Every Halloween, in the abandoned manor atop Wicked Hill, a spectral light dances behind the cobwebbed windows. They say it’s old Lady Wickerham, dead but not quite departed, searching for her lost cat Whiskers.
Three brave souls, Patricia, Tommy, and their grumpy old neighbor Mr. Baxter, decided to investigate one chill October night. They crept up the hill, armed with flashlights and bravery sieved through gaps between their fingers.
Upon entering the creepy manor, they captured fleeting glimpses of the spectral light, weaving in and out of rooms. They followed it up the grand staircase, meandering through the dank hallways, until they reached the attic. The light flickered and dashed, leading them to an ancient oak chest tucked in a cobwebbed corner.
With bated breath, they opened the chest. Instead of ghouls or goblins, what they found were dozens of little glowing orbs. Each orb was a tale of Lady Wickerham’s past. Tales nestled in better times when laughter roamed the halls and Whiskers still had nine lives.
But to everyone’s surprise, nestled in the corner of the chest, softly glowing, was not a story orb. It was indeed Whiskers himself, immortalized forever in spectral form. The spectral light they’d chased? Merely a tail of cat tales.