The Painted Laughter

It was a muggy August afternoon when my cousin Julia and I agreed to watch my six-year-old niece, Mia, while my parents attended a late lunch. Their old Victorian house creaked and settled like it always did, but that day felt different. The air was thick, and the sunlight filtering through the lace curtains seemed to dim every few seconds, as if something was passing between the window and the sky.

We were in the middle of a board game on the living room floor, Mia giggling and knocking pieces over, when a low, guttural laughter erupted from the dining room. It wasn’t a child’s laugh, nor an adult’s. It was a wet, phlegmy sound, like something was choking on air and finding it hilarious. The three of us froze. Mia’s smile vanished, and her eyes went wide. I told Julia to take Mia into the living room and stay with her, then I crept toward the dining room.

The dining room was empty, as was the adjacent bathroom. The long table sat under a dusty chandelier, and the wallpaper with faded roses looked like peeling skin. I checked the corners, the closet, even under the table. Nothing. I felt a cold draft sweep across my neck, and I hurried back to the living room. Julia had Mia wrapped in a blanket, and Mia was trembling, her lower lip quivering.

We tried to distract her with cartoons, but the TV flickered, and Mia started to cry. ‘It’s laughing again,’ she whispered, pointing toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. I hadn’t heard anything, but Julia’s face went pale. ‘I heard it too,’ she said. ‘It’s coming from the computer room.’

I decided to get blankets from the computer room, hoping a change of scenery would soothe Mia. As I stepped inside, the room felt unusually cold, and the computer monitor was on, displaying a blank blue screen. I grabbed a quilt from the chair and noticed a strange painting on the wall I’d never seen before. It was a portrait of a clown, but the face was distorted, with exaggerated features and a mouth stretched into a grin so wide it split the canvas. The eyes were voids, and the paint seemed wet. I shivered and turned to leave, but the monitor flickered, and a distorted, laughing face appeared on the screen, the same as the painting. It emitted a crackling sound that grew into that same wet laughter.

I stumbled back into the living room, my heart hammering. ‘We need to go,’ I said, trying to keep my voice steady. But the front door was locked, and the key was gone. I had put it on the hook by the door, but the hook was empty. Julia tried her phone, but the screen went black. The landline was dead. Mia was sobbing now, pointing at the hallway again. ‘He’s coming,’ she said.

We moved to the kitchen, thinking at least there was a back door. But the back door was also locked, and the windows were painted shut. The laughter was everywhere now, bouncing off the walls, coming from the ceiling, from the floorboards. My own glass of water on the counter rattled, then slid off, shattering on the tile, spilling water across the floor. Julia screamed.

We retreated to the pantry, a small, windowless room. I fumbled for the light, but the bulb buzzed and popped. In the darkness, I could hear Mia repeating, ‘The painted laughter, the painted laughter,’ over and over. A sickly sweet smell filled the air, like rotting flowers. Then I felt something wet brush against my leg, and the laughter turned into a chorus, surrounding us.

I clutched Mia and Julia, and we pressed against the shelves, trembling. The laughter grew louder, and the walls began to writhe, as if they were alive. And just as I thought we couldn’t take anymore, a voice, clear and cold as a winter draft, whispered in my ear, ‘You didn’t like my painting?’ Then the laughter swelled, and the pantry door slammed shut.

We heard my parents’ car pull into the driveway, their voices calling out, but the laughter didn’t stop. It only grew. And when they opened the pantry door, we were gone. Only a puddle of water and a single, wet smiley face drawn on the floor remained.