Why You Should Never Whistle Past a Graveyard on All Hallows' Eve
A Tall Tale for a Foggy Night
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Now, I'm not one to meddle in other folks' business-especially when it comes to things that go bump in the night-but there's one bit of advice I'll pass along to you, dear listener, if ever you find yourself wandering home late on All Hallows' Eve, when the fog's as thick as porridge and the moon's hiding shy behind the clouds.

Never-and I mean never-whistle past a graveyard while carrying a lit pumpkin.

You might think I'm spinning yarns or trying to scare you, but this isn't your average campfire tale. This is what really happened-well, mostly really happened-to a boy named Toby Crumple, who thought himself far too clever to be spooked by "old wives' tales."

I. Toby Crumple and His Whistling Ways

Toby Crumple was a lad of about twelve, with more curiosity than sense and a grin that could charm the socks off a scarecrow. On the afternoon of October 31st, he'd carved himself the finest jack-o'-lantern in the whole of Bramblewick. Its grin was wicked and toothy, the eyes squinty and sly. He stuck a stub of candle inside, lit it, and plopped the pumpkin on the handle of his bicycle.

"Well, Ma," he'd said, puffing his chest, "I'm off to show this beauty to the lads down at the old churchyard. Bet they've never seen such a fierce face before!"

His mother, who'd heard every tall tale and ghost story this town ever whispered, wagged her spoon. "You mind yourself, Toby Crumple. Don't go near that graveyard after sunset, and for pity's sake, don't you whistle! Not on All Hallows' Eve!"

Toby laughed. "Whistle? What's a bit of whistling got to do with anything?"

But his mother only shook her head. "Some doors are better left closed, that's all."

He didn't believe a word of it, of course.

II. The Graveyard Lane

By the time the fog rolled in, Bramblewick had gone quiet. Candles flickered in windows; shadows danced behind curtains; and the church bell tolled six-then seven-then eight, each chime swallowed by mist.

Toby pedaled down the cobbled lane, pumpkin swinging on his handlebars, flame dancing inside like a living thing. The light made strange shapes in the fog-sometimes a face, sometimes a claw, sometimes nothing but orange smudges.

The lane curved past the old graveyard, where crooked stones leaned like tired soldiers and the iron gate moaned in the wind. The trees there were tall and twisted, their branches like bony fingers pointing accusingly toward the stars.

Most folks crossed the street to avoid it. Toby did not.

III. The Pigeon That Thought It Was an Owl

Now, in that same graveyard lived a pigeon named Percival-a rather peculiar bird, for he fancied himself an owl. Every evening he'd hoot (or try to), puffing his chest and widening his eyes in the most owl-like fashion imaginable. Trouble was, it came out more of a "hoo-croo!" than a proper "hoo-hoo!"

On this particular night, Percival was wide awake, pacing the cemetery wall like a feathered sentry. When he saw Toby approach, pumpkin blazing and whistling a jaunty tune, he nearly fell off his perch.

"Oh, no, no, no!" crooned Percival. "He's whistling! At this hour? Near this place?!"

He flapped his wings in alarm and tried to hoot a warning, but all that came out was an anxious "CROO-HOO!"

Toby glanced up, saw the flustered pigeon, and chuckled. "Evening, Mr. Owl!" he teased, and went right on whistling.

IV. The Calico Cat

Just then, a calico cat with one golden eye and one green stretched on the cemetery wall beside Percival. She'd been sitting there for hours, tail flicking back and forth, waiting for... something. Or someone.

"Will you calm down, bird-brain?" she purred lazily. "You'll wake the sleepers."

"They shouldn't be sleeping tonight!" squawked Percival. "It's All Hallows' Eve! The boundary's thin! And he's whistling!"

The cat yawned, showing a set of tiny, sharp teeth. "Humans whistle. It's what they do when they're trying not to be afraid."

"Well, he ought to be afraid," muttered the pigeon.

V. The Jack Russell Who Wasn't Lost

Down the lane came another sound-the quick patter of paws. A small Jack Russell terrier named Pip emerged from the fog, nose twitching, tail low. Pip had set out hours earlier to visit a friend's house, only to find himself on the wrong side of town.

Not that he was lost. Oh no, Pip would tell you he was simply "taking the scenic route." But the truth was, the fog had turned every corner into a mystery, and every shadow into a maybe-monster.

When he spotted Toby's glowing pumpkin, he wagged his tail in relief. "Ah! A human! I'll just follow him home."

But as he trotted closer, he heard Toby's whistling and froze. Pip, like all dogs, knew the rules of the world better than most. Whistling in the graveyard was an invitation-and not the friendly kind.

