Which sort of laughter is sweetest to hear?
The laughter in slaughter
Or of children in cheer?
The laughter of lovers
Warm in the night?
Or the laughter of predators
Just out of sight?
The grisly rhyme was terribly out of place, he thought, written in sharpie on the bathroom wall of a library. In the kid's section no less. What a sicko, to write it. And it didn't even seem complete. Bernard shook his head, and zipped up his jeans as he went to wash his hands.
He looked at the rhyme in the mirror, its simple cadence echoing in his head.
What a sicko, he thought again, trying to shake the feeling of unease that it invoked within him. He dried his hands quickly, glad to look away from the jagged writing, that almost looked like a kid had penned it, if it hadn't been so small and neat.
Bernard headed back out to the library, where the cart of books he still had to return to the shelves waited by the check out desk. It was early Tuesday morning, so there was little traffic in the building.
"Hey, Charlene," Bernard addressed the young woman at the counter, whose hair was a vivid pink, that matched the bubblegum she was chewing while she read, and was offset by her black wardrobe. She and Bernard had been friends since kindergarten, and he was the only one she let call her Charlene.
In highschool, she had gone through a goth phase she never quite escaped, where she tried to get into Wicca (only to decide she was more suited for Buddism, which was close enough but didn't require buying loads of candles every few weeks or splurging on the coolest looking chalice), determined she had to be a vampire (she still wore the fake fang caps on holidays like April Fool's and Halloween), read nothing but Byron, Shelley and Poe, and insisted everyone address her as Luna, parents and teachers included. Now, she was fine going by Charlie, or her real name in select company.
"'Sup?" She greeted, popping a bubble and turning the page of her Anne Rice novel. Her dark blue eyes stayed fixed on the page.
"Did anyone... weird come in earlier? I know you opened today..." He tried to sound casual as he could, looking through the books on the cart.
"Just you," she replied, bookmarking her page with an old red ribbon and spitting her gum in the garbage.
"Ha, ha," Bernard shot back humorlessly. He couldn't deny being weird, of course. In their small town, there was little diversity (you were either White or Native American), and being African American, he stuck out a bit. Not only for his skin, and the corn rows he proudly elected to wear his hair in, but also for his geeky graphic tees, that contrasted the quaint southern charm of most people in town, and his multiple eyebrow piercings. He and Charlene were the town oddballs, so unless she was pulling his leg with the weird rhyme in the bathroom, he couldn't think of anyone else who would write it.
"So then you put the freaky poem in the bathroom, I take it." He started to push the cart off down the aisles.
"The hell are you talking about?" Charlene called after him. "In the men's bathroom, doofus?"
"Yeah, well, if no one else is here," Bernard replied with a shrug, as he paused to return some volumes to the shelves.
"What freaky poem?" Charlene ventured, following after her friend. "What'd it say?"
"I dunno, something about laughter," he answered, even though the haunting lines were still playing and replaying in his head.
"Weird," she replied.
"Real weird," he agreed.
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By dinner, though, Bernard had completely forgotten about the dumb rhyme, and was just ready to eat his hot pockets, take a shower and go to bed. He set his plate in the micowave, and started them cooking, when his phone rang, and he answred it on the second ring.
"Hello?"
"Bernard... Bernard, please help me." It was Charlene, her voice between a whisper and a sob. Bernard rolled his eyes; she had tried this prank on him two years ago.
"Very funny, Char-"
"I'm serious! Bernard- oh shit..." Her breathing was raspy and shaky, and Bernard could hear footsteps on her end.
"Charlene?" He felt his heart start pounding. If this was a joke, he was gonna kill her. She hushed him, and then whimpered. Bernard could hear laughter. It was twisted, demented, and had the same effect on him as the sound of nails on a chalk board.
And then Charlene started screaming. After a moment, there was silence, and then Bernard heard scraping, and then labored breathing in his ear.
"Oh Bernaaaaaard," came a sing-song voice. He felt like he was about to wet himself.
"What's the sweetest kind of laughter to hear?" He heard the dial tone, and then, in his other ear, "It's mine."
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Bernard sat bolt upright in bed, in a cold sweat. It was just before dawn. He looked around, and his eyes landed on his phone, which had woken him up by signaling a text. It was from Charlene, and read simply "Morning." Bernard began to relax when he saw the date: Tuesday, April 1.
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(Aaaand that was kind of crappy, but, alas, Netflix is waiting for me. Happy April Fool's Day! Stay safe and don't be a dick!)
