Who Laughs Last

I found the lonely door the day I moved into my dorm. The older girls warned us not to go near it, but I’m a Michigander; I didn’t care about a bunch of old Southern superstitions masquerading as traditions.

I only brought the basics in the trunk of my car; electronics, bedding, supplies, and a couple suitcases of clothes. I was here to finish my degree, not win a beauty pageant or host visiting royals in my dorm room.

On my last trip to the car, the main stair was so crowded that I changed course and took the smaller stairs at my end of the hall. The stairwell was blissfully peaceful and cool, and I lingered there, enjoying the contrast from the frenetic activity all around. If it hadn’t been so quiet, I might never have heard the sound of the TV or even noticed the door.

On the second floor landing, there was a room door that opened onto the stairs instead of the residence hall. Fascinated, I tiptoed closer, my Converse silent on the worn vinyl tile. A TV was definitely on in the room, its volume set low. I couldn’t hear the dialog, but it must have been a comedy, because the laugh track flared up again and again.

I’m not sure how long I stood there, listening; I just remember jumping back and hurrying down the steps when I heard voices near the hallway door. Whatever show was on in that room, the sound quality made me think of 1950s-60s TV. The thought struck me that I’d been listening to the laughter of people who were all dead by now. It gave me shivers that lasted long after I’d gone back out into the hot summer day.

I was sweaty and my hair was straggly when I got back, so naturally, that was when my roommate and her whole family showed up. “Emily!” she yelled in the deepest deep-South accent I’d ever heard in person. “Hi, it’s so nice to meet you! I’m Misty Tanner Gray! And this is my mama…” She went on to introduce her parents and several siblings and relations. They all had at least three names, and my head was spinning when she finished.

They looked like a group of tall, blonde Greek statues; the women had more curls and makeup than the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders, and the men could all have been quarterbacks or U.S. Marines or both at the same time. I felt like a duck in a swan pond. They insisted on taking me along to dinner since I was on my own, even though I was a Yankee, and I was actually kind of sad to see them all leave at the end of the evening.

After we turned out lights out, Misty watched videos on her phone. It reminded me of the TV I’d heard in the stairway, and I asked her if she knew anything about the door I’d found. “Oh, that’s the door they say to stay away from. It used to be an RA’s room a long time ago, but they don’t use it anymore.” Misty lowered her phone, and the glow from its screen made deep shadows on her face. “There’s a story about it.” I rolled my eyes to myself, but I told her to go on.

Years ago, nobody agrees on how long, a girl named Claire lived in that room. She was always a little strange, the story went, but she got progressively weirder as the year went on until even her boyfriend broke up with her. She coated the whole inside of the room—including her clothes, with Sterno, paraffin wax and charcoal dust.

She worked the mixture into everything so hard that her fingers were cut up and her blood was everywhere. Then, at 3:33 am, she spiked a can of hairspray and set the room on fire. They found her body with her fingers crumpled underneath the door like she was trying to get out.

“They also say they didn’t find a lighter or matches in the room, and nobody knows how the fire started. Some nights,” Misty said as she turned off her phone, “the story says, there’s a smell like burnt popcorn in that stairwell, and if you open the door and smell it, just go another way. I’ve never smelled it, but I just don’t use that stairway, ever.”

Friday was a very long day. New student orientation. College of Arts and Sciences orientation. Finding the academic buildings and cafeterias and libraries and rec centers and the bookstore. Misty had activities with her sorority all day; she was still out when I turned off the light to sleep.

In my dream, I stood in a space that was all dark except for a small TV. On the black-and-white screen, two couples were playing cards in a room full of old-fashioned furniture. The dialog was faint; I only heard the rhythmic rise and fall of audience laughter.

The screen brightened, and I saw her; a girl about my age standing a few feet in front of me to my right, facing the TV. At first, I could only see her long, dark, stringy hair and the back of her white bathrobe. The light flickered, and I noticed her left hand. The tips of her fingers were bruised and swollen, and drops of bright, red blood—the only color in the room—dripped slowly onto the shiny floor.

She spoke without turning her head. “Make them stop,” she said in a small voice. “They’re laughing at me. Everyone is laughing; telling me I don’t belong. Are you laughing, too?” I wanted to help her, tell her it would be all right, but I couldn’t speak. I tried to reach out, but I couldn’t move, I couldn’t breathe and I couldn’t even…

“Hey, Emily,” Misty said. Her light was on. “Havin’ a bad dream?”

Misty told me the next day that I replied, “I’m not laughing, Claire,” and she asked if I’d been eating popcorn. She had more sorority activities that would last well into the night.

On my way to the bookstore, I made myself go to the stairway and open the hall door. No smell. I went down to the second floor landing and listened. No TV. I stepped close to the door, but stopped short of touching it. I went on my way, determined to forget about the dream.

I bought my books, hung out with some people I’d met in the dorm, went back to my empty room, caught up on a couple episodes of a show, then went to bed.

I dreamed I was in the stairwell. The lights were off and the floor was cold. I sat there cross-legged in my nightshirt for what felt like hours. Light flashed fitfully through the crack at the bottom of the door. I heard low, canned laughter and smelled a flat, bitter aroma. I wanted to reach out. Put my hands under the door. Show her that it would be ok. I wanted to.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” Misty said. Sunlight blazed through our window, and her voice was way too cheerful. “What time did you get back last night?”

“Um.” I rubbed my eyes. “You were still out when I went to bed.”

