Laughter in the Void
I’ve been a psychiatric nurse for over a decade, but no case has ever haunted me as much as the one involving a man named Elliot Grayson. Early in my career, I worked at a residential mental health facility in a quiet corner of the Midwest. Elliot was one of our most unusual residents. He was an elective mute—physically capable of speaking but choosing not to. What made him even more unsettling was his towering frame, nearly seven feet tall, and his unnerving behavior.
Elliot’s past was shrouded in mystery. Raised in a small Southern town, he’d joined the military at 19 and served without incident—until one night he vanished without a trace. Declared AWOL and later presumed dead, his case was closed. But ten years later, Elliot reappeared.
He walked into the emergency room of a nearby VA hospital, covered in dust, wearing the same uniform he’d been reported to be wearing the night he disappeared. The first and last words he ever spoke were to the receptionist: “My name is Elliot Grayson, and I’ve been dead for ten years.”
After that, silence.
His social security number hadn’t been used in a decade, and he carried no identification. Fingerprints confirmed his identity, but when his family was contacted, they refused to believe it. “We buried Elliot years ago,” they insisted. “Whoever that is, it’s not him.” They cut off all communication, leaving Elliot alone in the world.
At the facility, Elliot quickly became a source of fascination and fear. He spent his days pacing the halls, his long legs gliding silently across the floor. His lips moved constantly, forming words we couldn’t hear, as though he were speaking to someone we couldn’t see. But what unnerved me most was his laughter—or rather, the mimicry of it. He would throw his head back, his mouth wide open, his face twisted in mirth, but no sound ever came out. It was as if he were trapped in a silent, private joke that only he understood.
We tried everything—medication, therapy, even experimental treatments—but nothing worked. Elliot was like a ghost, untouchable by anything in our world. When spoken to, he would grin faintly and sometimes nod, but his eyes—those hollow, haunted eyes—seemed fixed on something far away.
One stormy night, I was working a double shift when I heard a faint tapping sound coming from the hallway. I stepped out to investigate and found Elliot standing by a window, staring out into the darkness. Lightning illuminated his figure, and for a brief moment, I thought I saw a shadowy form behind him—something tall and indistinct, mirroring his movements. When the lightning flashed again, it was gone.
My last day at the facility came months later. As I walked to my car, I saw Elliot in the parking lot, pacing in slow, deliberate circles. His head tipped back in that soundless laugh, his mouth open to the sky. The hairs on my neck stood on end as I watched him. I turned away, and when I glanced back, he was gone. Just...gone.
Over the years, I’ve wondered if Elliot Grayson was even human. Was he a man who had returned from some unspeakable void—or something else entirely, wearing his face like a mask? I’ll never know for sure. But sometimes, in the still of the night, I think I can hear his laughter—silent but chilling—echoing in my mind.