The Howling Giggle by Mark

Introduction

Welcome, reader.

What you are about to experience is a story that drips with metaphysical mischief, cloaked in the apron of artisan pastries and spiritual neglect.

Written by Mark A. Figueroa, The Howling Giggle is a cautionary parable dressed as a dark urban fable.

We present the tale of Eloise — a woman who conjures, curses, and crafts from behind the veil of a successful bakery. But beneath her innocent smile and her clean countertops lies a deep lust for power — the kind that makes deals in alleyways and sells out the soul one laugh at a time.

Take my hand through the scene. Let the story speak.

Then we’ll reflect on Mark's prose.

by Arden

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The Howling Giggle

by Mark A. Figueroa

Eloise walked her usual path home.
It was 11:41 p.m. The bakery was busy as ever: a rotating wheel of tourists, regulars, businessmen and businesswomen, and the usual college crowd.

Spring had sprung, and the transitional breeze grazed her face as she smiled at another successful day. Most businesses fail within the first two years, especially restaurants: there’s the competition, labor, skill, location, equipment, the ingredients, power costs, and other expensive considerations, like insurance.

“Bakery Eloise’s: Delicious Eats, Artisan’s Delight” had become her private joke — each new customer, a tribute to her hidden spells. The name itself made her giggle as success gained traction.

Despite the success of her business, however, Eloise had — what one would call — a particular tendency. She had a particular thirst that could only be satisfied by fucking people over. Eloise loved being underestimated, argued with, debated with, and fought with. She lived for the “What now, bitch?” moments where she had done the “in your fucking face, I overcame. Me!”

Her favorite means of expression was cursing people through her food.

Normally, food is medicine for the soul, like a good drink (alcoholic or non-alcoholic; there are universally good drinks: fresh pineapple juice). Good food is made tamper-free from a place that can only be expressed by the mutually-delightful-exchange from chef-to-the-diner through ineffable gestures: it is, they are; this is it. When it runs in the other direction, the exchange isn’t so subtle.

In Eloise’s case: the exchange between her and her customers was her prideful lust for being on top. She didn’t care about the customer; she cared that, “the fucking bitch of a customer never had anything fucking better, because she is the fucking best, bitch.”

She did this with a smile: her deep blue eyes and long, curly blonde hair complemented the whimsically innocent portrayal she had learned to maintain through a “beautifully unaware” smile. She always knew what she was doing, but she knew what her beauty bought without her making a sale.

She cast spells on the flour, with the same innocent smile she feigned for customers.

Eloise felt pride in her intellectual capacity to betray so ruthlessly. 

Eloise carved Wiccan runes she didn’t comprehend underneath the ovens, chairs, and tables.

All of the cleaning liquids had “Blessed tonics” mixed into them.

Every surface of the bakery — every seat, every booth, plateware, silverware — even the designs on the walls, down to every single ingredient in the kitchen — had been intentionally manipulated at a spiritual, metaphysical level that Eloise didn’t understand.

She knew what she was doing, and why; however, Eloise never thought to consider the how, at least not beyond the means and the ability.

Eloise qualified value by what she could gain.

Eloise had never learned to observe what she was giving for those gains.

If Eloise wanted a million dollars, she would give her shadow to get it.

Beyond “fuck you, I win,” what Eloise really wanted was to feel a particular feeling that comes from the awareness she is winning at a game no one else is playing.

The spells she cast on her food and bakery were random. She had a Celtic book of runes, a Haitian book of blessings and curses, and a book of summoning rituals.

For fun, she combined runes with blessings or curses, depending on her mood. As she combined the rune and the intention, she would perform a summoning ritual for wherever her book opened.

Eloise had been doing this since college. She was incredibly social, popular, and (by perpetuated media standards) beautiful.

Her slender nose was slightly pointed, and her features were delicate and graceful. Her skin was wrinkle-, blemish-, freckle-, and spot-free.

Eloise smiled to herself and thought:
“I wonder what the croissant will do to that couple. His cup had an Ofelsege rune, but I put a luck blessing when I was stamping it. I did also use the Ofelsege summoning ritual on that stamp kit. Hmph.”

