The room grew colder, though no windows were open, no wind moved through the parlor. It was a cold that came from within the walls, like the manor itself had taken a breath and exhaled frost. Above the mantle, the words blazed in their minds, as if etched onto the backs of their skulls:
"LAUGHTER IS FOREVER."
Theo stepped forward slowly, eyes fixed on the broken microphone perched like a relic on the mantle. It seemed fragile, but dangerous—something that still held a charge. Behind him, Kay rubbed her arms and hugged her sides, shivering despite the stifling stillness of the room. The fireplace beneath the mantle remained dark, but it radiated cold instead of heat, as though the ashes remembered something terrible.
Then the lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
The chandelier above them buzzed with static, let out a high mechanical whine—then blazed to life, flooding the parlor in garish yellow light. It wasn't warm. It was interrogation-light. Stage-light. It cast long, warped shadows that moved strangely across the room. The shadows didn't follow the laws of physics. They swayed with intention, like an unseen audience waiting for the curtain to rise.
In the corner, a speaker crackled to life.
Static.
A slow, rising buzz.
Then:
"So I asked my therapist if I was crazy, and she said, 'Only if you charge admission!'"
Laughter burst through the speaker—sharp, manic, pre-recorded. It echoed too loudly for the room, layered with distortion that made it feel like it was coming from inside their skulls. A canned laugh track, but corrupted. Human and inhuman, twisted with reverb that made their ears ache.
Marla spun toward the sound. "That's Eden," she said hoarsely.
"No," Kay murmured, barely audible. "That's what's left of Eden."
All around them, the mirrors began to tremble.
Over the fireplace. Across the walls. Beside the stairwell.
Each surface shimmered like heat off pavement. Then the reflections began to move—but not with them. Their mirror-selves drifted behind the glass like ghosts walking different timelines. Lena gasped as her reflection turned to grin at her—too wide, too knowingly—before vanishing entirely from view. When it returned, the mirror-image twitched and jittered, skipping like old VHS tape caught in a loop.
The chandelier dimmed.
Then focused.
A sharp cone of light fell across the far wall, which slowly peeled back like stage curtains parting—revealing a small platform that hadn't been there before.
A stage.
Framed in red velvet. Trimmed in gold.
And Eden Gray stepped into the spotlight.
Or… something wearing what was left of her.
Her body stuttered between two states. In one frame, she was pristine—just as the posters promised: scarlet suit, glimmering heels, powdered skin, lips painted in a smile sharp enough to cut. She was poised. Effortlessly radiant. A show-woman in her element.
Then—flicker.
Her form decayed. Limbs bent at wrong angles, skin peeled back in strips, one eye missing, the other drooping with rot. Her mouth hung open in a scream she couldn't voice.
Flicker.
Back again. Glamor intact. Audience-ready.
She raised a microphone—whole, unbroken—and held it close to her lipsticked mouth.
"They say dying is hard," she said. "But have you tried bombing on The Tonight Show?"
The room erupted.
Laughter crashed down from hidden speakers, impossibly loud, a wall of sound designed to flatten. Some of it sounded human. Some didn't. The group covered their ears, but the sound bypassed flesh and bone, crawling directly into their minds.
"I once asked my agent what my future looked like," Eden continued, flickering with each syllable. "He sent me a Ouija board!"
The laughter looped again, no pauses, no breath. The manor didn't need timing. It didn't care if anyone laughed. It demanded that they hear it.
"I died doing what I loved," she said, smiling wide. "Being ignored!"
More laughter.
Lena stepped forward, jaw clenched, eyes locked on Eden. "She's stuck," she whispered.
Theo shook his head slowly. "No," he said. "She's performing."
"But there's no audience," Darren said. "Nobody's watching."
"There's us," Kay said. Her voice barely made it above the laugh track.
And that's when the manor responded.
The floorboards trembled.
The walls swelled like they were breathing.
Paintings that had once shown Eden in bright, triumphant poses now distorted—their features stretching into grotesque parodies of joy. Eyes sank into shadows. Teeth extended. One portrait split vertically down the mouth, which now hung open, laughing endlessly without sound.
A phonograph on a nearby table began to spin, even without a needle. From its horn, a whisper emerged:
"Your guilt is the applause that keeps her going."
Eden leaned forward.
"A guy once told me I was a has-been," she said, grinning. "I said, 'Buddy, I never was!'"
This time the laughter came from her. Not the speakers. Her lips moved in sync with the sound—a deep, hollow cackle that seemed to echo from her bones.
Her body glitched again, decaying for longer this time.
Her neck cracked as her head turned to face them.
And she saw them.
Marla stumbled backward. "She's aware."
Glass shattered beside them.
A mirror exploded outward, its shards raining down—but instead of falling, they froze midair, then spun slowly, casting fractured images of the group across every surface.
Each shard reflected a different version of themselves:
Lena, hands slick with blood.
Theo, clutching the broken microphone.
Kay, mouth sewn shut with black thread.
Darren, lighting a photograph on fire.
Marla, kneeling beside a lifeless body—Eden's body.
"No," Marla whispered, shaking her head violently. "That's not real. That's not real!"
"What's the difference between a haunted house and showbiz?" Eden cooed, her voice curling like smoke.
No one answered.
"Nothing," she said, smiling. "Everyone's dying to get in, and no one gets out."
The house howled with laughter again.
The stage blinked in and out.
Eden convulsed violently.
And then the flickering stopped.
Just for a moment.
Her rotted form held steady. No glamour. No illusion. Just bone, rot, and hunger. The grin slipped from her face. Her empty sockets—dark and wet—locked onto theirs.
"I gave everything," she rasped, "to make you laugh."
The lights snapped off.
Darkness swallowed the room like a curtain dropping between acts.
The air thickened, clinging to them like grief. It pressed into their mouths and eyes, filled their lungs with static and silence. Somewhere in the pitch, someone screamed. Kay, maybe. Lena. The sound came from all directions, then vanished.
Hands brushed past them—cold, wet, searching.
Then—
A spotlight.
Sharp. White.
It fell directly on them.
All five.
Standing center stage.
Eden was gone.
The stage was empty.
But the laughter hadn't ended. It was just quieter now. Hiding.
Waiting.
From every mirror, every portrait, every broken shard of glass—eyes stared out.
And Eden watched.