—and something electric passed between them. Not the haunted kind this time.
But before either could move, the walls groaned again.
The laughter returned—low, intimate, almost playful. This time, it came from everywhere.
Lena whispered, "Eli, tell me you hear that too."
He swallowed. "It's not the house."
"Then what—"
He looked straight at her. "It's Julian."
The air shimmered near the stairs, and there he was again—Julian, faint, smiling that same sad smile.
"I told you," he said softly. "The house remembers. But now… so do I."
Lena stepped forward. "Julian, you're supposed to be gone."
"I was. But the ritual broke wrong. The laughter needed a host."
Eli stiffened. "You're not him anymore."
Julian's grin widened, too sharp. "I'm both. The house wanted an entertainer—it found one. Let's give them a show."
And then, impossibly, he winked.
The floor rippled beneath their feet, lights strobing again, every shadow stretching like ink.
Lena grabbed Eli's arm. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"
"Run?"
"Run."
They sprinted down the hall as furniture toppled and laughter roared, the kind that sounded less like humor and more like madness.
Behind them, Julian's voice echoed—smooth, seductive, echoing through the walls:
"Don't leave yet, my loves. The party's just getting started."
They burst through the back door into the cold night air. The yard was chaos—reporters screaming, equipment sparking, the ground trembling as if the earth itself was giggling.
Lena doubled over, gasping. "We're never selling this place, are we?"
Eli wiped sweat from his brow, staring up at the windows. "Not unless we sell it straight to hell."
A pause.
Then Lena said, deadpan: "Think we can list it on Airbnb?"
Eli snorted despite himself. "We might get five stars for ambience."
They both laughed—real laughter this time, defiant and alive. The house groaned behind them, lights flickering like blinking eyes.
Somewhere inside, Julian's voice whispered softly through the wind:
"Curtain's up."
And then, faint but unmistakable, came the sound of applause.