Chapter 2: The Echo of a 'HEE-HEE'

Chapter 2: The Echo of a 'HEE-HEE'

Julian returned to the Grand Macabre the next evening wrapped in a shroud of sleepless dread. The memory of the glitching figure on the monitor was a shard of ice in his gut, a cold, sharp certainty that defied all rational explanation. He had spent the day in a fugue state, alternating between frantically searching his own reflection for any new deformity and telling himself it was just a power surge, a corrupted video file, a waking nightmare. But the question haunted him, whispered in the back of his mind with every blink: What’s wrong with your eyes?

He deliberately avoided looking in the box office window's glass as he settled in for his shift. Tonight, his goal was simple: survival. He would sell tickets, smile his aloof, artistic smile, and pretend that the very fabric of his reality hadn't been torn open the night before. He just needed to make it through the next six hours.

The first hour was deceptively calm. The pre-show rush was a welcome distraction, a flurry of credit cards and polite inquiries that grounded him in the mundane. But as the lobby emptied and the film began, the theater’s oppressive silence returned, deeper and more menacing than ever.

That’s when he heard it.

A soft scuff. The sound of a single leather shoe sliding on the marble floor just outside his booth.

Julian’s head snapped up. The lobby was empty, steeped in the orange glow of the safety lights. Not a soul in sight. He strained his ears, listening to the hum of the old building. Nothing. He was just on edge. That’s all it was.

Then, a giggle. High-pitched and breathy, it was so faint it was almost subliminal, like the ghost of a sound. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

His heart began its frantic, familiar hammering. He clutched the edge of the counter, his knuckles white.

“Leo?” he called out, his voice a dry croak. “Is that you?”

Silence.

He told himself it was the theater’s ancient sound system, the pipes groaning in the walls. This place was a symphony of creaks and groans. But he’d worked here for over a year. He knew its sounds. This was not one of them.

A few minutes later, Leo sauntered by, pushing a janitorial cart. “Talking to your imaginary friends again, Dracula?” he smirked.

“Did you just hear something?” Julian asked, trying to keep his voice level. “Like… a laugh?”

Leo stopped and put a hand to his ear with exaggerated theatricality. “Nope. Can’t say I did. What kind of laugh?” He paused, his smirk widening into a cruel grin. He let out a perfect, high-pitched imitation of the giggle Julian had just heard, followed by a sharp, staccato “Hee-hee!”

A cold wave of fury and fear washed over Julian. “That’s not funny, Leo.”

“Lighten up, man.” Leo pushed his cart along. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Which, I guess, is kind of your whole thing, right?” He disappeared down the hallway leading to the theaters, his own laughter echoing back.

Julian sank into his chair, feeling the walls of the booth close in. Leo was mocking him. It had to be Leo. He was a bully, a sadist who got his kicks from tormenting the resident ‘art freak’. The thought was infuriating, but it was also a lifeline. A human tormentor was infinitely better than the alternative.

He spent the next hour in a state of hyper-vigilance, cataloging every sound. The distant rumble of the film’s soundtrack, the clank of the ice machine, the buzz of the fluorescent light above his head. He tried to convince himself that Leo was behind it, hiding in the shadows, playing a sick game.

The theater’s intercom crackled to life, a sound usually reserved for pre-show announcements or emergencies. Julian flinched.

“Leo, if that’s you, I swear to God—” he started to say, his voice shaking.

But it wasn’t Leo’s grating baritone that filled the silence. It was a voice that was impossibly smooth, a silken, high-tenor whisper that slid directly into his ear. It was the impersonator’s voice, but now it was singing. The melody was a twisted, nursery-rhyme version of a pop song, instantly recognizable and utterly nightmarish.

“Julian boy, in your glass room, I see you there, embracing gloom… That pretty face, it’s such a prize, I want to see what’s in your eyes…”

The blood drained from Julian’s face. This wasn’t a prank. The voice was perfect, a studio-quality recording of a madman, piped through the entire theater. It was intimate and vast at the same time, a private threat broadcast for an audience of one. The song ended with another sharp, breathy “Hee-hee!” that dissolved into a hiss of static.

Julian exploded out of the box office, his chair crashing against the wall. He stormed down the hall, his mind screaming. He found Leo in the concessions stand, wiping down the popcorn machine, earbuds in his ears.

“What the hell is your problem?” Julian yelled, ripping one of the earbuds out.

Leo stumbled back, startled and angry. “What the—? Keep your hands off me, weirdo!”

“The intercom! The singing! You think this is funny? You sick bastard!”

Leo’s face was a mask of genuine confusion. “What are you talking about? The intercom? I’ve been in here for twenty minutes. The manager would have my hide if I touched that thing.” He gestured to the machine. “Besides, I was listening to a podcast. Super loud.”

Julian stared at him. Leo was a terrible actor; he couldn't fake this level of bewilderment. He looked annoyed, maybe a little concerned in the way one looks at a rabid dog, but he wasn't lying.

The realization hit Julian with the force of a physical blow.

It wasn't Leo.

It was never Leo.

The voice was real. The threat was real. And the thing that made it was here, in the theater with him, woven into its very systems like a virus.

He didn't remember the rest of his shift. He moved on autopilot, a hollowed-out shell of terror. When closing time finally came, he didn’t bother saying goodbye to Leo. He fled, bursting out of the theater’s side door into the cold, rain-slicked night. The city air had never felt so good.

He fumbled with his keys, his hands shaking so violently he could barely fit the key in his car door. He threw himself inside, slamming the door and mashing the lock button. He sat there for a long moment, chest heaving, the windows fogging up around him. In the car, he was safe. It was his space, a steel and glass bubble against the horrors of the night.

He needed noise. Something to fill the terrifying silence in his head. His trembling hand reached for the radio dial. He twisted it, and the speakers crackled to life.

A familiar, soulful voice filled the small space. A keyboard melody, a gentle drumbeat. And then the lyrics, sung with an aching sincerity that was now the cruelest form of mockery.

“...You are not alone…”

Julian froze, his hand clamped on the dial. The voice on the radio was Michael Jackson’s. The song continued, the title a pronouncement of his doom. He stared out through the rain-streaked windshield into the deep, impenetrable darkness of the parking lot. The shadows between the streetlights seemed to writhe and dance. He felt a thousand unseen eyes on him.

He was not alone. And he was trapped.