He barked sharply, trying to warn the boy.

"Go on home, Pip!" laughed Toby. "It's just a graveyard. Nothing but stones and stories."

Pip whimpered, then fell in beside him anyway. Someone had to keep an eye on the fool.

VI. The Tutting Owl

Up in the tallest yew tree, an actual owl-round and serious-blinked down at the scene. This was Old Hooter, who'd been living in that graveyard longer than most of its residents had been buried.

Every year, without fail, humans made a fuss about All Hallows' Eve, dressing up, running about, pretending to be spooked. Hooter found it all terribly tiresome.

"Tch," he tutted, adjusting his feathers. "Such noise. Such nonsense. It's a perfectly ordinary night."

He would've gone back to his nap, but then he noticed the pumpkin light weaving through the fog-and the boy's whistling cutting through the stillness like a dare.

"Tch-tch-tch," he tutted louder. "He'll get what's coming to him, mark my words."

VII. The Whistle Echoes Back

Now, Toby's tune-something cheerful and bouncy-was meant to keep his nerves steady. But halfway past the graveyard gate, something curious happened.

The whistle echoed back.

At first, Toby thought it was the fog playing tricks. But then-there it was again, the same melody, but slower, deeper, a bit off-key, like it was being whistled by someone else.

Or something else.

He stopped, heart thumping. The air felt colder. The candle inside his pumpkin flickered wildly, then steadied again, casting long, twitching shadows across the iron gate.

"Probably just the wind," Toby muttered.

Pip whined. Percival hid behind the cat. Even Old Hooter stopped tutting.

Then the echoing whistle came again-this time from inside the graveyard.

VIII. The Flicker in the Fog

A light appeared beyond the gate. Faint at first, like another candle. Then brighter, then brighter still, until Toby could see it moving between the gravestones, bobbing up and down.

It was followed by another light, and another, until there were half a dozen-then a dozen-tiny flames drifting through the mist, each one hovering just above the ground.

The air shimmered with soft, whispery voices.

"Who calls? Who whistles? Who wakes us?"

The cat's fur stood on end. "Oh, brilliant," she hissed. "You've done it now, boy."

Toby swallowed hard. "Done what?"

"You've answered the dead's call," said Percival, his feathers trembling. "They think you're one of them!"

IX. The Procession of Pumpkins

Out of the fog they came-figures, faint as smoke, each carrying a carved pumpkin glowing with inner fire. Some were tall, some short, some missing pieces. Their faces flickered and shifted, grins turning to grimaces and back again.
They didn't walk so much as drift, their feet barely touching the ground.

Toby stood frozen, his own pumpkin burning bright in his hands. One of the ghostly figures floated closer-a woman in an old-fashioned gown, her eyes hollow, her pumpkin grinning.

"Yours burns brightest," she whispered. "It will light our way."

And before Toby could move, the other spirits began to hum-a low, hollow tune that sounded eerily like... his whistle.

X. The Bargain of the Boundaries

"Now listen here, boy," said the calico cat, tail twitching. "There's rules for this sort of thing. You've crossed into their world by whistling, and they've crossed into yours by answering."

"Rules?" squeaked Toby.

"Every All Hallows' Eve, when the veil's thin, the dead seek a light to lead them. Usually they find one of their own. But tonight, you went and offered yours."

Toby looked at his pumpkin. "You mean this thing?"

"That thing," said the pigeon, "is the brightest lantern in the mist. And now they think you're their lantern-bearer."
Pip barked nervously. The spirits began to circle, their flames flickering higher.

The woman in the gown spoke again: "Walk with us, keeper of the flame. Lead us home."

XI. Toby's Terrible Idea

Now, most folks in Toby's position would've dropped the pumpkin and bolted. But Toby Crumple, you see, was a boy who liked to fix things-even supernatural ones.

He thought for a moment, then squared his shoulders. "Alright," he said. "I'll lead you home. But only if you promise to go back when I'm done!"

The spirits murmured among themselves, then nodded.

"Agreed," said the woman. "Light our path, and we shall rest."

Percival groaned. "Oh, we are so doomed."

XII. The March of the Lost

So off they went-Toby in front, pumpkin held high, the ghostly procession following behind. Through the fog they drifted, over roots and stones, past leaning angels and broken crosses.

The calico cat padded silently along the wall above them; Pip trotted beside Toby, ears back but loyal as ever; Percival fluttered nervously overhead; and Old Hooter watched from his perch, shaking his head.

"Tch," he muttered. "Humans. Always making extra work for the rest of us."

