I wish I could stop that skin‑crawling laughter.
That's the worst part of it, his laugh.
Is this house taunting me? Am I their plaything, something they can pass around to torment whenever they're bored? I keep trying to seem unbothered, talking to them casually, using humor as my lifelong weapon for every terrible situation I stumble into.
The truth is, I'm scared.
And even more scared to ask for help.
"No funny business while I'm changing, you ghost freaks!" I yelled as I stepped into the bathroom. Somehow I felt safer changing in there, as if they couldn't just slip in without me knowing and peek at my vulnerable, naked body.
At least in the bathroom, I didn't feel their eyes on me.
I've got myself some respectful ghosts.
As I stepped out and reached for my bag for the prep workshop, I heard it again.
That mocking laughter.
I froze.
Not again. Can't he just leave me alone? It was all fun and jokes when I couldn't see or hear them. When I first moved into this house, I could tell something paranormal was going on, but I didn't fully believe it. I mean, how could I? I can explain some odd occurrences the place is old but I cannot explain the laughter or the shadows.
I feel guilty enough as it is. I can't make people worry over some illustrations.
Can mold do that to you? I've heard it's toxic, but it can't be that toxic…
"Is my face that funny to you, asshole?"
I tried speaking with my usual tone so I wouldn't seem scared. That's what they want, fear.
But I'm not giving it to them.
Sorry not sorry, ghost freaks, but this is my house too.
I grabbed my bag and left the room, trying to keep my legs from shaking… and ended up falling midway down the stairs.
My breath hitched as I heard that familiar laughter again, closer this time, almost calling out to me.
And for a moment, I really believed I died and came back to life.
"Hello there, Willow."