Ghostly Giggles
Emma, a 15-year-old with long red hair and red glasses, faces a series of spooky encounters in Dallas, Texas, on Halloween night. When ghostly giggles haunt her every step, she discovers that honesty might be the key to solving the mystery.
Emma loved Halloween, especially in Dallas, Texas. But this year, a strange problem haunted her: ghostly giggles echoed through her house every night. Emma's ambition wouldn't let her ignore it. She had to find out where they came from. Could it be a prank, or something more sinister?
Emma's best friend, Amy, didn't believe her at first. He thought it was just the wind. But when he stayed over, he heard the giggles too. They decided to investigate together. Emma was determined to solve the mystery.
Their first obstacle was the attic. It was dark and creepy, and Emma was scared. Amy found an old box with a dusty diary inside. But the giggles grew louder. They had to be brave.
The diary belonged to a girl named Lucy who lived in the house years ago. It mentioned a hidden room. Emma felt a chill down her spine. They needed to find that room.
Emma and Amy searched the whole house but couldn't find the hidden room. They were getting frustrated. Amy suggested they check the basement. Emma was reluctant, but she agreed.
In the basement, they found an old mirror covered in a sheet. As they uncovered it, the giggles became deafening. Emma saw a ghostly figure of a girl in the mirror. She was scared but knew she had to confront it.
Emma tried talking to the ghost. The ghost, Lucy, revealed that she was trapped because of a lie she told. Lucy needed someone to admit the truth to set her free. Emma felt the weight of the situation.
- I can't do this, Emma said, feeling overwhelmed. - Yes, you can, Amy encouraged. - We have to help Lucy. Emma took a deep breath. She couldn't give up now.
Emma had an epiphany. She remembered a story her grandmother told her about Lucy. Emma's grandmother had lied to Lucy years ago. Emma knew she had to tell the truth to the mirror.
- Lucy, my grandmother lied to you and I'm sorry. Emma watched as the ghostly figure smiled and faded away. The giggles stopped. Emma and Amy felt a sense of relief and accomplishment. Honesty had set Lucy free.
Emma loved Halloween, especially in Dallas, Texas. But this year, a strange problem haunted her: ghostly giggles echoed through her house every night. Emma's ambition wouldn't let her ignore it. She had to find out where they came from. Could it be a prank, or something more sinister?
Emma's best friend, Amy, didn't believe her at first. He thought it was just the wind. But when he stayed over, he heard the giggles too. They decided to investigate together. Emma was determined to solve the mystery.
Their first obstacle was the attic. It was dark and creepy, and Emma was scared. Amy found an old box with a dusty diary inside. But the giggles grew louder. They had to be brave.
The diary belonged to a girl named Lucy who lived in the house years ago. It mentioned a hidden room. Emma felt a chill down her spine. They needed to find that room.
Emma and Amy searched the whole house but couldn't find the hidden room. They were getting frustrated. Amy suggested they check the basement. Emma was reluctant, but she agreed.
In the basement, they found an old mirror covered in a sheet. As they uncovered it, the giggles became deafening. Emma saw a ghostly figure of a girl in the mirror. She was scared but knew she had to confront it.
Emma tried talking to the ghost. The ghost, Lucy, revealed that she was trapped because of a lie she told. Lucy needed someone to admit the truth to set her free. Emma felt the weight of the situation.
- I can't do this, Emma said, feeling overwhelmed. - Yes, you can, Amy encouraged. - We have to help Lucy. Emma took a deep breath. She couldn't give up now.
Emma had an epiphany. She remembered a story her grandmother told her about Lucy. Emma's grandmother had lied to Lucy years ago. Emma knew she had to tell the truth to the mirror.
- Lucy, my grandmother lied to you and I'm sorry. Emma watched as the ghostly figure smiled and faded away. The giggles stopped. Emma and Amy felt a sense of relief and accomplishment. Honesty had set Lucy free.
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The Overcoat
One day, I will tell you about the overcoat. The vintage brown artifact with epaulets and pockets stoically suspended from the stout wooden peg in the recesses of the hall closet. The coat no child would ever dream of wearing outside. That coat. You might come to love that garment one day, as I do; to value its heft and utility, to see it, perhaps, as an extension of yourself. One day, you just might. I brought the coat with us that Thursday to the hospital near Tel Aviv; or perhaps I intended to bring it but did not. I had been cherishing the garment since October and tossed it in the trunk of the Camry — on top of the ballistic helmets and vests — before leaving home to collect your older sister from preschool. Your grandmother, Auntie Bella, and I. "A Jew should always have a coat. Preferably one with pockets." Not that we needed outerwear that afternoon. The weather was dry and bright; the sun winking through enormous clouds as it tends to do in March after consecutive days of rain. Winter was still in charge, but Spring was teasing. The scent of seasons changing was such that you would savor — grassy, earthy, and engaging like a fine tobacco blend. With the moonroof open just right, to let in the sort of texture I prefer. One day, I will tell you about that Winter. How I was crafting these sentences in a writing workshop during your birth. One day, you will know how — by the time we were navigating toward the maternity ward — I had been stabbing my hands deep into the side pockets of the coat since October and shrugging my shoulders for comfort more than warmth. One day, you might hear about those ballistic helmets and vests. About The Day The Music Died, and everything that came next. “Tell us about the coat, Grandpa,” you might insist one day. A coat with many pockets; weighty, functional, and warm. Like the forest green U.S. Army bomber jacket your Zaidy Sam kept phylacteries in during WW2, when stationed in Burma. Like the woolen trench coat your Bubbie Bella hid gold coins in during that same war, when surviving in a Ukrainian forest. A coat well made keeps one snug and has pockets to store essentials. A Jewish coat also has pockets for necessities one often forgets. Pockets for conflicting emotions. Pockets for Worry and Sadness. Pockets for Gladness and Hope. That Winter I had been making use of the garment’s more practical hollows and neglecting others. That is how I remember it. I was rummaging for solace in all the wrong places and brought the allegorical coat along to reach into pockets I suddenly recalled were there. Pockets for Poetry and Prayer. Pockets for Loving and Light. Like your birth that March in Israel, your other Zaidy also emerged from such pockets in Poland during another period of Darkness. Our family knows about hardship and sorrow. Our family knows about hidden pockets, too. “Tell us again about that Thursday, Grandpa,” you might one day insist. Then, I might set aside my briar wood pipe and tell you about when the sun in March was grinning. When your Grammy baked sweet potato muffins for your mother — you know the ones — and we had to double back to the hospital from the highway after forgetting to leave important documents behind for your father. How the Fall holidays had not yet ended and the Spring holidays were unimaginably looming after 153 Days of Discontent. How you were a second — and also a first — in our family. How your arrival offered Light when we needed it most. “That is how I remember it,” I might one day tell you and your sister who devours stories like M&M’s. “Later, the coat was on its peg when your parents would finally bring you home.”