As Toby walked, he noticed the fog thinning, the air warming. The gravestones grew clearer, the lights brighter, until they reached the far end of the cemetery-a tall, arched gate Toby had never seen before.

It shimmered faintly, like moonlight on water.

"This is where we part," said the woman. "The lantern's keeper may not pass through."

XIII. The Turning of the Flame

The spirits bowed their heads, and one by one, they floated toward the gate, their pumpkins dimming as they went. Toby watched in awe as they slipped through, dissolving into silver mist.

When the last one vanished, the gate flickered and faded, leaving only fog and silence.

For a moment, everything was still.

Then Toby's pumpkin flickered, sputtered, and went out.

Pip whimpered. The air grew cold again.

"Tch!" came Old Hooter's voice. "You'd better run, boy. The veil's closing, and not everything on that side went home!"

XIV. The Chase of the Shadows

Sure enough, behind them came the whisper of something else-something that hadn't gone through the gate. A darker shape, moving fast.

Toby grabbed his dead pumpkin and bolted. Pip barked and sprinted beside him. Percival flapped for dear life. The cat hissed, claws scrabbling on stone.

The thing behind them growled-a low, hungry sound like stones grinding together.

Toby didn't dare look back. He just ran, whistling again out of pure panic.

And to his amazement, the whistle worked.

Each note seemed to push the darkness back, keeping it just far enough away. By the time he reached the main gate, the fog had begun to lift, and dawn was peeking shyly over the hills.
The graveyard fell silent once more.

XV. The Lesson of the Lantern

When Toby finally reached home, his mother was waiting by the door, rolling pin in hand.
"Where have you been, boy?" she cried. "You're white as a sheet!"

Toby looked down at his pumpkin. The candle inside had burned down to nothing, but the carved grin still seemed... satisfied.

He told her the whole story-the ghosts, the lights, the gate, everything.

His mother listened quietly, then nodded. "Well," she said, "now you know why we don't whistle past graveyards."

XVI. Epilogue: The Night After

The next evening, Bramblewick was back to normal. The fog was gone, the stars were bright, and the old graveyard was quiet again.

On the wall, the calico cat sat grooming her paw. "Told you he'd survive," she said smugly.

Percival fluffed his feathers. "Barely."

Old Hooter blinked down from his tree. "Humans never learn," he said, then yawned. "But at least it keeps things interesting."

Pip trotted by on his way home-definitely not lost-and wagged his tail at them.

And as for Toby Crumple? He never whistled near a graveyard again. But every All Hallows' Eve, he left a freshly carved pumpkin on the cemetery gate-its grin warm and welcoming, its light steady through the night.

Some said it was to keep the spirits happy. Others said it was to remind the living.

But Toby knew the truth.

It was a thank-you-for letting him come back.

Moral of the Tale:

On All Hallows' Eve, when the fog hangs low and the night feels too still, keep your whistle quiet and your light close.

You never know who might be listening-or waiting for a lantern to lead them home.

Why You Shouldn't Whistle Past a Graveyard

They tell this story in my town every All Hallows Eve, and they tell it with the kind of smile that means they have one foot out the door and the other on the mantel. It begins, as all good tall tales do, with an ordinary person doing something ordinary at the very wrong moment.

Old Toby Finch was the sort of man who liked to keep his pockets full of marbles and his head full of tunes. On the night in question, he had a carved pumpkin under his arm, a candle burning inside so the scary face glowed like a warning light. The mist had settled heavy down the lanes and wrapped the lamplight in scarves. The streets were quiet in that hush that has the audacity to call itself peaceful.

Toby, who believed that a tune could solve small misfortunes and at worst make them less boring, decided to whistle. It was a jaunty little thing-nothing more than two notes strung together, the kind your grandmother would scold you for because apparently it made cats suspicious. He whistled past the cemetery gate because the path home took him that way and because the chill made him a little bolder than usual.

If there is one rule older than the rocking chair on the porch, it is this: never whistle past a graveyard on All Hallows Eve when the fog is thick and the pumpkin in your hand is grinning at the moon. The rule is old because the consequences take their time and because the cemetery is a place where the world tends to rearrange itself just to be polite.

Toby had hardly put the second note into the air when the night answered back. Not from behind him, not from the shadows, but from above the gravestones came a sound that was not quite a hoot and not quite a chuckle. It was a voice that sounded like a pigeon with a really good dram of theatre in its chest. Perched on the lowest branch of a gnarled yew, a pigeon-plump, pigeonish, and wearing the confidence of someone who had read at least one book about being an owl-let out a long, solemn hoot.

