For two days after the "party," Lena refused to open her laptop.
She couldn't.
Every time she tried, the cursor blinked like an accusation. Her fingers hovered over the keys, ready to type, but the moment she thought of a punchline, the air around her shifted—like something listening, waiting to steal the laugh before it was born.
Eli found her at the kitchen table on the third morning, staring blankly at the screen.
"You're doing that thing again," he said.
"What thing?"
"The thousand-yard glare. Classic symptom of ghost-induced writer's block."
Lena managed a small smile. "That's adorable. You think I've ever written a joke sober."
He chuckled, pouring her coffee. "You need to leave this place for a day. Fresh air, sunlight—maybe a crowd that isn't cursed."
"Tempting," she said, "but I can't. There's a new show in town—the Dead Funny Live festival. I'm supposed to headline tomorrow."
Eli raised an eyebrow. "A haunted comedian performing after surviving a haunted house? That's… bold."
"It's also rent money," she muttered. "And maybe, if I make people laugh again, the house will stop trying to."
He didn't answer right away. "Just promise me if anything feels wrong—"
"I'll run. Scream. Throw holy water. I've got the routine down."
That night, she practiced in the parlor.
Eli worked upstairs, setting up new wards along the windows, while Lena paced the floor, reciting half-finished bits. The chandelier swayed slightly above her, catching candlelight.
"So," she said to the empty room, "you ever notice how exorcisms are just bad break-ups with Latin?"
A faint chuckle echoed from the hallway.
She froze. "Eli?"
No answer.
Another laugh—closer this time. Softer. Familiar.
Julian.
"Don't," she whispered.
The mirror on the wall rippled, his reflection forming slowly—his grin too wide, eyes glowing faint blue.
"You can't resist an audience, Lena."
Her pulse spiked. "You're dead."
"Everyone's a little dead inside. That's why we laugh."
She backed away. "You're not him. You're what's left of the house."
"Maybe. Or maybe I'm what's left of you."
The reflection tilted its head, voice dropping to a near whisper.
"Tell me another joke."
She slammed the laptop shut. The lights flickered once, then steadied. The mirror went still.
But when she opened her notebook again, the words had changed.
Every punchline had rewritten itself.
The next evening, the festival stage lights burned hot. The crowd's chatter rolled like surf, bright and living. Lena hadn't told Eli she was still going through with the gig; he would've chained her to the radiator.
She took a breath, adjusted the mic, and smiled. "Hey everyone. Great to be here. And great to be alive—mostly."
The audience laughed. Relief washed through her. Maybe it was fine. Maybe the ghost had finally moved on.
Then she hit the second joke.
"And you know, haunted houses are a lot like bad relationships—"
She stopped.
The rest of the line wasn't in her head anymore. It slid into her mouth without her consent.
"—because no matter how loud you scream, something still whispers, don't go."
The crowd laughed. Hard.
Too hard.
Their faces blurred in the lights—eyes wide, smiles too big. The laughter deepened, echoing like it had in the basement.
Lena froze. "Oh no."
Keep going, a voice purred inside her skull.
"Julian," she hissed.
They love you. Don't disappoint them.
Her body moved on its own, delivering line after line she didn't recognize. Each joke twisted darker, sharper. The crowd roared until the sound turned wrong—metallic, grinding, inhuman.
She dropped the mic. The laughter cut off instantly. The silence that followed was absolute.
Then the spotlight burst, plunging the room into blackness.
Someone grabbed her wrist.
"Lena!"
Eli's voice. He'd come anyway.
He pulled her backstage as emergency lights flickered to life. "I told you not to—"
"Save it!" she panted. "He's back. He's using my act!"
From beyond the curtain came a slow clap.
Julian stepped out of the shadows of the stage, faintly glowing, elegant as ever.
"Encore?"
Eli raised his sigil, shouting an incantation. The charm flared gold, and Julian staggered—but didn't vanish.
"Nice try, exorcist. But this time, I've got the crowd."
The audience began to rise, hundreds of silhouettes moving in eerie unison. Their laughter returned, low and hungry.
Lena whispered, "He's controlling them."
"Not controlling," Julian said. "Entertaining."
Eli grabbed her hand. "We need to break the link."
"How?"
He met her eyes. "You're the comic. You started it."
The realization hit her like a gut punch. "You want me to bomb."
"Hard."
Lena stepped back onto the stage. The air shimmered, alive with ghostly heat. The audience's faces were pale masks, mouths open in anticipation.
She raised the mic. "Okay," she said, voice shaking, "here's one that never lands."
Julian frowned.
She forced a grin. "What's red, black, and really bad timing?"
Silence.
"Us."
The joke hung there, hollow. The laughter faltered. A few of the spirits blinked out, confusion rippling through the crowd.
She went on, worse and worse—flat lines, dead air, deliberate silence. Her hands trembled, tears streaking her cheeks, but she kept going.
Every failed punchline made the room dimmer. Every awkward pause stripped Julian of his glow.
"Stop!" he shouted. "They need the laughter!"
"No," she said softly. "You do."
The mic hissed, sparks shooting up the cord. Light poured from Julian's chest, splintering outward in fractures of blue. He screamed—not from pain, but from the sound of silence itself.
Then he was gone.
The laughter died completely. The crowd—real people now—blinked as if waking from a dream.
Eli caught Lena as she stumbled. "You did it."
She laughed once, weakly. "I bombed so hard I exorcised a ghost. New career high."
He smiled, pulling her into a shaking embrace. "Remind me never to heckle you."
Back at the house that night, everything was still.
No whispers. No laughter. Only quiet.
Lena sat by the window, watching the moonlight spill across the lawn. Eli brought her a blanket, settling beside her.
"Do you think he's gone for good?" she asked.
Eli shrugged. "Ghosts are like punchlines. They linger until they land."
She leaned her head on his shoulder. "Then maybe he finally got it."
For a long time they sat there, silent, the first peace they'd felt since arriving.
And then, faintly, from somewhere deep in the walls, came a tiny, tired voice—half-amused, half-content.
Tough crowd.
Lena smiled through her tears. "Goodnight, Julian."