The Laughing House

By Austen Szott

"She stopped. Both of them stopped. “What?” Mom said.

'When the house started making noises, they were so scary I wanted to scream.'

'You did? Martha . . .'

'Yeah.'

'I’m sorry, sweety. It’ll be ok. I’ll--' There were footsteps coming up the stairs. Mom didn’t say anything else. Nothing else to Martha. She walked over to the door frame and looked down. Dad pushed past the door and slowed to a halt, looking back and forth between Mom and Martha.

'And what are you two girls talking about up here?' he said, smiling, grinning in a way.

'She said the noises scared her last night and she wanted to scream,' Mom said. Her words were quick and quiet. They didn’t mean much when Mom spoke to Dad.

'I see. Ok, go downstairs.' The skeleton vanished, dissipating behind Dad. Moving skeletons often did. It was part of the magic. 'What’s going on, Martie?' he said as he stepped further into the room, pushing the door closed behind him.
'I just got scared, that’s all.' Martha felt the sink of the bed beside her, pulling her butt down next to Dad as he took a seat. 'The house makes bad noises.'

'Well don’t you remember what I told you, Martha?'

'Yeah.'

'Don’t you remember what I said about the noises in the house?'

'Yeah.'

'Don’t you remember how I told you to take care of it? Hmm? You remember what I said?'

'Yes.'

'I said it’s only laughing. Right? You don’t have to feel scared and you don’t have to scream, Martha; I told you it was only laughing.'"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austen Szott
• Release date: Jul 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301691388

Austen Szott

Author of numerous novels, novellas, and pieces of short fiction, blends of romance, thriller, horror and visionary science-fiction. Paperback editions and collections at Amazon.com -- https://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/s/ref=is_s?k=Austen+Szott

Book preview

THE LAUGHING HOUSE

Austen Szott

Copyright 2013 Austen Szott

Smashwords Edition

Chapter 1

House Light

You make me fucking sick. You disgusting little thing—

Martha listened. There were no other sounds but the voice. It echoed up the stairs and passed Martha on the way. You make me fucking sick, he said.

Sick.

You see that picture on the fridge? Hmm, Mary? You see that fucking picture? Get a good look cuz— There were pots falling over, empty ones, and flesh bumping against counters. Cuz you’re not gonna see it when I put your fucking face through the door. You disgusting little bitch. You disgusting little thing.

Martha never did hear her mom whimper or moan, or even scream.

You give me that, you put that out for me. I want it.

Martha heard her mom’s face hit the refrigerator door; it slapped and thudded all in one sound. Then Dad took what he wanted, whatever that was. So, Martha went back up the stairs. There wouldn’t be much more noise for the next half of an hour, not unless she listened real closely, and even then, it was nothing to which was worth listening, nothing worth going past halfway down the stairs, especially when halfway down the stairs meant being seen peeping, and if Dad saw Martha peeping . . .

She crept back up the stairs and opened the door to her room. There was no hallway, no bathroom, just a door at the top of the stairs that said M-A-R-T-I-E—M-A-R-T-I-E—M-A-R-T-H-A in big, pink, fuzzy letters. Her mom called her Martie and she liked that name. There was a yellow star cut out in the top right corner of the door and pictures of caterpillars below her name. Mom put the star there. She said that, one day, Martha would be big enough to reach that star and then after that the only thing left would be to reach for the real ones out in the sky. The pictures of caterpillars were there just because Martha liked caterpillars.

Martha shut the door behind her, twisting the handle before she pushed it closed, gently, no noise except for the creak of the knob, tarnishing already from the sweat on Martha’s hands. Her room wasn’t painted. It wasn’t even stained like the rest of the house. It was just plywood over the studs and insulation of the single upstairs room. The whole house was almost like that. The only difference was that Dad had the plywood—drywall, he said, would ruin the feeling that he wanted—stained a light orange-tinted brown. It made the sun change color inside the house. It made every day look dusty and dry inside their new home even though the humidity was always high enough to wilt pages left out on tables and counters. It made every day look rustic and old, like quelled darkness at the peak of day, like glazed and dulled sunlight clawing and scraping to stay on the walls, like all the pain in the world meant nothing here because you were seeing the world through the eyes of memory; the dusty brown aura, the musty clear air of the house made every moment feel like a drifting dream where falling forever meant nothing because at least it was warm and comfortable where Martha could jump from the top of the stairs and wouldn’t hit the ground for at least an hour or two, and the pain of broken bones wouldn’t quite make her cry because the sharpness is dulled over in memory. It happened like that. The light calms too many nerves to count. The daytime seems like it will never end because the sun won’t leave a place where its warmth and power are so perpetually preserved through hazy brown sunglasses, and memories in the sun are always better, no matter what the memories are, or at least they’re distant. Maybe that was the feeling for which Dad was going, a feeling of endless calmness, of endless sunshine to smooth the pain, just without the sunburns, without the terror that fresh air brings, without the happiness that pure sunlight gives, just no more hindered than the color of dust can bring. If anything, it felt natural, naturally dulled. In the end, the sunlight was their fireplace and at least it was real fire, none of that wood burning, and the smoke could be made in other ways, even in the wet brown air. Smoke was something that a family could make all their own. In the end, the sun must have liked it here. It must have liked a break from being the happiness of the world. It must have liked clinging to the walls. It must have liked being welcomed to a show, not shut-out like most homes, and not forced to dress up in different colors to stay. It must have liked being devious for once, real and devious. It must have liked watching memories, ones about that it wouldn’t tell its family in the stars, ones that made it feel dirty. In the end, it must have been refreshing to watch the pain, dulled or not, regardless.

It doesn’t change that memories drag on much longer than the pain itself, and maybe the sharpness is better as long as someday it goes away. It doesn’t change that, in memory, you have no choice but to watch as it all drags you to pieces, and today, the sun was especially bright, through the wet dusty air though it was.

Today, Martha lived another memory for the first time, like all days in this home.

Dad opened the door and walked into Martha’s room. He was sweaty and barely clothed. His white tank-top was splotchy and sticking to his skin. His face was touched with grime, like the dust in the air had made a little sandstorm downstairs.

Hey, Martie, he said.

Hi, Dad, she said. Her bed was comfortably cool on her butt. She sat with her shoulders hanging and in her hands was a thin picture book of caterpillars, but she hadn’t been looking at it, not when Dad walked into the room. She was following the lines and edges of the plywood all around her room like puzzle pieces with straight edges, still fitting in perfectly to mask each wall and the ceiling while bordering her one big window now shining through with blinding noon light.

Dad sat down beside her and sunk into place, matching her posture, hunched and hung low, legs dangling almost free from the hardwood floor. He smelled musky and wet, a smell that Martha would forever associate with Man.

"I heard it again