By afternoon, the house had changed again.
Subtle things at first — the floorboards humming faintly, the walls warm to the touch, the chandelier glowing in sync with their heartbeats.
Then, more overtly: rooms shifting layout, furniture rearranging itself into what looked suspiciously like audience seating.
When they stepped into the parlor, the curtains had drawn themselves open to reveal a makeshift stage — wooden boards polished and waiting, a single microphone on a stand.
Lena blinked. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me."
Eli rubbed his temples. "It's literally staging a performance."
A banner unfurled from the ceiling in faded red letters:
"FINAL SHOW: LOVE AND OTHER HAUNTINGS."
Lena read it aloud, her throat dry. "That's… the chapter title."
Eli frowned. "Chapter title?"
"Nothing. Don't worry about it."
They approached the stage cautiously. The moment Lena stepped onto the boards, a spotlight snapped on, bathing her in white light.
The house hummed in approval.
"Alright," she said, glaring up at the ceiling. "You want a show? You get one. But no jump scares this time, you emotionally manipulative money pit."
A faint giggle echoed back.
Eli stood at the edge of the stage, uncertain. "Lena, maybe—"
She held up a hand. "No, I've got this. You said improvise, right?"
And so she began to talk. Not jokes, not at first — just stories.
About fear. About laughter. About how the two were often the same thing when you were alone at night trying to convince yourself you were safe.
The air shimmered as she spoke. The house pulsed with every word, like it was breathing with her.
Then she shifted tone, eyes locking on Eli.
"And love," she said, voice soft now, "is the scariest joke of all. Because when it lands, you never know if you're supposed to laugh… or cry."
The chandelier flared — too bright.
Eli stepped forward. "Lena, stop—"
The floorboards beneath her began to creak, curling like paper under heat.
Lena stumbled. "What's happening?"
"The house is reacting," Eli shouted. "You're feeding it too much emotion!"
The stage split down the center. From the crack, smoke poured up, swirling into a shape — half heart, half grin.
A voice, warm and familiar, echoed all around them.
"Setup complete."
Lena's blood ran cold.
"Now for the punchline."
The grin made of smoke widened across the split stage, curling upward like a comedian mid-breath.
The house spoke again, its voice no longer a whisper through walls but a resonance that came from everywhere.
"Ladies and gentlemen," it boomed, "welcome to our final act."
The chandelier above burst into a thousand tiny suns. Light scattered across the parlor, turning dust into glitter. Chairs arranged themselves into rows, and the air shimmered as faint silhouettes appeared — an audience of ghosts. Each wore a pale, painted smile.
Lena's stomach twisted. "You have got to be kidding me."
Eli grabbed her wrist, pulling her back from the cracking boards. "Lena—"
But the microphone stand tilted toward her like a magnet. A voice echoed again, gentler this time.
"Go on, sweetheart. Make them laugh."
Julian's voice.
Her throat tightened. "No."
"Go on."
The air around her trembled. Every spectral face leaned forward.
And then, without her consent, her hand wrapped around the mic.
She tried to drop it — it burned hot in her palm — but she couldn't let go.
"Once upon a time," she began, her voice shaky but loud, "there was a house that wanted to be loved. Trouble is, it didn't know the difference between applause and affection."
The ghosts chuckled, a polite ripple of sound.
"It tried everything," she continued. "Jumpscares. Laughter. A few tragic deaths. The usual romantic gestures."
The laughter grew louder. The smoke above her swirled faster, taking on a more solid form — a face shaped from shadow and dust, half-Eli's, half-her own.
"Go on," the echo whispered. "You're doing so well."
Eli stepped forward, shouting over the noise. "Lena, stop! It's absorbing your words!"
But she couldn't stop now. The air itself was controlling her rhythm, her cadence. She felt like a ventriloquist's dummy animated by memory and fear.
"And one day," she said through clenched teeth, "someone told the house that love isn't laughter. It's loss. It's choosing to stay even when the joke stops being funny."
The laughter faltered. Some of the ghost-faces in the crowd tilted their heads.
She caught Eli's eyes — wide, desperate. "Keep talking," he mouthed.
"Why?"
He held up Julian's old notebook — the one with sketches of the sigils, the same one that saved them before. Scrawled across one page in Julian's handwriting:
The punchline frees the storyteller.
Realization struck.
She looked out at the crowd and whispered, "You want a punchline? Fine."
She let go of the microphone and stepped to the front of the stage, barefoot now, heart hammering.
"When I first came here," she said, "I was running from my own failures. My jokes were dead, my love life was a cemetery, and apparently, I had bad taste in real estate."
Laughter rippled again — hesitant this time.
"But somewhere between the ghosts and the heartbreak, I realized something. You can't scare someone into loving you. You can only show up. And maybe, if you're lucky, they'll laugh with you before they leave."
She turned toward Eli.
He was mouthing something — not words, but rhythm. She recognized it. One of her stand-up closers.
"Timing," he whispered. "End it clean."
She smiled faintly. "Alright, one last bit."
She faced the smoky grin again. "So, House," she said. "Here's my final joke. Knock, knock."
The echo rumbled. "Who's there?"
"Closure."
"Closure who?"
"Closure damn mouth and let me live my life."
The ghosts howled with laughter — but it wasn't the cruel, canned sound from before. It was real, full of release and surprise. The kind of laughter that comes when something finally makes sense.
The smoke split apart, the stage trembling beneath them. The banner above tore itself down. Light poured through every crack, every broken tile.
Eli jumped forward, grabbing her hand. "Now, Lena!"
Together they shouted:
"Goodnight!"
The house screamed — a noise halfway between thunder and applause — and imploded in on itself.
When she opened her eyes, they were lying in the grass outside, the front lawn blanketed in dust and wood. The house was gone. Only the foundation remained — a perfect rectangle of earth surrounded by silence.
Lena sat up, dizzy. "Please tell me that was the finale."
Eli groaned beside her. "If it's not, I quit."
They stared at the empty space where the manor had been. The air smelled of ozone and old woodsmoke.
For a long time, neither spoke. Then Lena let out a short, shaky laugh.
"What's funny?" Eli asked.
She looked at him, eyes bright with exhaustion and something else — gratitude, maybe.
"I just realized," she said, "we never got paid for any of this."
He blinked, then laughed too. "Figures."
They sat together as the sun rose, painting the ruins in gold. Somewhere in the distance, the faintest sound of applause drifted through the breeze — gentle, final.
Lena leaned against Eli's shoulder. "You know," she murmured, "I think the house finally got its happy ending."
He brushed a strand of hair from her face. "So did we."
And for the first time in weeks, the silence wasn't haunted.