A long time ago, a little boy died and his parents couldn’t bear to part with him, so they buried him in their basement. His ghost lingered for hundreds of years until children moved into the house. The little ghost boy wanted to play with the living boy, but didn’t want to play with the little sister. The ghost knew that if he blew really hard in the little sister’s direction, it would kill her.
And so one night, while the little girl was getting ready for bed, the ghost boy blew a great wind and the girl died. She woke as a furious ghost and immediately went to her brother to tell him what the boy did. The living boy was so upset and angry that the ghost boy immediately felt ashamed at what he had done and told the living boy how to bring his sister back to the living. *Insert some weird shit here*
The two ghost children and the living boy went down to the basement, where they dug a grave for the sister’s body. The living boy climbed into the grave with her, and the ghost boy started to cover their feet with dirt. Suddenly, the ghost girl sat bolt upright and started screaming. Her eyes were pitch black and she was not the same little girl as before.
Her feet caught fire where the dirt had covered them and her screaming turned to loud, rumbling thunder that shook the entire house. The ghost boy tried to put the fire out, but all that was down in the basement was an old bottle of gin. Sadly, this just made the flames spread and the angry ghost girl thunder louder.
And then I woke up to a thunderstorm unleashed from Hell, D trying to touch my ass, Sophie running around the house in Day-Glo orange gloves and looking for bubbles, and Ben having snuck, (or sneaked, depending on your internal grammar Nazi), into my room to retrieve his iPod that he was supposed to relinquish promptly at 10:00 PM. Hello, 2:45 AM.