Once upon a hallowed Halloween night, there was a small town named Black Hallow. Every Halloween, the town held a grand celebration, famed far and wide for its eerie attractions and spirited thoroughfare. One particularly haunted house on Barnowl street was known as the main attraction.
The house was owned by a curious old man named Barnaby, rumored to be from a long line of ghost whisperers. Everyone in Black Hallow was itching to investigate the paranormal activities reported within its dilapidated walls.
One Halloween, Emma, an audacious local daredevil, arrived at Barnaby’s copestone clad front door. With bated breath and a lantern in hand, she stepped inside, expecting ghouls and apparitions to jump at her.
Instead, she found Barnaby quietly sipping tea and the so-called ghosts were just flickering light bulbs, dusty chandeliers and a host of well-placed mirrors tinkling eerily in the draft. It was all an ingenious setup devised by Barnaby.
In an unexpected twist, Barnaby leaned forward, his eyes twinkling under his bushy brows, “Dear Emma, real ghosts don’t haunt houses, they haunt stories of the living! So, shall we share some ghostly tales of our own and truly celebrate Halloween?”