She chuckled. “Well, it must not have been here, ‘cause I got back at one thirty, and your bed was empty.” I took a hot shower to wake myself up, and the water stung my fingers. I looked closely, and found little scratches just below the nails on the backs of both hands. They hadn’t been there when I went to bed.

Sunday was filled with university convocation events. I asked around about the Claire story, but most people just looked sorry for me, like I was asking about the tooth fairy. The following few weeks of classes are just a blur. I slept poorly, I fell behind in my coursework, and I felt groggy all the time. Misty asked me if I had a problem with sleepwalking, but I’d never done that at home.

in the days leading up to midterms, I sensed that people were starting to avoid me. People I’d begun to make friends with never seemed to be around and weren’t in a hurry to return my texts. Misty was more direct.

“Hon, when was the last time you washed your hair?” she asked me on a Friday afternoon. I’d lost track. When I looked in the bathroom mirror, I was shocked. I’d always thought of myself as being at least decent-looking, but the face I saw in the mirror looked like that of a homeless person. My eyes were red and puffy, I had acne like never before, and my hair was turning into dreads.

When I reached for my brush, I saw raw scrapes and scratches on my fingertips. Most of them weren’t fresh, but I hadn’t noticed them before. I was worried; had I subconsciously been chewing my fingers? I really needed some sleep. I cleaned up as well as I could and went to bed early.

That night, I dreamed I was in the dark stairwell again, sitting on the cold floor tiles. Dull, flickering light and the distant laughter of dead people filtered under the nameless door. The voice inside was speaking softly. “You’re a stranger; they’re laughing at you, too. Reach under to me, let me touch you. We’ll help each other.”

Pain flared, and I automatically pulled my hand away and put my finger to my lips. The sudden pain and the metal taste of blood woke me up. The lights in the stairwell were on, and the space beneath the door was black and silent. My legs were numb beneath me; my skin felt frozen and stuck to the floor.

Slowly, painfully, I stood and tried to shake the pins-and-needles feeling as my circulation returned. I remembered everything I’d seen and heard while I sat there, I suppose because I woke up in the middle of it. Limping back toward my room, I became aware that I’d done the same thing before. More than once; maybe every night I’d spent in that dorm.

I’m not superstitious; I don’t believe in ghosts, I told myself. I stopped outside my door and leaned against the wall to collect my thoughts. I looked at my hands; my fingers were covered with fresh scrapes. I brought them closer and smelled that flat odor again; it reminded me of the buffet line in the caf. The smell of food being kept warm well past its time. What was it called?

Sterno. My hands smelled like sterno. The stuff that Claire had supposedly used to torch herself.

My heart made the connection that my mind refused. By the time I was finally able to feel the rough texture of the hallway carpet under my toes, I had the beginning of a plan. I’d heard a phrase long ago that came back to me then; “Resist the devil, and he will flee.” Resist.

In my dreams, or whatever they were, about the door and the girl, I’d wanted to go along with her; to comfort her, help her. Thinking about it while awake, though, I was convinced that what I’d been going though was real, and that she needed more than I could give. I needed it to stop. I had to find a way to resist.

Misty was home for the weekend, so I had the freedom to be as weird as I needed. I went to Walmart and bought duct tape, a barbecue lighter, a battery-powered alarm clock, and a pair of flannel pajama pants. That night, I prepared everything and went to sleep, thinking of the door.

The laughter of the dead echoed softly in the dark gulfs above and below me in the stairwell. Another sound had awakened me, though; a shrill beeping that demanded my attention from miles and miles away. What was it? Dirty gray light strobed beneath the door in front of me, and I saw myself reaching out.

“Do you hear them laughing?” the girl’s voice coaxed on the other side. “We’ll stop them. They won’t make fun of us anymore.” I was so confused; I just wanted to go back to sleep. But there was something else I’d wanted. “It’s in your blood,” the voice crooned as the studio laughter swelled along with a flourish of tinny, commercial break music.

A sharp, pinching pain in my finger and a metallic tick jarred me further awake. I realized the annoying sound was the alarm I’d set. The long stem of the lighter taped to my hand rapped against the doorframe. It all seemed so difficult and complicated, and I felt so sleepy. I started to drift. The pinching sensation blossomed into agony, and the familiar, flat aroma filled my nostrils.

I felt all the way awake, but the stairwell was still dark. I flexed my legs to try to fight off the stifling weight of my drowsiness; the flannel pants had kept me a little warmer. My hand was trapped under the door, though, and I cried out as it twisted in the unseen grasp of who or whatever was on the other side.

I yanked the lighter out of the tape and jammed the barrel as far under the door as it would go. The bitter scent grew stronger. I fumbled with the trigger. It didn’t light. The pain in my finger spiked, and I screamed. I squeezed the trigger again; a spark flared.

For a moment, it felt like all of the air had been sucked out of the stairwell. A massive roar and a wave of searing heat blossomed out of the space under the door, and I fell backward.

I stared up at the bright fluorescent strip overhead and listened to the wail of the alarm clock I’d taped to the bannister hours before; it was 3:34 am, and the alarm was still blaring. The skin of my hands was red and hot, like I’d gotten a bad sunburn. The whole place stank of charred popcorn.

My burns healed in time. I get good grades now, and people talk to me like I’m normal. I’m not a big fan of the buffet these days, but I still like to watch old sitcoms on Netflix late at night. I even have a boyfriend now. One who doesn’t care that I’m not just like everyone else, or that I sometimes chew on my fingers.

Submitted September 07, 2018 at 07:00PM by Scaramel https://ift.tt/2oPXwXX