My mom raised me as a single parent and has been my moral compass, hero, and best friend for as long as I can remember. She wasn’t serious or strict; she had always been a fun, supportive, and caring person. She wasn’t a psychopath or anything like that, but she just never laughed.
I overlooked my mom’s inability to express or react to humor until one-fourth of July when I was about six. Everyone went to Granny Mel’s place to celebrate. The celebration was fantastic fireworks were shot into the sky, and it was the first day I snuck a taste of beer. My uncle Rob was like any other typical barbeque uncle, a large guy wearing a pink apron while talking to everyone and cracking jokes as he cracked some eggs and grilled some steak.
He took one of the cracked eggs in his stubby hand and decided to try his luck with a “Why did the chicken cross the road?” joke. He hit the jackpot, and everyone standing near the old grill burst out with laughter, all except my mom. It was then I realized I hadn’t ever seen her laugh. Sometimes she would crack a grin, but there was never a “haha.” Maybe humor just wasn’t her thing.
Being the curious five-year-old I was, later that evening before bed, I bluntly asked her, “Mom, why don’t you laugh?” She didn’t even attempt to answer and just kept staring blankly at the newspaper she was reading. I could feel a mix of fear and anger radiating off her as she turned a page, lightly wrinkling it. This was the first time in my short life being ignored by her. I kept pushing, and soon she snapped, “Ginger, to your room now!” Her words were different than when she was usually angry. This anger was like that of a cornered animal whose only goal was survival. She clearly didn’t want to answer, so I stopped asking her.
Instead, I made it one of my childish life goals as a kid to somehow make my mother laugh even a little bit. Every morning before going to school, I’d attempt to get at least a smile out of her. I must have tried everything, knock-knock jokes, dad jokes, dark humor, you name it, I’ve tried it. Nothing worked. It was as if the part of her brain that processes humor wasn’t even there.
She was always off work on Sundays, so we made it a movie night. Every Sunday, we would sit on the old sofa together and watch whatever we agreed on. Like my thoughtfully constructed jokes that went out her other ear, the movies did not work. I must have bought out the whole aisle of DVDs of the comedy genre at Blockbuster for my attempts.
One Hanukkah, I bought her a paperback book titled “How to make your family laugh” and waited to see her reaction as she carefully unwrapped the poorly wrapped gift. Once she got it, she saw she teared up as she stared at it. I didn’t understand why she was so sad over a book that I gave her as a joke. I swear I could hear her faint whimpering as she sobbed for nearly twenty minutes. My obsession over my mom’s tolerance towards humor had gone overboard, and I was breaking her. I felt an absolute scum and stopped all my attempts at humoring her.
I had accepted it. I locked the fact in the back of my head and never gave it a second thought. My mom just doesn’t laugh.
The years passed in a haze as I grew older. Soon, I moved out to attend university and found my soulmate, Gabriel, at a stand-up comedy bar I worked at during my freshman year. We both fell in love at first sight, our goals in life lined up perfectly, minus the fact I liked cats over dogs, and we got married as soon as we graduated.
After we settled down and left the big city of Chicago, he started working on his dream of opening a hospital. I became a well-respected comedian and even bought the old comedy bar where we met all those years ago. Then one night, when I was thirty-two, I found I was pregnant. A little after that, I gave birth to the most beautiful baby girl we named Holly. Her laugh always melted my heart; I would laugh with her, something my mother could never do with me.
My daughter was almost five months old, barely even able to crawl when it happened. I woke up at three A.M to the sound of her laughing her little lungs out. It was very unusual because she usually woke me up by her crying or screaming, but never by laughing.
I wish I had let her laugh herself to sleep instead of getting up and checking on her that night. I slowly opened the door to her room which was slightly ajar and peeked inside.
I saw something holding my daughter up from her crib.
It wasn’t human.
It had a torso, arms, and legs, but they were all black as a shadow with strange transparency to its “body .”The creature must have been at least nine feet tall. Its fingers were far longer than a normal man’s and were pointed and thin like toothpicks.
I tried to move it was as if my feet wear made of lead. I couldn’t move nor speak, only stare.
It had a head but lacked a face, just eyes like that of a man’s, but the pupil was a glowing color unable to be described, yet I saw the eyes from behind through the mass of shadow.
My maternal instinct was going into overdrive, yet I was still frozen in place with my heart pounding in my chest. Its torso was swaying unnaturally as if it was imitating laughter. I took one more look at my child in its gnarled hands; she was asleep; it wasn’t her that was laughing.
It was laughing in my daughter’s voice.
