So there I was, skint as usual, scrolling Gumtree at 2 a.m. when this ad pops up: “Bright room, Zone 2, £200 pcm, available NOW.” No photo, just a postcode in Walthamstow. I WhatsApp the landlord—some geezer named Mr. Fung—he answers with one word: “Tonight.” I figure, scam or not, my current squat’s got bailiffs circling like seagulls round chips, so I shove my life into a Tesco bag and leg it.
The house looks normal enough, half of a Victorian terrace with peeling blue paint. Mr. Fung, tiny bloke in a flat cap, meets me at the gate, hands me a key the size of a spoon, and says, “Rules: don’t touch the mirror, don’t move the bed, and if you hear laughing, count to nine before you open the door.” Then he’s gone, Mini Cooper coughing off into the night. I laugh—typical landlord weirdness, right?
First week’s sweet. The room’s big, south-facing, smells of toast. I even pull a girl from the pub, she stays over, says the place has “good vibes.” I’m like, yeah, I’m finally winning at adulting. Then on the 28th day the toast smell turns to joss sticks, thick and sweet like a funeral florist. I check the hallway—nobody else lives here, according to the mail pile. Whatever, I crack a window and roll back to sleep.
That night the laughing starts. Not telly-laughing, more like your mate who’s had one too many and snorts at his own joke. It’s coming from the corner by the wardrobe, the one the bed’s shoved against. I remember Mr. Fung’s rule, count to nine, but I’m nosy so I peek at four. Nothing there except shadows shaped like teeth.
Next morning I notice the mirror. It’s tiny, bronze, wedged inside the chimney breast like it’s spying on me. I go to poke it—landlord said don’t, but landlords also say “damp-free” and we know that’s lies. Soon as my finger gets close the glass ripples, like water, and I swear I see the back of my own head. Nope. I slam the fireplace shut, sellotape an old Beyoncé poster over it, problem solved, innit?
Wrong. Night 29, the girl texts: “Something’s off, can’t come over.” I’m alone, scrolling Netflix, when the poster balloons outward like someone’s breathing behind it. The laughing’s back, louder, and now it’s got harmony—two voices, maybe three. I count to nine properly this time, hand on the door, but at eight the laughter flips into sobbing, kid-style, snotty and scared. My legs move before my brain, I yank the door open and the sound snaps off, total silence, like the world’s on mute.
I sleep with the lights on, headphones blasting Stormzy. Dawn comes grey and I decide research time. Down at the library—yeah, some of us still go—I dig up old maps. Turns out the terrace was built 1890 on top of a “Laughing Corner,” slang for public gallows. They’d hang counterfeiters there and leave the bodies so long the wind made ’em dance, locals joked it was “the dead having a knees-up.” Charming.
I march back, ready to bolt, but the rent’s paid and my bank’s emptier than a crisp packet on the tube. I need the month. I figure I’ll fight spooky with spooky, hit the Chinese supermarket for salt, oranges, and one of those gold cats that waves. The auntie at the till hears my address, face drops like I’ve cursed her tills. She slips me a red envelope, says, “Burn this paper inside the mouth of the corner, leave sweets, run.” Doesn’t even charge me for the prawn crackers.
That evening I stack Ferrero Rocher in a pyramid, light the orange paper with a Bic, and shove it up the chimney. Smoke curls out shaped like a smile—great, even the chimney’s taking the piss. I leg it to the kitchen, count to nine backwards like that’s the cheat code. The laughing starts again but higher, like it’s surprised. Then—this is gonna sound nuts—the wardrobe door creaks and a bloke steps out, Victorian get-up, neck at a weird angle, eyes black as burnt toast. He’s dragging a little girl in a pinafore, both of them translucent round the edges.
They don’t look evil, just knackered. The bloke tips his top hat, points at the mirror still wedged in the brick. I get it—landlord’s mirror’s a plug, I just melted the wax. They’re stuck halfway, half-ghost, half-airbnb. The girl holds up a chalkboard: “Move the bed.” I shrug, adrenaline doing the Macarena, and shove the bed toward the window. Floorboards groan, wind howls down the chimney, and the mirror drops out like a loose tooth. It hits the floor and shatters into nine pieces—count that, Mr. Fung.
Instantly the room feels lighter, like someone turned the gravity off. The ghosts do a little spin, mouths open in silent laughter, then fade into glittery dust that smells of—yep—toast. I open the window, dust drifts out, settles on the neighbour’s sad hydrangeas. Next day they bloom purple like they’ve won the lottery.
I ring Mr. Fung, tell him the mirror’s broke. He sighs, says, “You were meant to stay 29 days, not fix the place.” Then he laughs, first time I’ve heard him do it, and it sounds human. “Rent’s now £800,” he adds, and hangs up. I laugh too, because what else can you do? I pack my Tesco bag, leave the Beyoncé poster as a goodbye gift. On the way out I count to nine, just for luck, and swear I hear a faint giggle, but this time it sounds happy, like mates leaving the pub at last orders.
I still walk past that house sometimes. The hydrangeas are mental bright, kids on the steps share sweets with strangers, and the room? New tenant’s been there a whole year. Guess the corner’s done laughing… at least for now.