The Second Laugh

December 31, 2013

by Wilburn

It started four months ago, on a warm October night. I was alone in my apartment, the city humming outside my window, but inside it was quiet except for the hum of my refrigerator. I was in my living room, scrolling through my phone, when I decided to watch something on my laptop. I wasn’t tired, just restless. The clock on my laptop read 2:47 AM.

I remember the exact second I pressed the spacebar to pause the video. The silence that followed was heavy, like a blanket. Then, out of nowhere, I heard it: a low, throaty laugh. It was an old woman’s laugh, but not warm or kind. It was cold, deliberate, and it came from the hallway leading to my bedroom.

My blood ran cold. I froze, my hand hovering over the keyboard. The laugh echoed in my ears, unnaturally clear. I mustered every ounce of courage and whispered, ‘Do it again.’ My voice was shaky, barely a breath.

For a moment, there was nothing. Then the laugh came again, lower, deeper, and shorter, as if the source was amused by my challenge. It seemed to come from right behind my shoulder, despite my room being empty. I spun around, my heart pounding, but there was nothing.

I stumbled to my feet, adrenaline pumping. I checked every room, every closet, under the bed. I even peered out the windows to see if anyone was outside. The hallway was empty, the bedroom dark, the bathroom cold. I stood in the center of my living room, shaking, listening to the silence.

I called my friend Maya, who lives across town. I know it was late, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. She answered groggily, and I told her what happened. She told me it was probably the wind or a neighbor’s TV. But I know what I heard. It wasn’t the wind. It was inside my apartment.

Since that night, I’ve had more experiences. A whisper in the bathroom when the water ran. The feeling of a hand on my shoulder when I’m alone. But that laugh, that second laugh, was the most chilling. It felt like a response, an acknowledgment that I was aware of it. It’s been four months, and I still can’t sleep without a light on. I’ve read about pareidolia, sleep paralysis, even psychosis, but I know what I heard. This was real. And I’m afraid it was a warning.

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