The door opened on its own.
Not with a creak. Not with a spectral gust of wind.
It opened with precision—clean, smooth, like a cue called too early in a play. Controlled. Inevitable.
Beyond it: soft light, muted and warm like the fading memory of backstage bulbs. Velvet walls in faded jewel tones. Mismatched couches arranged like an old therapy circle. A
chipped coffee table sat in the center, its surface stained with rings from cups long since broken. It looked like it had been waiting decades for someone to spill tea on it again.
They called it the Green Room.
But there was nothing alive about it.
The five of them entered slowly. Cautiously. Not as friends, but as survivors. Each worn down by a private reckoning. Their expressions were cracked masks—versions of themselves that had barely survived their encounter with the house, and with her.
Vivian was already inside, pacing like a caged animal. Darren lingered in the corner, his hands clenched on his knees, eyes far away. Marc sprawled across the couch, as if lounging through guilt would make it hurt less. Theo stood near the wall, arms crossed tightly, his fingers twitching near the seam of his coat like they might unravel him.
Lena was the last to enter.
Her face was dry, but her eyes were anything but empty. They held the exhaustion of someone who had cried everything out long ago—and found that it still wasn't enough.
The door shut behind her with the same soundless precision.
No one spoke.
The silence hung heavy, pregnant with too many unspoken things.
Then, inevitably, it broke.
"You stole it," Vivian said, her voice sharp, brittle. Her eyes locked on Marc. "I know you did."
Marc didn't flinch. He turned his head slowly, as though it took effort. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"The punchline," she hissed. "Her joke. Her last joke. You took it. You never gave it back. I saw you writing in that notebook like it belonged to you."
Marc scoffed, but the sound was hollow. "That's rich, coming from you. You think I need permission to write down something Eden told me? We were friends."
"She didn't tell you that line," Vivian said, stepping closer. Her shadow stretched behind her—far too long, far too thin. "She never got the chance. You were too busy making her your warm-up act."
"Better than roasting her on national TV," Marc spat. "At least I let her on stage."
The room exhaled.
A low thump rolled through the floor, subtle but certain—like the manor clearing its throat.
Theo stepped forward, trying to cut through the tension. "We can't do this. Don't you feel it? The manor feeds on this. Our guilt, our hate—this is what it wants."
Darren looked up. His voice, when it came, was low and worn. "I don't feel anything."
Vivian turned toward him. "You've barely spoken since we got back. What's your deal?"
His hands tightened on his knees. "She was crying. In this room. Years ago. Said she couldn't do the tour anymore. Said the pressure was killing her. I told her to toughen up. That comedy hurts. That we all suffer."
Lena flinched.
The lights dimmed, just slightly.
Thump-thump.
The walls pulsed—softly at first, then stronger, like a heart beginning to beat again.
A laugh rose from the walls. Not Eden's—not her human, haunted laugh. This was something else. Mechanical. Warped. Like a VHS tape melting in a microwave. It came in bursts—ha ha ha ha ha—without rhythm or reason.
The laugh track.
It was back.
Lena snapped.
"You think this is about a punchline?" Her voice cracked as it rose. "She loved all of us. In her messy, too-much way. She gave us everything, and we twisted her. Bent her into what we needed her to be."
Her hands trembled at her sides.
"She gave me her best material. Let me cry on her shoulder when my set bombed. Let me flirt with her when I was lonely. I knew what it meant to her. I knew."
She swallowed hard. "And when I got my deal? My big break? I cut her out of the writers' room. Said the network wanted something 'cleaner.'"
Theo opened his mouth, but Lena turned on him before he could speak.
"And you—you dressed her up as a cautionary tale. Carved her into a headline. And people shared it. Laughed. Called her a joke."
"I know," Theo whispered. "I know what I did."
Vivian's voice was shaking now. "None of us were good to her."
Marc stood slowly, no sarcasm left in him. "Maybe that's the point. Maybe we're not supposed to leave."
The room pulsed again—faster now.
The velvet wall closest to them peeled slightly, and something beneath flexed. Not wood. Not brick. Flesh. Muscle. The house had been hiding its hunger.
No longer.
Laughter exploded from the ceiling.
Not Eden's.
This was studio laughter. Canned. Aggressive. Biting. Every rise in emotion made it grow louder, more rabid.
They weren't guests anymore.
They were the show.
And somewhere—somewhere—Eden watched.
Not to punish them.
But to be seen.
Marc turned toward the door. "We need to leave."
Theo shook his head. "There's nowhere to go. Every time we open a door, the manor changes. We go in circles."
Vivian's voice was rising now, desperate. "Then what? We perform until it ends? Scream until it claps?"
The laugh track clapped in return.
A sound like thousands of gloved hands slapping cheap theater seats. Cheerful. Mocking.
Darren stood slowly. His face was calm, but not numb anymore. Resigned. "Then maybe we stop. Stop giving it what it wants. No more guilt. No more screaming. No more confessions."
"But we have to finish it," Lena whispered. "There has to be an end."
Theo looked at her.
And slowly, deliberately, unbuttoned his coat.
He reached inside.
And pulled out the folded page.
Eden's final punchline.
The one she never spoke aloud. The one none of them deserved to hear, but all of them needed to carry.
He held it between two fingers, careful not to crease it.
"I don't think it's about us finishing the story," he said softly.
"I think it's about letting her end it."
The laughter stuttered.
Paused.
The walls stopped pulsing.
The lights dimmed, then steadied. As if the manor itself were listening.
As if it understood.
Silence settled over the room like a blanket.
No more accusations.
No forgiveness.
Only truth.
The five of them stood there—not redeemed, but real.
Not as friends.
But as something more honest.
Witnesses.
And then, with a soft click, the next door opened.
Theo stepped toward it.
And, one by one, the others followed.