Beneath the glazing, twinkling canopy of wheezing stars, Little Charlie whispered secrets to the night. "Come out, come out, wherever ghouls may prowl!" he giggled, clutching his pop-tart sceptre.
The curious scent of mischief drifted through Ashwood Forest where socks vanished, never to be seen again.
Alas! The Wolves Anonymous gathered under the tree-house whose architect was a chipmunk named Maurice. "Tonight," Maurice chattered excitedly, "we unPawLatest History™!"
As the mist began to dance (wearing glow-in-the-dark shoes, mind you) and shadows absorbed secrets older than broccoli, Charlie glanced at his watch—it whispered back TRUE TIMELESSNESS. A shiver or maybe a tingle traveled his spine like an email to his outer self.