It That Laughs Last
Dr. Luis Mendoza was not a man who believed in monsters. As a cultural psychologist from Manila, his specialty was decoding why communities created spirits, not proving they existed. So when reports of mass hysteria and vanishing visitors emerged from the Olang Highlands, he saw a case study, not a curse.
They called it the Uhagg-Dhingga.
The Laughing One.
A spirit of mimicry, of false joy.
They said it punished those who laughed without meaning it. Luis thought it was beautiful primitive minds inventing metaphors for social dishonesty. He booked a three-day visit to the region. He did not come back the same. Luis arrived with two guides and a satchel full of audio gear. He wore a crisp collared shirt, muddy from the hike, but still buttoned tight. A voice recorder hung from his belt. He asked the locals about the Uhagg-Dhingga. They gave no answers only stares. One elderly man broke the silence:
“It hears your grin.”
“It lives in laughter you don’t mean.”
“You wear your happiness like a mask. So it peels it off.”
Luis smiled politely and took notes. That night, in the rest house, he listened back to his recordings. Something strange. In the background of one clip—a soft giggle.
He hadn’t heard it when it was recorded. He assumed it was one of the villagers.
But when he looped the sound, he noticed something chilling. It mimicked his own laugh, pitch-perfect, like it was watching and learning.
Luis conducted interviews, but people began to avoid him. Children pointed and whispered,
“Why is he smiling when he’s scared?”
He wasn’t scared. Or at least, he didn’t think he was. He hadn’t realized how often he smiled when he spoke—how it had become automatic. That night, he reviewed footage. On one video, while he was speaking with a farmer, a shadow passed across the window behind him. Too fast. Too tall. Crawling. He paused the clip. In one frame, just one, he saw a face. Mouth open. Grinning. No eyes. The rest of the tape was corrupted.
Luis stopped sleeping. Every time he closed his eyes, he heard it: a voice giggling softly in his ear. Not laughing at anything—just laughing to laugh. Like a sound with no mouth, amused by a no human should hear. He found himself chuckling at things that weren’t funny. Scratching the corners of his mouth until they bled. Practicing different laughs in the mirror. He was losing time. Waking up with the recorder turned on, despite not remembering pressing it. On the tapes, he could hear his voice. But he wasn’t speaking. Something was using his voice. And it was laughing.
On the fourth day, the guides insisted they leave. Luis resisted.
“There’s something here, it’s intelligent. It’s learning.”
He muttered, barely audible. But when they reached the forest edge, Luis stopped. He stared back at the trees. And smiled.
Too wide. Too still. Then, very calmly, he said.
“I think I finally get the joke.”
He turned and walked back into the fog. They never found him. His notes were recovered from his abandoned satchel. Scrawled on a page, over and over in looping handwriting:
“If you fake your joy, it becomes real… but not for you.”
“It learns your laugh.”
“It wants your face.”
One final phrase had been circled in red.
“The Uhagg-Dhingga doesn’t want to kill you. It wants to wear you.”
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