The Laughing Walls

My grandmother, Eleanor, grew up in a sprawling farmhouse in the dusty plains of Kansas, a place where the wind never seemed to stop and the cornfields whispered secrets to the sky. The house was ancient, built from sun-bleached timber and fieldstone, and it had a way of swallowing sound, of holding onto the echoes of the past like a miser hoards gold.

The first time she heard it, she was only seven, lying in her narrow bed with the window cracked open to let in the cool night air. It started as a faint, tinny melody, like a music box playing a waltz, but it was coming from the walls. She pressed her ear to the plaster, and the sound grew clearer—a piano, maybe, and the swish of skirts, and the low murmur of voices. And laughter, warm and inviting, as if a grand party were unfolding just behind the wallpaper. She called for her mother, but by the time her mother arrived, the rooms were silent, and Eleanor was left with the lingering smell of cheap perfume and cigar smoke.

The parties never stopped. Every night, the sounds would seep through the walls like water through a sieve—clinking glasses, the pop of a cork, a woman’s high-pitched giggle, a man’s baritone chuckle. Her older brother, Caleb, swore he once heard a fiddle, and their guests, when they stayed overnight, would wake with flushed faces and confused smiles, claiming they’d dreamt of dancing. But the laughter was the worst. It wasn’t just happy; it was mocking, as if the unseen revelers knew something Eleanor didn’t, as if they were laughing at her for being on the other side of the wall.

The visions didn’t take long to follow. Eleanor first saw the girl on a sweltering July afternoon. She was standing at the end of the hallway, a child of about ten, wearing a faded calico dress with a high collar and a ribbon in her hair, like a photograph from a century ago. Her face was pale, and she stared at Eleanor with eyes that held no light, then turned and walked through the wall. The shadow came later, a tall, dark shape that loomed in doorways, a hat on its head and no face. It never moved, just stood there, watching, and when Eleanor blinked, it was gone. She learned to keep her eyes down, to never look directly at it, because when she did, the laughter in the walls grew louder, almost ecstatic.

Years passed, and Eleanor became a woman, but the house never loosened its grip. She married my grandfather, John, and brought him to live there, half hoping the presence would fade with company. It didn’t. John heard the music, saw the flickering shadows, and one night, he woke to find a cold hand pressed against his cheek, and a girl’s voice whispering, ‘Dance with me.’ He left after that, and Eleanor stayed, because she had no choice—the house held her like a debt.

When my mother, Sarah, was born, Eleanor feared for her. But Sarah seemed immune, sleeping soundly through the spectral parties, never seeing the girl or the shadow. Eleanor thought perhaps the curse had ended, that her daughter was the first to be free. She was wrong.

Sarah was twelve when she saw it. It was a Tuesday, and she was in the parlor, reading a book, when she heard a sound from the kitchen—a glass shattering, and then a child’s cry. She ran in and found a broken tumbler on the floor, but no one there. And then she saw the girl, sitting on the counter, swinging her legs, humming a tune. The girl turned and smiled, and Sarah could see straight through her, to the wallpaper behind. ‘You can see me,’ the girl said. ‘Good. I’ve been waiting.’

From that night on, Sarah became the focus. The laughter in the walls grew louder, more frenzied, and the shadow began to follow her—down the hall, into the yard, even into town, hovering at the edge of her vision. At night, the girl would sit on the foot of her bed, braiding her spectral hair, and whisper stories of a time before the house was built, of a ballroom that had stood on the same spot, where a fire had raged and trapped the guests inside. ‘We never left,’ the girl said. ‘And now you’re one of us.’

Sarah tried to flee, but the house wouldn’t let her. Doors slammed shut, keys disappeared, and the road out of town always led her back, the car tires losing traction on the same gravel drive. Eleanor, growing old and weary, could only watch as her daughter grew pale and thin, the circles under her eyes deep as wells. The laughter was constant now, a soundtrack to every waking moment, and the silent shadow stood in a corner of every room, patient and eternal.

One night, Sarah screamed. She was in her room, and when Eleanor burst in, she saw the girl and the shadow hovering over Sarah’s bed, their mouths open in silent glee as Sarah’s form shimmered and became translucent. Eleanor grabbed her daughter’s hand, but it passed through as if it were smoke. ‘Mother,’ Sarah whispered, ‘they’re showing me the dance floor. It’s beautiful. I can hear the music so clearly now.’ And then she was gone, her body dissolving into the air, leaving only the faint scent of violets and burnt sugar.

Eleanor buried a casket full of stones, because she couldn’t bear the truth. She stayed in the house until she died, and now my mother, Margaret, lives here, in this same farmhouse, with the wind blowing through the cornfields and the walls humming with distant revelry. I’m her daughter, and it’s my turn now. I can hear them laughing, and I can feel the shadow’s gaze, and I know that one night, when I least expect it, a girl in a calico dress will sit at the end of my bed and offer me a hand.

The laughter is getting louder, and I’ve started to see the pattern in the wallpaper, the faces forming in the grain. My mother tells me not to be afraid, that it’s just the wind, just the old house settling. But she doesn’t hear what I hear. She doesn’t see what I see.

They’re calling my name.