The Piercing Laugh

The air in my grandmother’s house was thick with the smell of burning copal and marigolds. I was nine, or maybe ten, and my cousins and I were being shushed every time we giggled too loud. The adults moved like solemn shadows, arranging photographs and setting out plates of food for the ‘visitors.’ I didn’t understand it then, the way the whole house felt like a held breath. All I knew was that we were bored, and the long corridors of the old hacienda were the perfect place for hide-and-seek.

My cousin Mateo, the boldest of us, dared me to run down the main staircase and slide across the polished floor, just like we did in our own homes. I was about to protest, remembering my grandmother’s warning from earlier that day, but Mateo’s eyes had that glint. ‘Scared, Luisa?’ he taunted. My pride stung. The others held their breath as I took the steps two at a time, my laugh echoing in the vaulted ceiling. I hit the bottom with a skid, my shoes screeching. For a moment, silence. Then I burst into a triumphant cackle, and the others joined in from the top of the stairs.

That’s when the house reacted. The candles on the altar flickered, as if a wind had passed through, and the photographs wobbled. The adults turned to stare, their faces pale. My grandmother’s voice, usually soft, cut through the noise: ‘Luisa, you must respect the dead. You are pulling them from their rest.’ But I was already running, my heart pounding with a mix of fear and excitement, leading my cousins down the hallway back to the safety of the big kitchen.

We thought we’d escaped punishment, but that night, as I lay in the bed I shared with my sister, I heard it: a faint, reedy laugh, not from any of my cousins. It came from the corner of the room, near the old armoire. I squeezed my eyes shut, pretending I was dreaming. The laugh grew closer, now right by my ear, a cold breath with the scent of damp earth. I tried to scream, but my voice was gone.

When I finally found the strength to open my eyes, the room was empty. But I saw something in the mirror across from me – a small, blurry figure standing behind where I lay. It was a boy, maybe my age, with hollow eyes and a grin that stretched too wide. He raised a finger to his lips and shook his head, then vanished. From that night on, my laugh was never the same. Sometimes, when I least expect it, I hear an echo of that other laugh, and I now understand that on that Day of the Dead, I didn’t just anger the dead – I brought one back with me, forever connected by the pierce of my own careless laughter.