The Croak of December

I grew up in a house that seemed to hold its breath. It was a two-story brick structure, built in the mid-1950s, nestled in the outskirts of Adelaide, a city known for its heat and its secrets. My parents had bought it before I was born, and my sister, Emily, and I had known nothing else. The house had always creaked and groaned, but we dismissed it as old age. Radios would flicker to life when we passed, and sometimes we’d hear a rhythmic thumping from the walls, like a heart beating beneath the plaster. We laughed it off, blaming the wiring and the pipes.

But as the years went by, the house grew more restless. It started in the spring, with small things: a cabinet door swinging open on its own, the smell of perfume in an empty room. Then, by late November, the activity intensified. Dishes would shatter in the pantry, and we’d find them in the morning, as if they had been thrown. The air in the hallway felt thick, and the shadows seemed to lean in when you walked past.

It was December, and the Australian summer was punishing. The nights were sweltering, and I lay in my bed, the sheets kicked to the foot, the door wide open in a futile attempt to catch a breeze. The clock on my nightstand read 12:47 AM. My parents had gone to bed hours ago, and Emily, who shared a room with Mum, was the last to turn in. As was our ritual, she clicked off every light downstairs and padded up the stairs, her footsteps a muffled rhythm on the carpet. I heard her pause at the top of the landing, and then the soft click of her door shutting.

And then, a sound sliced through the still air.

It came from just outside my door, a low, rasping croak. It was laughter, but not human. It was like the noise of a frog being crushed, a guttural “ha ha ha” that echoed in the hallway. It was discernible, clear, and utterly alien. My blood ran cold, and I felt the hairs on my arms stand up. I did not look. I kept my eyes fixed on the ceiling, my breath shallow, pretending I hadn’t heard it. The laughter faded, replaced by a silence that was heavier than before.

I didn’t sleep that night. I lay there, my body rigid, until the first gray light of dawn seeped through my curtains. When I finally crept out of my room, I saw the hallway was empty, the floorboards worn and familiar. I told no one about the laugh. What was there to say? But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had marked me.

In the days that followed, the house grew colder despite the heat outside. Emily insisted she felt a presence in her room, a weight on the foot of her bed at night. Mum found her jewelry scattered on the bathroom floor, each piece arranged in a perfect circle. Dad dismissed it, saying it was just the wind, but I saw the worry in his eyes.

It culminated on the last night of the year, New Year’s Eve. The family was gathered downstairs, watching the countdown on TV. I had excused myself to get a glass of water from the kitchen. As I passed the hallway mirror, I caught a glimpse of a figure—a tall, gaunt shape that had no face, only a smooth expanse of pale skin. It turned its head toward me, and I felt the same croaking laugh vibrate through my chest. I dropped the glass, shattering it, and fled back to the living room.

But when I got there, the room was empty. The TV static was buzzing, and the house was silent. I called out, but my voice was swallowed by the air. A deep, guttural sound echoed from upstairs, and I took the steps two at a time. I found Emily in her doorway, tears streaming down her face, pointing at the open window. ‘It jumped out,’ she whispered. ‘It was standing in the corner, and it laughed at me. It sounded like it was inside my head.’

I looked out the window into the dark, but there was nothing there. Just the quiet suburban street. We never spoke of it again, but from that night on, the house was still. No more radios, no more thumps. It was as if the presence had been satisfied with our terror. But I know it’s not gone. It’s waiting, biding its time. And each December, when the heat comes and the nights are long, I listen for that croak. I haven’t heard it yet, but I know it’s out there, remembering the night I heard its laugh and didn’t look. And it’s waiting for me to do something that will let it in for good.