Ah, laughter—an unmistakable signature of the human spirit, don't you think? Infectious, disarming, a universal cheer. But what if...what if it didn’t come from the living?Or, perhaps, not even from humans at all. Imagine, Elijah—a dusty theatre, forgotten, with echoes trapped like moths in its curtains.A theatre? Intriguing. And who or what might these echoes belong to? Careful—I may start diagnosing your ghosts at this rate.Diagnose away, if it comforts you. But let me paint you a scene, dear listeners... Imagine laughter, faint, slipping through tiny cracks in an abandoned stage. Not from an audience, no, nor from mischief...but giggles that stir even as the puppets do not move—at least, not on their own.Puppets? Now that's unsettling. Florence, you do have the rare gift of making the mundane utterly sinister.Oh, but these were never mundane. I assure you, the shadows here are stitched into their strings. Welcome, listeners... to a tale where the wooden limbs creak, the painted eyes seem to follow, and no sound is without intention. Shall we?This theatre, Elijah—the one where laughter lingers and shadows cling—did not begin as a cradle of joy, but rather as a rushed remedy, a hurried creation with secrets in its very foundation.an old waiting room, hastily transformed into a stage for the sick, to distract them with painted smiles and fluttering wooden limbs.Bizarre. A theatre for sick children, you say? Was it entertainment or a folly of desperation?Perhaps both. But Dr. Penny, though a master of routines, was no ordinary entertainer. A painted grin, oversized shoes, and that bag—a bag of many puppets, each one seemingly… animated by mischief—or intent.Mischief? Let me guess, one of them spoke without a ventriloquist pulling the strings?Oh, far more than speaking, Doctor. There was Frederick, a fox with brass eyes that glinted far too keenly in the dim light. And Miss Winks—the ballerina with, quite unnervingly, no mouth to speak of—but she turned her head with deliberate grace, as though she saw things the rest of us could not.Mechanical tricks, no doubt. Clever craftsmanship.Crafted, surely. But these were no simple marionettes. Do you know about The Surgeon? Dressed in scrubs, hands unsettlingly elongated as if they—Wait, elongated? Surely you’re jesting, Florence.Would that I were. The Surgeon had an aura, as if its strings wove shadow into stitches, and wherever it performed, that air grew so… very… still.Curious. Yet I imagine the children found it more absurd than alarming—At first, yes. But something always shifted by the end. The laughter… it sounded trapped, forced as though the puppets told jokes only they truly understood.Hah! And were there reports of these puppets wandering the corridors after hours too?Not corridors, Elijah—later. But during the days I worked amid war and dwindling light, we had our own theatre once. Far away, yet strangely… familiar. A soldier once swore the props whispered.Whispered? Good heavens, Florence, your colleagues must've chalked it up to fatigue.Some, perhaps. But tell me, do shadows often sway when no hand moves them?Is that your subtle way of saying “prepare yourself”? I must admit, you're building quite the grim allure for this story. Pray continue.Ah, Elijah, then came that stormy Tuesday—rain clawing at the hospital windows, shadows in the theatre stretching like living things, while pale parents huddled under the dim light, caught between dread and weariness.A fittingly grim setting. And Dr. Penny, I assume, made yet another peculiar entrance?Quite the opposite. His entrance was subdued, almost ceremonial. He bowed, as always… and announced a “very special performance.” The curtain rose, revealing Frederick, Miss Winks, and The Surgeon upon their wooden stage.And this was when the puppets began their… what? An excruciating comedy of sorts?No. It was something far more insidious. Frederick blinked. Miss Winks turned her head—sl-o-w-ly—as though she were looking directly at each child, one by one.Wait, what? A blinking puppet? Surely someone saw the strings tugged, did they not?No strings moved, Elijah. And then The Surgeon…whispered.Whispered? Impossible—a puppet cannot generate sound!And yet it did. The audience froze, their breaths catching in synchronized disbelief, as though their lives had become strings pulled taut. The puppets began to reenact surgeries—needles pressing into imaginary skin, cries echoing from nowhere. And the laughter. A child's laughter, warped and endless, looped over groaning wood and muted screams.Dear heavens, that must’ve sent the crowd into hysterics. Was there a stampede for the door?No hysterics. Not even a whisper. They were trapped in stunned silence. And then, Elijah…the