Hazel stared fixedly into the darkness of her bedroom. The sinister ghoul’s face leered at her and stretched a deadly white hand towards her. His fingers quivered in wavering tendrils like tentacles. Blood oozed from a gash in his cheek and ran down his chin as his mouth gaped wide and grotesque. A few yellowed and rotten teeth were still embedded in his gums like small arrowheads speared into his skull. All the time his terrible hand kept reaching, reaching. He reached towards her and grasped her throat in his hand…

Hazel giggled. She loved making scary images in the dark, late at night. As she turned away from the figure, he turned back into the nightstand with its crooked tablecloth, her dirty laundry piled at its feet, and the shiny black lamp atop the tablecloth, which waved as the night wind leaked in through her open bedroom window.  

The next night, she conjured up another image, this time a ghost. It consisted of a white dress carelessly slung over her clothes rod. The folds and shadows of the garment gave the ghost features which rippled over its face by some unseen draft. She had been making it for a while as she waited for sleep to overtake her imagination. Something happened just then, and Hazel didn’t realize it from the start. The ghost began to take shape, for real. The white cotton dress gathered itself and lifted from the clothing rod, as if operated with strings. It hung before her bed, quivering slightly. It bent down to Hazels ear and opened its mouth to speak. Black emptiness showed beyond its lips. 

“Hey,” it said. The word, low and soft, whispered past her ear. 

Hazel was too shocked to speak. Finally, she asked the most obvious question. “Why are you shaking?”

“I am cold,” the ghost responded. The words drifted past her and into the air. 

Hazel was always hospitable. She must be dreaming—she must be. But this situation called for hospitality, and Hazel was ready to do her part. She silently opened the bedcovers and slid over, leaving some space beside her. The ghost took its place in the empty area. She pulled the covers over it, and the air whooshed out of its being as the heavy quilt descended. Hazel fell asleep.

“Hazel? Hazel!” Her mother called as she jiggled the pillow. “Get up! You have to shower!”

“Aw, mom. I just took a shower, like, two days ago.”

“My point exactly. Up you go, Princess Hair. Take a shower.”

  “Mom, can you not call my Princess Hair anymore?” she whined. This was because of an incident when Hazel was in kindergarten and walked into the kitchen, proclaiming that she had had combed her hair and styled “princess hair” and that everybody should call her as her hair entitled. The name stuck, especially when Hazel’s mother is mad at her. 

“Maybe if you shower every day, I’ll consider it. There are towels in the closet and—Hazel!”

She dragged herself around, clutching her shirt in exasperation. “What?”

 “Why is there a dress in your bed?” she demanded. Hazel looked. There was the white dress, laid out perfectly, between the covers. The happenings of the night before thundered around her. It was real. The ghost was real. All the friends in the darkness of night…were real. She didn’t know what to think. Maybe the shadowed friends would be friendly or want to play. Maybe they could read books by flashlight or play guessing games in bed or just lie down on the mattress with our pillows balanced atop their feet and giggle until they fell asleep.

“I dunno,” she said and went off to shower. Hazel was not going to tell her mom. No way.

The next night, it was a zombie out of the bookcase. “Do you drink blood?” Hazel asked it.

“No, no. I do not do any of that,” he responded, waving his thin hands.

“What do you like to drink?” asked Hazel as she twirled her pillow.

The zombie thought for a minute. “Strawberry banana smoothies!” he cried. Then they both laughed. Hazel felt lucky. She never really had friends, and here she could just think about it, and they would appear. Of course, being friends with a zombie or a ghost was not ideal…but, she thought, she’ll take it. 

Soon, Halloween rolled around. That night, she thought and thought. She had had little sessions with witches and all sorts of legends and mythical creatures. Some were pleasant, some were grouchy, some were downright creepy. But she’d enjoyed them all. But this night was different, and no matter how hard she tried and how tirelessly she concentrated, Hazel could not bring up any images.

The window was open as usual. As soon as she was about to give up and go to sleep, a rustle sounded from its direction. Then, the ghoul appeared and materialized. He drifted to the nightstand from which he originated and began to play with the trinkets on it. The ghost crawled in through the window next and floated to the dress. The zombie leant on the bookcase. They kept coming and coming—Pegasus, a monster, a Grim Reaper, some unidentifiable floaty white things, and with a “Oh! My broom got stuck! What are you doing, Hazel, with such a small window? My old bones aren’t so floppy anymore, you know!” the witch appeared. Each being took its place at the object where they were first seen. Hazel recognized them all.

“What’s going on?” Hazel inquired, looking at them all. 

“Halloween is going on!” proclaimed the zombie in the same ringmaster announcement voice he’d used for the smoothies.

 “We wanted to say thank you,” the ghoul said.

Hazel was still confused. “Thank you for what?”

“Can you not be so stupid?” the witch screeched. 

“Do you have any smoothies?” asked the zombie.

“Quiet! Everybody, quiet!” called the ghoul. 

The ghost appeared from the crowd. “Thank you for giving us material. We, in our neutral form, are invisible. When we have an inquiring spirit, a kind soul, and an open window like you…” he drifted to her bed. “We invite ourselves in. When we become material, our costumes appear in the minds of children everywhere. They make the costumes real, and when they walk around the neighborhood in their costumes, it gives us life. Just for a little bit.” The ghost sniffed. “Oh, dear. I am an emotional ghost. Does anybody have a handkerchief?”

“Use my cape,” offered the zombie. The ghost blew his nose loudly, then rubbed it with his hand. “I hope you’re going to wash your hands after doing that,” remarked the zombie sourly. He turned to Hazel. “We just wanted to say thank you for giving us this great gift. People like you are hard to come by. But you have given us life this past night. Just for a little bit.” He extended his hand. “Goodbye. Maybe we will see you next year. Thank you.” He took his leave through the window.

“Thank you,” said the ghost, taking her hand as well. 

“Thank you,” said the ghoul.

“Thank you,” said the Grim Reaper.

They all came by and thanked her, one by one, each taking her hand in gratitude. When they were all gone, Hazel felt sad. She turned to go to bed. That was when she realized that in her hand where each of her friends had touched her palm lay some objects, small and sweet. Hazel grinned as she saw what they were. 

Halloween candy.