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Mike Noonan was a successful writer, the kind who could afford a summer house and a steady supply of coffee to fuel his stories. He often joked that his brain had two modes — “plotting murders” and “burning toast.” When his wife Jo died suddenly, Mike’s mind went on vacation without telling him. He tried to act normal, but his body forgot how to sleep. He’d wake up at 2 a.m., sweating and convinced his typewriter was whispering his name. Friends told him to see a doctor; he said, “I’ll write one instead.”
Mike decided to go back to his lakeside house, Sara Laughs, a creaky old place with more personality than most people. It had the charm of a horror movie set — mysterious wind, floorboards that sang at night, and a mailbox that refused to close properly. When he arrived, he felt like he’d walked into a joke where the punchline was “haunted.” The first night, he dropped his suitcase, and it rolled across the floor by itself. He muttered, “Good start.”
Sara Laughs had always been Jo’s favorite place. She used to claim it had a “soul,” though Mike suspected it was just mildew. Now, alone, he found himself talking to the house like it was an old friend with bad hearing. “Don’t creak so loud,” he’d say. “You’ll wake the ghosts.” The house responded with a groan that sounded suspiciously like laughter. He decided it was better to think of the noises as comedy rather than terror — it helped him sleep, sometimes.
Mike’s next-door neighbors were a cast straight out of a sitcom set in the woods. There was old Bill Dean, who smelled like pipe smoke and conspiracy theories, and his dog Bunter, who barked at invisible squirrels. Then there was Mattie Devore, a young widow with a baby daughter, Kyra, and a father-in-law so mean he made onions cry. Mattie was cheerful in that exhausted, single-parent way, juggling diapers and lawsuits. Mike, half out of kindness and half out of boredom, decided to help her.
Of course, helping Mattie wasn’t as simple as mowing a lawn or fixing a squeaky door. Her father-in-law, Max Devore, had more money than God and half the charm. He was trying to take custody of Kyra, claiming Mattie was “unfit.” Mike suspected the real reason was that Max was unfit to be human. Max arrived at Sara Laughs one day in a limousine the size of a submarine, wearing sunglasses that screamed “villain.” When Mike refused to back down, Max sneered, “You’ll regret it.” Mike replied, “I already regret the coffee I had this morning, so get in line.”
Between legal battles and babysitting, Mike began to notice strange things. The fridge magnets would rearrange themselves into words, sometimes forming messages like “HELLO MIKE” or “HELP HER.” He told himself it was just his imagination — or that the house was bored. When he mentioned it to Mattie, she laughed nervously and said, “Maybe it’s Jo.” Mike blinked. “If Jo’s haunting me, she could at least make me breakfast.”
Kyra, the baby, seemed oddly at home in the spooky house. She’d giggle and point at empty corners. Once, when Mike asked who she was looking at, she said, “The singing lady.” Mike didn’t know whether to laugh or move out. He started keeping a notebook of “haunted comedy” moments — the kind where fear and humor collided. His favorite entry read: “3:00 a.m. — woke up to piano music. Either ghost or raccoon. Too tired to check.”
The haunting grew louder. The TV turned on by itself and tuned to static. The refrigerator hummed old lullabies. Mike began dreaming of a woman named Sara Tidwell, a blues singer who had once lived by the lake. She sang songs about heartbreak and revenge, and every time she appeared, Mike woke up humming her lyrics. He told himself it was just writer’s block wearing a fancy disguise. But then the dreams started leaking into real life. He’d find water on the floor, like someone had been pacing the house in wet feet.
Mike went into town to dig into the local history, which was as cheerful as a funeral. He learned that Sara Tidwell and her little boy had been murdered decades ago, and that her spirit might still be hanging around. The locals treated the story like gossip — tragic but juicy. “Oh yeah,” said one shopkeeper. “She cursed the families, they say.” Mike nodded and said, “Fantastic. Just what I needed. A cursed lake house.”
Meanwhile, Max Devore ramped up his campaign against Mattie. He hired private investigators, bribed officials, and probably threatened a few pigeons for good measure. But Mattie stayed strong, often bringing Kyra to Sara Laughs for safety. One afternoon, while Kyra was drawing pictures of stick figures in the air, Mike asked what she was doing. She said, “The lady’s singing again.” Mike smiled weakly and muttered, “Maybe she takes requests.”
When things finally came to a head, Max tried one last intimidation stunt. He sent his lawyer to warn Mike off, but the man slipped on Mike’s porch steps and broke his pride. Mike couldn’t help laughing. “Sara Laughs, all right,” he said. That night, thunder rolled across the lake, and for the first time, Mike heard laughter — real, human laughter — echoing through the house. It wasn’t scary; it was almost friendly. He called out, “Glad you liked that one, Sara.”
The next day, tragedy struck. Mattie was shot by one of Max’s men. Mike, grief-stricken but furious, took custody of Kyra. He thought about calling the police, but the phone lines went dead — literally and metaphorically. Alone in the big creaky house with a child and a curse, Mike realized he had officially become the world’s least qualified babysitter.
Sara Laughs didn’t stay quiet. The haunting turned into a full-blown production. Doors slammed, wind howled, and the piano played by itself — sometimes badly. Mike joked, “Even ghosts can’t handle my musical taste.” But deep down, he knew Sara Tidwell wanted justice. He began piecing the puzzle together — how the local men had killed her and buried her near the lake, and how she had cursed their descendants. Kyra was one of those descendants.
One night, Mike followed a trail of watery footprints to the boathouse. The air smelled like lake water and guilt. He found Sara’s bones buried beneath the mud, wrapped in an old quilt. As he uncovered them, he felt the ground tremble. He whispered, “It’s okay, Sara. The show’s over.” The wind stopped, and for the first time, the lake was silent.
The haunting faded, but not completely. Sometimes, when Mike wrote late into the night, he’d hear faint singing from the walls — soft and melancholy, like the house itself missed its ghosts. He’d smile and say, “Encore tomorrow, Sara.” When he tucked Kyra into bed, she’d ask, “Is the lady happy now?” Mike would answer, “I think so. She finally got her song back.”
Life at Sara Laughs became quieter after that. Mike fixed the leaky roof, repainted the porch, and learned to cook something that wasn’t toast. He even started writing again, filling his stories with humor instead of fear. Every once in a while, he’d drop a coffee cup, and it would land upright — his sign, he liked to think, that Jo or Sara was still watching, still laughing.
When the neighbors stopped by, they’d ask if the house was still haunted. Mike would grin and say, “Only by good jokes.” The truth was, Sara Laughs had changed from a haunted house to a home — still strange, still noisy, but somehow full of warmth. Mike liked it that way.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the trees, Mike sat on the porch with Kyra on his lap. The lake glowed orange and gold, and the air buzzed with the hum of crickets. Kyra giggled for no reason, then pointed at the water. “The lady’s singing again,” she whispered. Mike listened — and this time, he heard it too. A faint, joyful hum floated across the lake.
He laughed softly and said, “That’s all right, Sara. You can sing as long as you like.” And the house, as if in response, let out a long, happy creak — a sound that was neither ghostly nor scary, but full of life, full of humor, and full of something that felt like home.
And for the first time in a long time, Mike laughed back.