A not-too-scary Halloween story starring your child

Milo put on his soft grey wolf costume and stood very still while Mom tied the hood under his chin. His big sister Nora wore paper wings that whispered when she walked. Outside, the evening was blue and cool, and every porch had a pumpkin with a candle inside, glowing orange like a little bowl of warm light.

"Ready?" said Mom, taking Milo's hand. "Ready," said Milo, and off they went down the quiet street, their shoes making small scuffs in the fallen leaves.

At the first house, a neighbour dropped two chocolates into Milo's bucket. At the second, there was a bowl of sweets shaped like tiny moons. Nora counted hers out loud, and Milo counted his twice, because counting twice is more fun.

Then, near the old apple tree, Milo heard a very small sound. Not a scary sound. More like a sneeze made of air.

Behind the tree stood a ghost. A very small one, about the size of a teapot, wearing a sheet that was far too big. The sheet dragged on the ground and kept tripping over itself.

"Hello," said Milo, in his bravest, kindest voice.

"Hello," said the very small ghost. "I'm lost. I meant to float to the party, but my sheet is too long and I keep sitting down by accident."

Nora knelt in the leaves. "We can fix that," she said, and she folded the bottom of the sheet up neatly, twice, like a sleeve. Mom held the ghost's bucket while they worked. The very small ghost rose up into the air, wobbled, and then floated perfectly, as light as a dandelion seed.

"Oh," it breathed. "Oh, thank you."

So the four of them went to the party together, at the house at the end of the street where lanterns hung along the fence. There was warm apple juice in paper cups and a bowl of popcorn as big as a bathtub. Children in costumes danced slowly to music that was more sleepy than loud. The very small ghost floated just above Milo's shoulder the whole time, and every so often it did its little sneeze of air, and Milo laughed.

When the lanterns began to burn low, the very small ghost said goodnight and drifted home over the hedges, waving its too-big sleeve.

Mom carried Milo's bucket. Nora carried Milo's hood when he got too warm. The walk home was slow and soft, with stars coming out one by one.

At home there was a bath, and pyjamas, and two sweets saved for tomorrow on the shelf where he could see them. Mom pulled the blanket up to Milo's chin and sat beside him in the dark. Outside, one last pumpkin flickered gently on the step. Inside, everything was warm, and quiet, and safe, and Milo's eyes closed all on their own.

Ada buttoned her star-patterned cape on Halloween evening, and Grandpa Joe stood at the door with a lantern and a grin that was almost as bright. Outside, the street had gone soft and orange. Every porch held a pumpkin, and every pumpkin held a small candle, and the candles made little puddles of light all the way down the hill.

"Ready, star captain?" Grandpa Joe asked.

"Ready," said Ada, and she took his hand, because hands are good things to hold on a night that smells of cold leaves and warm cinnamon.

They had barely reached the gate when Biscuit, the neighbours' dog, came trotting out to join them. Biscuit was wearing a knitted pumpkin hat that kept sliding over one eye, and he seemed very proud of it. He walked between Ada and Grandpa Joe the whole way, as if he had been hired specially to keep them company.

At the first three houses, Ada said "trick or treat" in her bravest voice and collected toffees wrapped in waxy paper. At the fourth house, something odd happened. Ada noticed a pumpkin on the bottom step that had no candle inside at all. It sat there dark and patient, with a crooked, friendly smile carved into it.

"Grandpa," she whispered, "that one's been forgotten."

They lit it together. Grandpa Joe held the lantern low and Ada tucked a fresh candle in, and the pumpkin's smile came glowing to life. From somewhere behind the hedge came a small sound, like a sigh of relief.

Ada peeked around the hedge, and there, sitting on an upturned bucket, was a little ghost. Not a frightening one. A rather shy one, made mostly of an old bedsheet with two eye holes that were slightly too far apart.

"Sorry," said the ghost. "I was trying to light it. I'm not very good with matches. I'm new."

"New at being a ghost?" asked Ada.

"New at Halloween," said the ghost. "I usually hide."

So Ada did the bravest thing she did all night, which was not very frightening at all: she held out her hand. The little ghost took it, and the three of them and Biscuit walked on together down the hill to the neighbourhood party, where there was apple juice in paper cups and a tray of buns shaped like cats.

And here is the quiet twist Ada only worked out later, warm under her blankets: when the little ghost pushed back the sheet to drink some juice, it was simply the new girl from number nine, who had moved in last week and had not yet met anybody.

Her name was Mira, and she laughed a great deal once she started.

At home, Grandpa Joe blew out the lantern and set it on the windowsill. Ada's sweets sat in a bowl for tomorrow. Biscuit was asleep on his own porch, pumpkin hat and all.

"Goodnight, star captain," said Grandpa Joe.

Outside, the last candles burned low and gentle in their pumpkins, keeping the street soft and orange while Ada's eyes closed, warm, safe, and already half dreaming.