The Hollow Laugh

The evening had started with a sense of reckless freedom, the kind that comes with the last Friday before finals. I was in my cramped dorm, a converted basement on the edge of a sprawling campus that backed onto a wide, slow-moving canal. My roommates, Derek and Sam, were taking their sweet time, and I was getting impatient. We were supposed to meet the rest of the crew at an old boathouse further down the canal, where they had already started the party. The air outside was thick and humid, and I could already smell the faint scent of weed and cheap beer drifting from the direction of the water.

I was leaning against the doorframe of the double room, shouting at them to move their asses, when a sharp tap on the window made all three of us freeze. The window was at ground level, and I could see a face pressed against the grimy glass. It was our friend Ravi, who was supposed to be at the boathouse, drinking with the rest of them. But he didn’t look like he had been partying. His face was pale, and his eyes were wide and glassy, not with intoxication but with something that looked like fear.

He gestured frantically for us to follow him to the window of the adjacent bathroom, which was even more recessed into the ground. We exchanged uneasy looks but followed. In the tiny, mold-scented bathroom, we ducked below the sill and waited. At first, there was nothing but the sound of our own breathing and the distant thump of music. Then, a soft, wet thud against the glass, like something heavy and moist being pressed against it.

A laugh, hollow and inhuman, echoed through the thin pane. It sounded like a distorted recording, the kind you’d hear in a horror movie, but played at half speed. It was followed by a gurgling sound, and then a slow, deliberate scratching, as if something with long nails was tracing the outline of the window. Derek’s face went white, and Sam whispered, ‘What the hell is that?’

I peeked over the edge. All I could see was the bottom half of a figure, silhouetted against the dim glow from the parking lot across the canal. It seemed to be kneeling, and I could see the shape of what looked like a head, tilting to one side, as if listening. Then, the figure began to crawl away, making a wet slithering sound as it moved. We waited for what felt like an eternity, our hearts pounding, until the sound faded completely.

When we finally got the courage to open the bathroom door, the hallway was empty. The only thing we found was a dark, oily smear on the outside of the window, and a small piece of paper wedged into the crack. On it, in a messy scrawl, was the word ‘Laugh.’ We didn’t go to the party that night. We stayed in the room, huddled together, and didn’t sleep.

The next morning, we found out that Ravi had never come to the boathouse. His body was discovered floating in the canal, a grotesque smile carved into his face. The police said it was an animal attack, but we knew better. And late at night, when the canal was quiet, we could still hear that hollow laugh, echoing through the halls of our dorm, waiting for the next victim.