The Hollow Laugh

When my old college friend, Marcus, and I agreed to spend a week at my Great-Aunt Elara’s place in the remote highlands, I expected creaky floorboards and dusty photographs. What I didn’t expect was a séance disguised as small talk.

Aunt Elara’s home was a squat, moss-covered manor from the 1700s, isolated on a wind-scoured moor. The nearest village was a half-hour drive over roads that felt like they were trying to shake us off the map. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of old wood and cloves, and every step we took seemed to be swallowed by the heavy silence.

We sat in the sitting room, a cavernous space dominated by a stone fireplace that could swallow a man whole. Aunt Elara, a frail woman with eyes that seemed to see through you, poured tea and began, without prompting, “You know, the walls here aren’t just wood and stone. They remember.”

Marcus shot me a look that said, ‘here we go.’ I tried to steer the conversation, but she continued, “There have been… visitors. Not always welcome. Two women, in particular, keep coming back.”

She described them as dressed in long white dresses, laughing and chatting, always near the kitchen. “They think no one can hear them, but I do. Sometimes they call out names—names I don’t recognize. And once, one of them almost touched me.”

I wanted to laugh, but the intensity in her voice kept me silent. She patted my knee and stood, saying, “I’ll get you some lemonade. Stay put.”

She shuffled into the kitchen, and Marcus leaned in, “She’s losing it, right?” I shrugged, but a cold draft wrapped around my ankles.

Then, from the kitchen, we heard, “Elena! Marcus! Come here!” It was clear as a bell, and it was Aunt Elara’s voice. We exchanged a look and got up.

As we entered the kitchen, Aunt Elara stood by the counter, a glass pitcher in her hands, looking at us with a frown. “What’s the matter? I didn’t call you.”

“But we heard you,” Marcus insisted. “You called our names.”

A slow smile spread across her face, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Well, it wasn’t me. But don’t worry. They’re just playing.”

“They?” I asked, my mouth dry.

She set the pitcher down and gestured to the corner, where the light from the window seemed to bend strangely. “Watch.”

We did. For a moment, nothing. Then, a faint rustling, like fabric brushing against the floor. Two shimmering shapes materialized—tall women in white dresses, their faces indistinct, their features wavering like heat over a road. They were talking, their voices like whispers from a distant room, and they laughed, a hollow, echoing sound that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

I grabbed Marcus’s arm. His face was pale. The apparitions ignored us, drifting toward the pantry, their conversation continuing as if they had all the time in the world.

Aunt Elara watched them with a placid expression. “They’ve been here longer than me. They don’t mean harm, but they can be… persuasive.”

“Persuasive?” Marcus repeated, his voice cracked.

“They called you here, didn’t they?” she said, looking at him with sudden clarity. “I didn’t invite you. You came on your own, but they whispered to you, didn’t they? In your dreams?”

I shook my head, but Marcus’s eyes widened. “I… I had a dream about this place. About two women in white. They told me to come.”

A chill ran down my spine. That night, as we tried to sleep in the guest room, we heard the laughter again. It crept under the door, wrapped around the bedposts, and settled in our ears. We didn’t speak, but I knew we were both thinking the same thing: we had to leave.

But when morning came, the car wouldn’t start. The battery was dead. Aunt Elara shrugged, “Happens all the time. You’ll have to stay another day.”

That day, the apparitions grew bolder. They appeared in the hallway, blocking our path, their laughter louder, more insistent. They called our names, over and over, and their voices sounded less like Aunt Elara and more like our own fears given shape.

By evening, we were huddled in the sitting room, the fire crackling, but the cold was seeping in. Aunt Elara sat in her rocking chair, knitting something that looked like a shroud. “They want you to stay,” she said matter-of-factly. “They’ve been lonely.”

“We can’t stay,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “We need to get back.”

“Why?” she asked. “What’s waiting for you out there? They offer you a kind of peace. A forever.”

Marcus broke then. He stood up, shouting, “We’re not staying! There’s nothing here but death!”

His words echoed, and the laughter from the kitchen grew to a crescendo. The two women appeared in the doorway, their forms solid now, their faces no longer blurred—they were Aunt Elara and another woman, both young, dressed in white. They walked toward us, arms outstretched, and I realized with horror that they intended to embrace us.

I grabbed Marcus’s hand and we bolted for the front door. It wouldn’t budge. Behind us, the laughter turned to a wail, and the air grew thick and suffocating.

Aunt Elara appeared beside us, no longer old but youthful, her eyes black as coal. “You shouldn’t have come,” she said, and her voice was the hollow laughter we’d been hearing all along.

The last thing I saw was Marcus’s face contorting into a scream as the two women enveloped him. Then everything went dark.

I woke up on the moor, alone, the sun bright and indifferent. The house was gone. Not a ruin, but completely absent, as if it had never existed. There was only a single white lily where the front door should have been. I stumbled to the road and hitched a ride back to the village. The locals there stared at me with deep suspicion. They said the old house had been abandoned for decades, and anyone who entered never came back. They said my friend was never with me—I had always been alone.

I didn’t correct them. I never told them about the two women in white, or how, even now, I can still hear their laughter echoing in my skull. Sometimes, when I’m in a quiet room, I hear them call my name, and I know—they’re still waiting. And they’ll find me again.