The rain had perfect comedic timing.
It waited until Lena Mortimer opened her mouth to speak at her ex-boyfriend's funeral before it started pelting down like a cosmic punchline.
She stood there, soaked in black chiffon and regret, holding a microphone that definitely wasn't designed for outdoor use. Somewhere in the crowd, a seagull screamed — maybe in grief, maybe in mockery.
"Uh," she said, glancing at the coffin. "When Matt asked me to roast him someday, I didn't think he meant literally."
A horrified gasp rippled through the mourners — and then, a laugh. A small, guilty one. Then another. By the time she tried to steer it serious again, it was too late.
She was killing.
Even the widow — well, technically Matt's new girlfriend — tried not to snort. The priest frowned, but a smile twitched at the corner of his lips.
Lena's instinct kicked in.
"Matt was… a lot of things," she said, pacing in front of the coffin like it was an open mic stage. "A gamer, a dreamer, a man who thought 'let's just take a little nap on the highway shoulder' was a reasonable sentence. But mostly—"
Lightning flashed. The mic popped. The amplifier hissed with ghostly static.
"Mostly," Lena continued, "he taught me that timing is everything. And that I should always delete shared passwords."
Laughter again — reluctant, shocked, human.
By the time she finished, her mascara was melting down her cheeks and she wasn't sure whether she'd just bombed or been reborn.
Three hours later, she was viral.
The clip of "Funeral Comedy Girl" had hit half a million views by sundown. Hashtags bloomed like flowers over a grave: #DeadFunny, #GriefGiggles, #RIPRoast.
Her agent, Cassie, called.
"Sweetheart, it's genius. Raw. Unfiltered. People love it when you make death funny."
"I wasn't trying to make death funny," Lena groaned. "I was trying not to hyperventilate in public."
"Same thing! Comedy is trauma with better lighting. Book a special. You're trending."
Lena muted her, staring out the apartment window. Beyond the rain-soaked glass, Los Angeles shimmered like a mirage she no longer wanted.
Her phone buzzed again — not Cassie this time, but a lawyer. Something about an inheritance.
Two weeks later, she was in Massachusetts, staring at a wrought-iron gate creaking open to reveal her new home:
Mortimer Manor.
The gate's hinges moaned in the key of "run away."
"Perfect," Lena muttered. "Just like my dating life."
The mansion crouched on a cliff overlooking the Atlantic, its windows dark and unwelcoming, the color of old bones. A crooked "For Sale" sign leaned in the dirt, crossed out and replaced with a handwritten note:
WELCOME HOME, LENA.
She froze. "Okay, that's… presumptuous."
The realtor, a nervous man with dandruff like powdered sugar on his shoulders, fiddled with his keys.
"Probably… the wind?" he said, without conviction. "These old places, you know. Drafty. Haunted by… character."
"Haunted by mildew," Lena said, stepping inside.
The air smelled faintly of roses and something metallic — like old pennies or blood. The foyer stretched out before her, a cathedral of cobwebs and faded portraits.
She half-expected a butler to emerge with a thunderclap.
Instead, the grandfather clock in the corner chuckled.
A single, low, mechanical ha-ha-ha.
Lena turned slowly. "Did the clock just laugh at me?"
The realtor swallowed hard. "Charm. Lots of… charm."
By nightfall, Lena was alone.
She lit every candle she could find, sat on the creaky parlor sofa, and opened her laptop. Her comedy notebook glowed on-screen — jokes about funerals, breakups, the absurdity of grief. But nothing came out right anymore.
Her mind kept drifting to the house: the way it sighed when she moved, the faint scent of pipe smoke in rooms no one had entered in decades.
At midnight, she decided to film a quick vlog for her followers.
"Hi, guys," she said into her phone camera, "reporting live from what I'm 90% sure is a murder mansion. No Wi-Fi, no heat, no ghosts so far — unless you count my career."
She laughed at her own joke.
From somewhere upstairs, someone else laughed too.
The same tone. The same rhythm.
Lena froze. "Okay. Echo. That's… normal. Totally normal."
The laughter came again, louder this time — not echoing, but responding.
Then the mirror above the mantelpiece fogged up. Slowly, letters appeared in the mist, written by invisible fingers:
You were hilarious at the funeral.
Her phone clattered from her hands.
She backed away, eyes wide, heart hammering.
The laughter stopped. The mirror cleared.
Only her reflection remained — wide-eyed, alone, trembling.
Then her reflection smiled — a second too late.