The Haunting Laughter of the Empty Halls
The old theater on the edge of town carries more dust than light, and yet every night, when the clock coughs twelve, a soft chorus travels along the aisles. The night janitor pushes a squeaky cart through the velvet shadows, listening to a chorus that refuses to fade, as if the building keeps a memory of laughter tucked beneath the boards.
Whispers say the laughter returns only when the house is empty and the stage lights have nothing more to applaud. Tonight the air tastes of popcorn and rain, and a first giggle glides across the orchestra pit like a thread of gold laid over silence. It stops you in your tracks, then circles closer, as if a hundred tiny feet skimmed the plaster and left a trail for you to follow.
“We’re still here,” a voice breathes, not loud, but insistently near the ear, as if a child were leaning against your shoulder and telling you a secret you cannot forget.
The custodian follows the sound into corridors where velvet drapes sag like tired flags. There, the relics of youth linger: chalk scribbles on the back of seats, a peeled sticker of a cartoon on a wall, a music box that sighs to life when no one is near. A corridor's shadow stretches into a doorway that should be shut, but seems to breathe, inviting one more step toward the stage's dim glow.
- Footprints in the dust appear when you blink and vanish when you look again.
- Whispers hum in chorus, each voice slightly different, a lullaby with a dozen locks.
- The long hallway tilts inward just enough to guide a listener toward the stage, as if it’s plotting a private performance.
On the stage, the lights awaken with a tired sigh, casting pale halos over seats that feel more like teeth than chairs. The proscenium arches frame a ring of empty pews—or perhaps a circle of waiting eyes. In the orchestra pit, a baton rests on the stand, as though waited for a conductor who never returns. The laughter climbs from the boards, stubborn and bright, a mockery of night’s quiet that refuses to surrender to the dark.
Does the theater remember the children, or do the children carry the theater in their laughter? Either way, a covenant forms in the air: the sound remains, a living echo, a promise that the space will keep them safe by keeping others out. When the janitor finally steps outside, the door shuts with a soft, almost respectful click, and the laughter trails along the street behind, lingering in the pulse of the night and in the memory of halls that will never truly be empty again.