The napkin sat there, crumpled and neglected in the corner of the old diner, as if it had been waiting for someone to notice it. No one ever did. The cracked table in front of it was covered in grease stains, and the dim overhead lights flickered every now and then, as though the whole place was barely clinging to life.
It wasn't much of a diner, not anymore. There were only a few regulars left—people who had nowhere else to go, or didn't care to be anywhere else. The place smelled like stale coffee and burnt toast, the walls peeling and forgotten, the windows fogged with the weight of time. No one bothered with it, but then, no one bothered with much these days.
Marla sat at the counter, picking at her food, her eyes unfocused. Her life wasn't exactly thrilling. She worked at the nearby laundromat, folded towels, sorted clothes, repeated the motions over and over. She had a small apartment she rarely went back to, filled with half-empty bottles of whiskey and a stack of unread books. There wasn't much else to keep her occupied. The only thing that ever caught her attention was the faint sound of laughter that occasionally trickled in from the diner's back corner.
It wasn't normal laughter. Not the kind of hearty, contagious chuckling that followed a good joke. No, this was something different. It started as a low, dry wheeze that quickly escalated into high-pitched, desperate cackles. Sometimes it would go on for hours, and sometimes it would end just as abruptly as it began. Marla had learned to ignore it over the past few months, the way you learn to ignore a dripping faucet or the hum of a broken refrigerator.
But tonight, as the last of the evening's light faded and the diner settled into its usual rhythm, Marla noticed the napkin. It was on the counter now, tucked beneath the silverware. She didn't know when it had appeared. It hadn't been there when she first sat down. There was something about the way it was folded—neatly, almost meticulously—that caught her attention. No one else had paid it any mind. The other patrons were absorbed in their food, in their lives, in the monotonous drudgery of existence.
She picked it up, unfolded it carefully, as though something delicate might slip out. But it was just a napkin, plain and simple. There were no designs on it, no inscriptions. Nothing that would have marked it as anything special. Still, she felt a strange tug in her chest, something she couldn't shake off.
She wiped her mouth with it, then tossed it back onto the counter. The laughter started.
At first, it was faint—just a slight rasp, like the wind moving through a broken window. But as the seconds ticked by, it grew louder. It wasn't a full-blown cackle at first, just an odd, strained laugh, like someone choking on their own breath. The sound was distorted, as if it was coming from the deepest part of the building.
Marla's heart skipped. She didn't look around, though. She didn't want to draw attention. But it was impossible to ignore now. The laughter rang in her ears, growing louder and louder, as if it were closing in on her. She pushed her chair back and stood up, feeling the chill that had crept through the air. The diner was empty now, save for the cook in the back. But even he wasn't moving. His face was frozen, slack, his eyes distant.
The laughter continued, crawling under her skin, tightening around her throat. She couldn't help it. She started to laugh too. A nervous, jittery laugh that didn't feel like her own. It was just the sound that came with the madness—the madness that seemed to crawl in with the laughter, wrapping its fingers around her mind.
The napkin was still there, waiting.
Marla reached for it again, almost without thinking. She didn't want to, but her hands were already moving. She unfolded it slowly, examining it as if it might have changed. But it hadn't. It was the same plain napkin. She wasn't sure why she was drawn to it, why it felt so important. But as she held it in her hands, her breath caught. The laughter... it was louder now. Too loud. She could feel it pressing against her skull, making her chest tighten. Her throat burned as she fought to keep it together, but it was futile.
The walls of the diner seemed to bend, the corners warping, and the sound of the laughter filled the space, wrapping around her, suffocating her. It wasn't coming from anyone else anymore. It was coming from her. It was her own laugh—her own desperate, frantic cackles echoing in the empty space.
She looked at the napkin again, and this time, something caught her eye. The faintest scrawl, as though it had been written by someone in a hurry. The ink was smudged, smeared, but the letters were clear enough: "Keep laughing. You can't stop."
The words seemed to mock her, curling inside her mind like smoke. She wanted to scream, to throw the napkin across the room, but her fingers wouldn't obey her. They clenched it tighter. Her breathing quickened, and her laughter grew louder, more erratic. The laughter consumed her, ripped at her sanity, tore her apart.
She stumbled back, her legs weak, her heart thudding in her chest. She wanted to escape, but there was nowhere to go. The diner had no exits, no windows. The laughter had become the air she breathed. It pulsed through her, throbbed in her skull. She could feel her teeth clenching, her throat tightening.
Her body was betraying her. It didn't matter that she tried to stop. The laughter wouldn't stop. It surged through her, bubbling up from her chest, forcing its way out of her mouth. She wanted to die, but the laughter wouldn't let her. It wouldn't stop. Her hands were shaking, but she couldn't release the napkin. It was as if it had fused with her, become part of her, like the laughter itself.
And then the cook moved.
Slowly, unsteadily, he stood up from the back, his eyes wide with terror. His face was pale, his lips trembling. He was looking at Marla with a mixture of pity and fear. He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. Only laughter. His body jerked, spasmed, and his eyes bulged, but the sound was the same. It was just laughter. Endless, suffocating laughter.
He collapsed onto the floor, twitching, his body wracked with spasms. His face was twisted in agony, but still, the laughter came. It spilled from his mouth like something dark and insidious. Marla couldn't stop. Her laughter intertwined with his, the two sounds merging into one. She could feel the strain on her body, the way it pulled her apart from the inside out. Her chest ached. Her ribs felt as though they might crack. Her throat was raw.
But she couldn't stop.
The napkin. It was the only thing that mattered now. She clutched it harder, the ink smearing on her fingers. She was trapped in this never-ending cycle of laughter. Her skin was burning, her eyes watering, but the laugh didn't stop. It wouldn't stop.
And then, as if the world itself had collapsed into laughter, she saw something. A figure, standing at the door. The door that had never been opened. It was a man, dressed in black, his face hidden in shadow. He stepped forward slowly, his footsteps soft but purposeful. He didn't laugh. He just stared at her.
His eyes were hollow.
Marla tried to scream, tried to say something, but the laughter blocked it all out. It consumed everything. The man didn't say a word. He just reached for the napkin, his fingers cold, too cold. He took it from her hands without a word and held it up to his face. Then, with a twist of his hand, he crushed it into a ball and tossed it aside.
The laughter stopped.
For the first time since it had begun, the sound stopped. The air was still. The world paused.
Marla collapsed to the floor, her body trembling, her eyes wide. The man stood over her, his face still obscured. But she could see it now. The faintest smile, twisted and grotesque, on his lips.
"Too late," he said. "You should have never touched it."
The lights flickered once more, then died completely.