I tried to stop it. I used everything I had to take a step knocking into the door pushing it open, but both the bump and the door swinging made not a sound. The laughing quickly began to increase in volume. The thing’s eyes began to glow brighter, lighting up the room before snuffing out like a candle. It lightly put her down before gliding across the floor to me at incredible speeds. It stared at me unmoving for what felt like an eternity before brushing its fingers across my wrists, drawing blood. Even then, I couldn’t move, only being able to watch the blood drip until I passed out.
I woke up with a startle in a hospital bed, my wrists wrapped, and my world was spinning. Asleep at my bedside was Gabriel. I sat up, waking him nearly instantly; he told me he found me on the floor with a razor by my side. He then took me here. I could tell he was a mess, his eyes on my wrists. Soon I was allowed to go home where I could see my daughter. Everything was normal for a week or so until I heard the laughing again. My first instinct was to wake Gabriel, but by the time he woke up, there was no longer a sound. I have heard her damned laugh almost every night since, yet even as her mother, I don’t dare to go to her room again. I get reminded of it just being near the door.
Gabriel has been putting her back to sleep alone daily though I can tell the stress is getting to him, but he didn’t see what I saw or know what I know.
I didn’t know what else to do. There was only one person I knew who could help me. I got into my car on a Sunday morning and drove to my mother’s home for three hours. When I reached the door, I knocked and shouted her name, but she never came out. I don’t know if it was the lack of sleep or my fear, but I began kicking the door open with each blow. My mind grew wilder and wilder until my leg snapped through the door, bloodied. I took my foot out, but I felt not a lick of pain. I stormed into the house in a frenzy, searching for my mother. I could hear Holly’s laughing playing on loop in my mind with each step I took. Slowly the sound grew until I was forced to the ground, clutching my ears in pain. My eyes shut only to meet those horrible eyes. I screamed, but I couldn’t hear a sound. I then felt a hand on my cheek when my eyes opened. I was on the floor of my mother’s house, the left side of my jeans torn to shreds but my flesh unharmed. On my cheek was a barely visible shadowy hand. I wanted to run to scream, but I didn’t. It just stared at me before pointing at an open door. On the floor was my mother s knife in her neck. The creature then giggled, not in Holly’s voice but mine, then vanished into a puff of smoke.
From that day on, I quit my job, deciding to live on my savings to watch over Holly. It was hard work, especially since my husband began suffering the most from all the extra work. On more than one occasion, I saw he refused to cheat on me, even with how distant he was. I could not return the favor. My mind would go blank, and I would awake hours later in bed with someone I had never met. I was soon found out after sleeping with Gabriel’s best friend. Even then, he stayed loyal though he made it clear he was staying only for Holly’s sake.
But my habits began to increase my will was no longer a factor. Some days I would be in a daze only to wake up having sold cars, slept with married men, and taken unnatural amounts of painkillers. I began feeling more and more like a puppet, and I knew what was behind it. It was a night when Holly was nine months. I finally gathered the courage to face it again. Taking a knife, I prepared under my pillow. I stepped out into the hallway, where the sound of her laughing echoed from her room. I took a moment to compose myself before continuing to make my way to her room. I did take notice of a few empty wine bottles just outside of it but pushed on anyway, opening the door.
Immediately I saw how it changed; it was more solid now and much more physical than before. Its head is the ceiling, and the rest of its body comes from pot-sized holes in the walls. It was holding Holly as its massive eyes stared at me, but this time I was unimpeded. I walked to it and lifted up my knife, preparing to strike it; the sound of Holly laughing increased, now shaking the room. I stumbled back a few steps but approached once again and stabbed at its arm, missing ever so slightly as I hit the side of Molly’s crib. I went for another strike, but my arm was caught by Gabriel, who quickly pinned me to the ground. I screamed, trying everything to get up, but with a blink, it was gone. Gabriel got off me once I stopped moving and took Holly.
I was taken to a mental hospital where I was considered mentally well enough to face trial. I was charged with seven years of prison, and I would be allowed to see Holly only in the presence of Gabriel or other select figures.
It has been nine years since then, and I now know why my mother could not laugh. I have watched my little girl grow up raised by my ex-husband and his new wife. Every time I saw Holly, she tried to make me laugh just as I had so long ago but even cracking a smile made my mind enter a frenzy. I fear my mind is lost. I could not end my own suffering for fear of what would happen to my daughter. I endured it just as my mother must have done so long ago. I’m terrified for my daughter and for her children should she ever has any. I hope not. I pray she doesn’t notice that I don’t laugh. I doubt I will have the courage to tell her.