The manor laughed.
Not like a person. Not fully. But there was rhythm to it—mocking, intentional. The way the floorboards creaked just as someone opened their mouth, echoing their cadence with unsettling precision. The way the pipes hissed between sentences, punctuating their words like a punchline. The way footsteps followed just behind their own—perfectly mimicked, just a beat too late. Like a bad impersonation.
At first, no one noticed. Their nerves were raw from the hidden room, from the tape that replayed Eden's death like a sitcom rerun. They'd emerged hollow-eyed and shaken, half-dragging themselves back toward the main hall.
But something had changed.
The house had learned their rhythm.
Anna heard it first. She'd paused near a cracked portrait of a woman whose expression hovered somewhere between disapproval and exhaustion. Probably a Gray ancestor. Or maybe just someone who looked disappointed enough to belong in this place.
She turned to speak—and froze.
A whisper brushed her ear.
"She's not okay. This is gonna go viral."
Her voice. But wrong. Slower, stretched like taffy. Childish, mocking.
She spun.
Nothing behind her. Just hallway.
"Did anyone else—" she began.
"Did anyone else—" the walls repeated in a singsong parody, followed by high-pitched giggles that slid into the baseboards like rats.
Siobhan winced. "I heard it too. It sounded like you, but... off."
"Very off," Riley added. "It had that same cadence Eden used on stage. Like it was playing you for laughs."
Jonah narrowed his eyes at the corridor ahead. "What if it is?"
They looked at him.
"The manor," he clarified. "What if it's not just haunted? What if it's rehearsing us?"
"Rehearsing?" Malik frowned. "You think it's... practicing?"
"Think about it," Jonah said. "That room—the edits of Eden's final show, the glitched versions, the alternate cuts. It wasn't just showing us the past. It was trying different versions of the story. Seeing which got the biggest reaction."
"Or the deepest guilt," Anna whispered.
Jonah nodded. "Now it's moving on to us. Sampling us. Repurposing our words. Turning us into characters."
From the parlor, a cough echoed.
Malik's cough. Distinct. The clearing-throat tick he always did when nervous.
Then: laughter.
His own voice echoed from a nearby vent, distorted and nasal:
"She's gonna implode. Let it happen!"
Let it happen. Let it happen. Let it happen...
The phrase looped like a skipping record, deteriorating each time into giggles and lip-smacking sounds, until it sounded like something choking on the words.
They stepped back from the vent.
"It's learning," Siobhan said flatly. "It's rehearsing our worst lines the way Eden used to. Only now... we're the material."
To the left, a floorboard snapped.
Riley's voice followed:
"Trainwreck! Get off the stage!"
It glitched, rewound, replayed. Slurred.
"T-t-trainwreck... wreck-wreck...wreck..."
Then laughter again.
Not human.
Inside the walls.
They moved faster now, passing the parlor and the long-abandoned piano. But even that wasn't safe.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Three notes.
The first bars of Eden's old walk-on theme. Her intro jingle. Familiar. Burned into their memories from too many late nights, too many club shows. A bittersweet ghost.
Malik stopped cold. "This place is building a show."
"What kind of show?" Riley asked, though the answer was already lodged in all their throats.
Jonah didn't flinch. "The only kind Eden ever got. A tragedy with a laugh track."
As if summoned, a spotlight blinked to life in the next room.
Not real—not possible. A perfect beam of moonlight sliced through the rotted shutters at the exact angle to create a stage light effect.
In the center: a round dining table.
Set for five.
Each chair carved with a name.
Malik. Anna. Riley. Siobhan. Jonah.
At the head of the table, a single mic.
Old.
Rusting.
Leaking.
"Absolutely not," Anna whispered, backing away.
Her voice, distorted and theatrical, mocked from the rafters:
"Absolutely not!"
Followed by applause. Clapping that came from nowhere and everywhere—dozens of hands. Maybe hundreds.
Anna covered her ears. "Make it stop. Make it—"
The clapping got louder. The walls groaned in rhythm. Footsteps above, pacing in sync. The chandeliers above swayed as if laughing through the creaks of metal.
Riley snapped.
He rushed the mic and kicked it over.
For two seconds, there was silence.
Then the walls howled.
All five screamed as the room twisted. The table groaned. The chairs scraped away from them, as if rejecting their presence. The mic stood back up—on its own—humming low, like it was tuning itself.
Then came her voice.
Eden.
Not a recording. Not the static-ridden echo from before.
This was her.
Soft. Cracked. Frayed from smoke and sorrow.
"Tough crowd tonight."
The laughter was thunderous. Dissonant. Deafening.
This wasn't just haunting.
This was performance.
The manor wasn't trapping them. It was preparing them.
They ran.
Through hallways that shifted behind them. Doors vanished as they shut them. Staircases uncoiled, rerouted. The house wasn't confused. It was staging. Directing. Costuming them in guilt. Blocking their movements in shame. Rehearsing until they nailed their lines.
They stumbled into a corridor of broken mirrors.
Anna stopped.
One mirror—just one—was intact.
It reflected her.
But not her now.
Her from Eden's final show.
Phone in hand. Makeup perfect. A smile fixed on her face as Eden cracked and cracked and cracked behind her.
The reflection raised a mic.
"This is gonna go viral."
Anna screamed.
The mirror shattered.
They didn't stop running until they hit the vestibule.
But the front door was gone.
In its place: a thick velvet curtain.
Stage red.
Jonah stepped forward, hesitating only once before reaching out.
"No," Siobhan said sharply. "That's not a door. That's the stage entrance."
"It's the only way left," Jonah replied. His voice held no panic. Only grim understanding. "This isn't a haunting."
He turned to the others.
"It's a performance."
Malik stared at the curtain, his jaw tight. "And we're next."