From the Archives #1 - Giggles

Moving forward, this will be a weekly series that drops on Saturday

In this series, I am going to go back to my old stories on here, reshare them, and deliver a little insight into where the idea for each one came from.

Giggles was posted on October 24, 2025, and was barely seen by anyone. It was the first piece of flash I added to Substack, and I chose it because it was short and to the point. Around this time, I was writing a piece of flash every day to share with a horror group I am part of. It was a “31 days of Halloween” type of vibe.

The ending line for this one came to me first from out of nowhere, which happens a lot. From there, it was a matter of working backwards to get to the story. I had been listening to an old episode of the Ricky Gervais Show on YT, and there was mention of there being nothing creepier than hearing a child laugh at 3 in the morning. Looking at it now, it was absolutely not the best story with which to introduce myself. A little basic and derivative, but I was so damn nervous about being here that I figured no one would see it anyway. Here is the story…

GIGGLES

It all began innocently enough, or so it seemed. Little bumps and knocks from overhead that could easily be dismissed as the sounds made by a house settling at night. More imaginative minds might well have thought that dancing demons of the damned were hosting a house party up in the attic, but Ben Jones was not an imaginative man.

Ben readily dismissed the strange sounds as normal, but when he heard the first laugh, things began to change. The first one was little more than a muffled giggle, as little laugh that could have come from a child playing outside. The fact that it happened at 3 a.m. made that idea borderline implausible.

Night by night, the laugh grew clearer, more distinct, and when it was accompanied by a tinkling music box tune, Ben decided it was time to investigate.

Flashlight in hand, Ben climbed the steps to the attic, the laughter and music growing louder, as though egging him on. When he played the beams of the light across the dusty space, the sight of the black-eyed girl holding the Jack in the box sent him falling backward.

Doctors said that Ben would never be the same again, the impact of his head on the hardwood floor jarring loose his flimsy hold on reality. Ben remained mostly mute, but when he did talk, he always said the same thing…

“Black-eyed Betty is in my house, playing with her toys, quiet as a mouse.”