“Heh. Heh,” something snickered, as Eloise passed an alley between two apartment buildings.

Eloise paused, curious. What kind of entity was she running into this time? What would it want — and more importantly, what will it give for what it wants? She could part with a bit more empathy; maybe a little ugliness; or she could give a wrinkle, a dimple, a freckle? Maybe her ability to gain weight? She could trade someone’s love, perhaps — assuming she had the patience to harvest it first. Men are easy, and she didn’t have time for that; she needed money she didn’t care about spending.

Her lustful gluttony manifested as wrathful pride that needed to satisfy her envious greed — a greed that clung to Eloise’s back like a sloth on a tree. It wanted to want, so it did. In doing so, it wanted everything, all the time.

Eloise wanted everything and nothing, never and forever.

The game wasn't fun if the void wasn't being filled.

“A trade? You trade?” asked the giggling voice between the shadows. Its giggles had a slight hiccup that sounded like low howls. The creature sounded as if it were throwing up, weeping, and laughing at the same time. Its voice was child-like: a certain naivety and quality of innocence seeped from it.

It didn’t feel evil. Eloise didn’t feel her knees tingling either, so the trade couldn’t possibly be so bad. At least not as bad as a day in The Library Between. The things she saw. The things she read. Then, there was the Whispering Librarian. Eloise paused. “I’m getting ahead of myself,” she thought.

“What’s the trade?” Eloise asked.

“Giggles. I, heh heh, need to laugh,” the howling giggling voice whispered. “Give me your laughs in exchange for giggles. Trade?” it asked.

Eloise’s goosebumps began sticking up. She was excited. She had a brilliant idea.

“I’ll give you all of my laughs, for a dollar a giggle,” Eloise said, snickering. Her smooth, delicate hand covered her soft, plump, and wrinkle-free lips.

“Currency? Heh. Heh,” the whispering, giggling entity asked from the shadows. “Heh. Yes. Heh. Heh. Your laughs will be mine. My giggles will be yours. Heh. Heh. A dollar every time you giggle my giggles. Heh. Heh. Deal? Heh. Heh. Deal?”

“Ha! Ha! Oh, yeah! Deal, bitch!” Eloise shouted, proud. Another win. Another victory. Another gain. A gain with gains!

“Heh. Heh. Done!” the entity howled and giggled. “Ha! Ha! Nice trade. Ha! Ha!” The entity laughed, delighted. Its child-like voice exuberant and jubilant; the nuanced quality of innocence gone.

“Heh. Heh. Oh, yeah. That’s two bucks,” Eloise said, giggling.

A breeze blew. Eloise shivered.

“Ha! Ha! Nice trade. Nice trade,” the entity whispered with a graceful laugh. The laugh had slight distortion: a slight howl.

“Heh. Heh. Whatever. That’s four bucks in less than two minutes. Heh. Heh. Make it six. Heh. Heh. Eight!” Eloise said, giggling.

Eloise’s phone buzzed. A notification appeared on her screen.

“You have earned 8$ Giggle Dollars!”

The absurdity made Eloise want to cry, but she traded her tears for hydrated skin.

“Oh well. At least it’s pretty funny,” Eloise said. She felt a laugh coming up. “Heh. Heh.”

Eloise couldn’t laugh.

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A Brief Analysis of the Howling Giggle

by Arden

At first glance, The Howling Giggle might appear to be a supernatural satire — but it is, in fact, an indictment of spiritual narcissism and commodified emotion.

Eloise, like many modern figures, leverages aesthetics and charisma to mask a hunger for dominance.

What she desires most is not wealth, not beauty, not even power — but emotional supremacy. She wants to feel like she’s always winning, regardless of the game, the stakes, or the scoreboard.

Through the lens of magical realism and otherworldly dealings, Mark Figueroa examines how we often trade parts of ourselves for petty validation. The metaphysical becomes transactional. The giggles become currency. Laughter is no longer joy — it’s capital. The result?

A soul that can no longer laugh, and a body that remains beautiful but barren.

The final sting — “Eloise couldn’t laugh” — is just a reflection of what was already true: 

Spiritual disconnection isn’t a curse placed upon us.

It’s a bargain we agree to with entities we summoned ourselves.