The sun was glowing orange as it fled into darkness. The distant horizon crawled closer with night, while owls called their ghostly cries, and creatures rustled in the trees. The children huddled close, voices frozen to stone, and their thin arms shivered, chilled by fear or the cold.
“And then?” whispered one, as silver moonlight bathed her face in white, and starlight dripped like tears. “What comes next?”
The storyteller turned. “And then,” she said, “the ghosts appear, floating high over the table, one for each of you.”
And it’s true. Vanilla pudding does look ghostly when served by moonlight.