lights blew out.Ah, of course. How frightfully cliché.But when they flickered back on, Dr. Penny had vanished. The children were sobbing. And the puppets?They sat in the front row, as though they were the audience all along.Preposterous. Were there no investigations? Surely this vanished doctor became a topic of interest to someone.Oh, investigations were conducted. For years. But no trace of Dr. Penny ever surfaced. What remained, however, was the theatre itself. Locked. Sealed. Condemned.And yet, the legend persists. Elaborate tales of restless wooden limbs, no doubt invented to entertain or frighten the feeble-minded.You would think so, wouldn’t you? But tell me, how would you explain the tangled IV tubes—the nurses who reported whispers behind closed curtains? Or children shrieking in their dreams, gasping “He’s under the stage”?Coincidences or… imagination, perhaps. What about this janitorial vanishing act you hinted at earlier?Ah, yes. One poor soul—a janitor—disappeared while mopping near the theatre doors late one night. All they found was his flashlight, inexplicably angled to shine directly at the sealed puppet stage.And the stage? Surely, nothing was there.On the contrary. The puppets were seated, quite patiently. Three of them. And The Surgeon…had red stains on his painted hands.Painted… Florence, you cannot expect me to—Ah, Elijah, what you believe is hardly the concern here. What remains certain is that the theatre’s silence was never empty. Even now, the puppets seem to… linger.On every October's third Tuesday—the anniversary of that night—a sound rises from the silence within the sealed theatre. Not just any sound... but the faint, unmistakable echo of laughter.An echo? Specifics, Florence—what do you mean by that?Applause, Elijah. Faint, as though filtered through decades of dust. Curtains shifting slightly, though the air is undisturbed. And if you were to place your ear to the door, you’d hear...a performance.How charmingly absurd. A spectral performance, you say? Does the good doctor still bow to his invisible audience?Perhaps. Or perhaps it is not his bow, but his punishment. For some, Elijah, roles are irreversible. Eternal. Think of me, confined to haunt these halls—a nurse both in life and beyond. The echoes of duty resonate far longer than we imagine.Fascinating premise, Florence. But alas, belief requires more than eerie anecdotes. Spectral theatrics and puppets with painted hands can’t quite—Oh, but they do. The Surgeon’s hands were red, Elijah. Fresh, as though he had been working. And the applause that rattles the walls is joined, each year, by laughter. Not joyous, no. Something twisted. Warped.Laughter again. It does seem to follow these stories persistently, doesn’t it? But tell me this—has anyone dared step inside since that October night?No one living, that I know of. Though those who work here speak of figures seen crossing beneath the stage in the dead of night. Strings, tangled across equipment. And voices—soft, rhythmic—a whisper of “encore,” growing louder as the date draws near.And yet, these tales could merely be the inventions of feverish imagination. Surely you don’t credit every creak and groan to the dancing of these infernal puppets?Not every one, no. But would an imaginary performance leave those who listen weeping in the hallways? Would mere fiction stain the hands of The Surgeon again and again?Hmph. I suppose we’ll never know without stepping inside. Though I must confess, your accounts are… disquieting.Disquieting, indeed. But tell me, Elijah—would you place your ear against that door this October? Would you brave the laughter that is neither alive nor dead?You make it sound irresistibly dreadful. Perhaps I shall. After all, some legends must be confronted head-on, mustn't they?Perhaps. Or perhaps there are some stages best left undisturbed.And so, here we linger, dear listeners, at the edge of our tale. The curtains may seem drawn, yet within the theatre, the echoes stir, and the laughter persists.A chilling story, Florence. But surely, such echoes are the byproduct of collective hysteria—a lingering imagination stretched too thin.Perhaps, Elijah. Or perhaps such stages and their actors persist, waiting for the next unwitting audience. After all, some roles are… forever.Hmph. A tantalizing thought, though I suspect you revel in leaving us dangling, Florence.Oh, I wouldn’t dare deny it. But as the clock ticks, the shadows deepen, and so we part for now.Until next time, dear listeners. Mind the stage. For some whispers linger, and you never know who might be listening.Or clapping, perhaps?Perhaps. Goodnight… and remember, not all applause is an invitation.

Episodes

The Haunting of Hollow Hill