The Giggling in the Backseat

It was three in the morning when I started my drive home from my friend’s place in the countryside. The road was a narrow, moonlit ribbon flanked by dense woods, and my old sedan hummed along the asphalt. I was halfway through a yawn when I heard it – a soft, high-pitched giggle from the back seat. It was the kind of laugh that children make when they’re playing a prank, but there was no one back there. I checked the rearview mirror, saw only the empty seat and the darkness beyond. I figured my imagination was playing tricks, but then the radio blared to life, blasting static that sliced through the silence. I fumbled with the knob, turning it off with a click. ‘Bad connection,’ I muttered, though my hands were shaking. About a minute later, the giggle returned, this time louder, almost mocking. The radio snapped on again, volume maxed out, and the static shrieked like a wounded animal. I slammed my palm against the stereo, breaking the plastic faceplate. ‘Try it again,’ I said, my voice low and defiant, though my heart was racing. I drove the rest of the way with my hands white-knuckled on the wheel, refusing to look in the rearview mirror. When I finally pulled into my driveway, I practically vaulted out of the car, leaving the door hanging open, and didn’t look back. I didn’t touch the car for three days. But the following Thursday, I decided to fix the stereo. I sat in the driver’s seat, tool in hand, prying at the broken panel. The cabin was quiet, but the air felt thick, like something was waiting. And then I heard it again – that unmistakable giggle, but this time it came from directly behind my head. My eyes shot to the rearview mirror. Still empty. Then the steering wheel began to turn, slowly at first, a quarter turn to the right, all on its own. The car was off, the engine cold, and yet the wheel moved with a force that defied logic. I yanked my hands away as if burned, and the giggle grew louder, filling the car with a chorus of childish laughter that seemed to come from everywhere. I scrambled out, tripping over my own feet, and slammed the door. I stood in my driveway, panting, staring at the car. The laughter faded, but I knew it wasn’t over. That night, I did something I hadn’t done in years – I called my mother. I asked her if anything strange had ever happened in our old house, the one we lived in when I was a kid. She was quiet for a long time, then said, ‘Why do you ask?’ I told her about the car, about the laughter. She told me a story I had never heard: when I was four, I had an imaginary friend named Lily, who I insisted was a real girl. One day, I came home from a picnic and told my mother that Lily had followed me home, and that she liked to sit in the backseat of our car. I even pointed to the empty seat and said, ‘Lily’s laughing.’ My mother brushed it off as a child’s fantasy. But now, as I sat in my driveway, staring at my car, I remembered something else. I remembered the day we moved out of that house, when I threw a tantrum in the car, screaming that I couldn’t leave Lily behind. And I remembered the last thing I ever said about her: ‘She said she’ll always be with me, even when I’m old.’ I looked at my car, and I knew, with a sickening certainty, that Lily had kept her promise. That was two years ago. I sold the car to a dealer in the next town, and I moved to a city apartment with no car, no children, no reminders. But last night, I heard a faint giggle from the apartment’s hallway, just outside my door. And when I peered through the peephole, I saw nothing. But I felt a presence, and I heard a small voice whisper, ‘I’m still here, big brother.’ I haven’t left my apartment since. I’m writing this as a warning, but also as a confession. If you ever hear laughter in an empty car, don’t try to fix the stereo. And whatever you do, don’t say ‘Try it again.’ Because some things are better left broken.