Morning arrived on trembling light.
Lena hadn't slept. Her thoughts drifted between Julian's piano, Eli's warning, and the words still carved into the wood: LAUGH AND DIE.
Coffee helped only slightly. The first cup steadied her hands; the second made her bold.
By the third, she had a plan.
The way she saw it, the house wanted laughter—fine. She would give it laughter, but on her own terms. No whispered threats, no ghostly seductions, no cryptic curses carved into antiques. If humor fed the house, then maybe she could starve its malice by controlling the punchline.
And what better way than a live set?
She dragged a stool from the kitchen into the parlor, brushed off centuries of dust, and positioned it in the middle of the room where moonlight pooled like a spotlight. The air was cool and faintly sweet, as if the house itself were holding its breath.
"Okay, Lena," she muttered. "Time to see if the dead have a sense of humor."
By evening, the house had changed. The air quivered; curtains stirred though the windows were shut. Candle-flames bloomed from empty sconces, bathing the room in warm amber light. The piano lid was closed now, but the carved words remained, faintly glowing, like something alive under the surface.
Lena tried to laugh it off. "At least someone's enthusiastic."
A soft voice drifted from nowhere and everywhere.
"I'd call it morbid enthusiasm, darling."
She spun around. "Julian?"
He materialized near the piano, half-solid, his face drawn and shadowed, his voice taut with concern.
"What are you doing?"
"Taking control," she said. "If laughter feeds this place, maybe I can change the menu."
"You think you can out-joke a curse?"
"I'm a comedian. Hubris is part of the job description."
Julian's gaze softened. "You don't understand what you're inviting."
"Neither did you when you died," she snapped, instantly regretting the words. His form flickered, eyes glimmering with something that wasn't anger so much as wounded memory.
"Be careful, Lena."
She squared her shoulders. "Then stay and laugh politely. Maybe it'll save us both."
At nine o'clock, Lena's audience arrived.
Not through the front door—but from the walls, the mirrors, the very air.
Translucent shapes drifted into the room: women in Victorian gowns, men in dusty coats, a child clutching a porcelain doll missing an eye. They shimmered like candle smoke, each with that faintly bluish hue of forgotten dreams.
Lena's throat tightened, but she forced a grin. "Well, this is the weirdest gig I've ever done. And I once performed for a group of tax auditors."
A ripple moved through the room—a sound like distant sighs. The ghosts were listening.
She took a deep breath and started.
"So, you ever notice how haunted houses are basically bad roommates?" she began. "They slam doors, steal your heat, whisper your name at three a.m.—and when you ask them to pay rent, they just wail about it."
A few of the apparitions blinked. One woman actually giggled—a fragile, glass-breaking sound.
"See? Even the dead get it." Lena pointed to her. "Ma'am, what's your name?"
The woman's mouth opened, but only mist came out, curling into words: Margaret.
"Well, Margaret, I'm glad you're here. Love the dress—do they make that in non-corporeal sizes?"
More laughter—uneasy, but laughter. The house's walls pulsed faintly, breathing with the rhythm of her jokes.
Lena felt a thrill of triumph. It was working.
She continued, riffing on death, dating apps, and the absurdity of ghost etiquette.
"I matched with a guy last week who said he was into 'long walks through graveyards.' Thought it was a metaphor. Turns out, nope. Actual graveyards. He brought snacks."
Laughter swelled—thicker, louder. The chandeliers trembled. Portrait eyes gleamed with light.
Julian's voice broke through the din.
"Lena, stop!"
But she couldn't. The adrenaline, the eerie energy—it was intoxicating. Her words flowed like magic. Every punchline made the room shimmer brighter, the ghosts more defined, almost alive.
Then the temperature plummeted.
The air thickened into fog. Shadows bled from the corners. The laughter shifted—no longer delighted but feverish, manic, echoing on itself.
Margaret's head tilted at an impossible angle, smile widening too far.
"More," she whispered. "Make us laugh again."
Lena stumbled back. "I—I think that's enough—"
But the ghosts pressed closer, hundreds of them now, overlapping faces in a swirling cyclone of sound and color. The house shook with their glee. The piano burst open, keys slamming on their own in a grotesque rhythm.
Julian shouted something, but his voice drowned in the uproar. The laughter became a physical force, tearing at the air.
Then, with a sound like thunder cracking underwater, the floor split open.
Light—cold, blue, and furious—poured from the fissure. A wind howled upward, dragging Lena toward it. She screamed, clutching the stool, hair whipping across her face.
Julian lunged for her, spectral hands glowing as he grabbed her arm. His touch burned with freezing fire.
"Hold on!"
"I can't!"
"Yes, you can!"
Eli burst into the doorway, eyes wide, a strange sigil glowing on the medallion around his neck. He held out a hand, chanting words that made the very air tremble.
"Lena, stop laughing!"
"I'm not—" she tried, but another burst of hysterical laughter escaped her throat. She couldn't stop. The curse had hooked itself into her breath.
Julian turned toward Eli, fury twisting his features.
"Do something!"
"I'm trying!"
Eli slammed the medallion against the doorframe. The blue light flickered, sputtered, then collapsed inward with a thunderclap that sent all three crashing to the ground.
Silence.
When Lena opened her eyes, the room was still.
No ghosts. No laughter. Only the faint hum of the piano, a single note vibrating endlessly.
Julian crouched beside her, looking… dimmer, translucent around the edges.
"You shouldn't have done that."
She coughed, forcing a shaky smile. "Hey, at least they laughed. That's more than I can say for open-mic night in Brooklyn."
"You risked everything."
"Story of my life."
Eli knelt across from her, face pale but determined. "You didn't just make them laugh, Lena. You woke something older. Something that used to sleep under this house."
Her heart thudded. "Like what?"
He hesitated. "The thing that killed Julian."
Lena turned to Julian, but his form was flickering again, edges fraying like smoke.
"He's right," Julian said softly. "It's awake now. And it remembers your laughter."
They helped her to her feet. The candles guttered out one by one, plunging the parlor into near-darkness.
Through the silence, Lena could still hear echoes—tiny, lingering chuckles drifting from the cracks in the floor.
Ha… ha… ha…
Eli took her hand. "From now on, you need to be careful what you joke about."
She managed a tired grin. "So… no more dead baby jokes?"
He didn't smile. "I'm serious."
Julian's form faded until only his voice remained.
"We all are."
And from somewhere deep beneath them, a low rumble answered, like a buried crowd waiting for the next act.