🚪 The Low Laughter (my life's TRUE STORY )

Look, I didn't get scared easily as a kid, and I certainly didn't believe in ghosts or anything, but this one memory still messes with me when I let myself think about it. It always happened near the curtains in our living room. You know, the heavy ones that cover the big window. I’d be in the room playing, and then I’d hear it—a laugh. It was this awful, short, sharp giggle. The kind of sound that felt completely out of place. It wasn't a hearty laugh; it sounded almost strained, like someone forcing air out. The absolute worst part was that it only happened when I wasn't looking. I'd be kneeling on the floor, maybe coloring or building blocks, and the second I turned my head, or just stood up and faced away from that window, I'd hear that chuckle coming right from behind the fabric. I’d immediately whip my head back around, staring straight at the curtains, but nothing. Dead silence. And here’s the detail that makes my skin crawl: it sounded low. Not like a grown man standing up. It sounded like someone was crouched down, or maybe they were just genuinely short—like four feet tall. It was a low-down, sneaky laugh. At first, I figured it was my dad being weird. He liked to mess with me. But then I realized this only ever happened when I knew for a fact he was gone, usually at work. It was just me and whatever was hiding back there. It just stopped when I was about ten. No big event, no explanation. One day I realized I hadn't heard it in months. I think back then I just filed it away as some strange thing my brain did, or maybe a weird noise the house made. But now? Now, when I picture it—that sound, that low laugh, knowing I was alone, and whatever it was knew exactly when I was looking and when I wasn’t—it just feels sickening. It wasn't loud or dramatic, it was just constant, quiet, unnerving proof that something was watching me, waiting for me to turn my back. (edited)