Once upon a crisp Halloween night, a jovial band of costumed trick-or-treaters embarked on their annual sweet collecting mission. The group was larger than usual, an odd mix of both familiar and unfamiliar faces hidden behind masks and face paint.
Celeste, dressed as a witch with a gleaming broomstick, noticed a boy dressed in a ghostly suit, a newcomer yet oddly familiar. His costume was eerily realistic, ethereal almost, radiating an uncanny chill into the bold and candy-driven crowd. He was silent, just following along, his steps were peculiar, floating barely touching the ground.
Throughout the night, the kids stopped at every door around town, until only one was left – The Crawford mansion, a place shrouded in mystery and largely avoided for its haunted rumors. The boy in the ghostly suit led the way, all eyes on him.
The mansion’s door creaked open to reveal a kindly old woman, Mrs. Crawford, who gasped upon spotting the ghost boy. Tears welled up in her eyes as she gently touched the boy’s cheek. “My Alfred,” she whispered, momentarily lost in reminiscences of her long-lost son.
Then, just as the old clock tower struck midnight, the chill disappeared, and so did the hauntingly realistic ghost, leaving behind a shocked group of children and a smiling Mrs. Crawford, finally at peace.