"I am awake well past my bedtime," the pigeon declared, looking down at Toby as though the man were intruding on a rehearsal. "I identify as an owl tonight."
Toby nearly dropped the pumpkin. The candle inside made the carved eyes wink like old men at a dance. The pigeon-insisting on being addressed as Mr Hootworthy-folded his wings and delivered another hoot, which sounded like a coin rolling and a bell being knocked over at the same time.

This would have been the moment for Toby to retreat, but humans in tall tales are like loose buttons; they come undone at the best and worst times. Toby paused, then whistled again, trying to be brave and mostly trying to be polite. That, though, was the precise discourtesy that set the night to work.

From the cemetery wall, sitting as if she had been waiting since the Victorians were in vogue, a calico cat lifted her head. She was all mottled orange and black and looked like mischief wrapped in velvet. Her tail curled around her paws like a question mark. No ordinary cat, she fixed her bright, sensible eyes on Toby and blinked exactly once.

If cats had a calendar, the calico would have marked that eye-blink in red ink. She had been sitting on that wall for exactly as long as anyone could remember, and whenever someone tried to hurry past with a jack-o-lantern or a song on their breath, she waited. Not impatiently. Not angrily. She waited the way tide waits for the moon, inevitable and completely uninterested in what you had to say about it.

"He's not lost," she seemed to say with one steady glance, though she did not have to speak aloud for the message to land. For tall tale reasons, messages from cemetery cats tend to do their work in the bones.

Toby, who now regretted letting his brassy tune out into the night air, continued because walking backward is awkward and he liked to keep things simple. The Jack Russell at his heel, a tiny lightning bolt named Scraps, quivered with the nervous energy of a dog who had been told the roast was almost ready. Scraps was skittish, yes, prone to surprise at his own shadow, but he was not lost and he was very clear on the route home. He huffed and made tiny, determined circles around the pumpkin strings where Toby carried it, as if to affirm its existence to the world.

Up in the tree, the real owl-wise, old, and perpetually unimpressed-tutted. Not a hoot. A tut. The sound seemed to shake leaves that had never bothered the living with their opinions. "What's so special about tonight?" the owl said, which in owl means, "I have watched this round of mischief for more nights than you have teeth, and really, it is rather repetitive."

The owl had a point. Nights like this were routine for nocturnal birds: people with candles, pumpkins with smiling faces, dogs with urgent plans. The owl had seen pigeons pretending to be owls before. The calico had been known to wait. Humans unwise enough to whistle had been seen, too. The owl tutted again because tutting is what owls do when they must exercise their long, patient dignity.

Toby's tune continued down the lane like a trail of breadcrumbs for anyone with a taste for music and a fondness for dramatics. From the graves, too, there came a shuffle. Not the sort of shuffle that rattles chains or slams coffins-this was a more civilized shuffle, like someone checking their hair in a window or moving their feet because the conversation has gotten dull. Graveyard etiquette, it turns out, includes the right to be amused, especially when there are whistlers.

One by one, small gestures happened. A rose lifted its stem. A marble rolled from a child's hand, clinking against a headstone and coming to rest as if it had always belonged there. A portion of an old hat-nothing fussy-lifted on a breeze to correct itself upon a stone. The pumpkin's face seemed to grin a little wider, as if fed by attention.

"You were warned," said the calico without moving her mouth. "Some folks whistle to drown out their fear. Others whistle to make promises. Both are poor bargains near this wall."

Toby swallowed. He remembered that somewhere in his grandmother's kitchen there had been old sayings about whistling and wolves and old men who came out to gamble with their shadows. He had chosen to whistle because he had liked the sound and because he liked to believe that courage could be learned like a cough.

"Sorry," he muttered to no one in particular, to the owl that tutted, to the pigeon who insisted on a throatful of theatrics, to the calico and the Jack Russell and the many small attentions that began to gather along the path. Scraps, who never appreciated lectures, barked once as if to say, quite clearly, "We are nearly home, human, hurry up with the treats."

The mistakes of mortals are not always met with wrath in tall tales; sometimes they are met with mischief. The pumpkin's candle guttered, and in that wavering light the graveyard decided that if a human wanted to whistle, the least it could do was offer a proper accompaniment. From behind one of the larger stones, a sound sprang-soft, high, and unmistakably musical. It was a voice like wind through dry leaves and the sort of harmony that had been out of tune for a hundred years.

Toby's feet, which had been obediently walking, stopped. The tune he had been whistling tangled with this new music and, in a moment of perfect foolishness, the two made a duet. That is the trouble with melodies in graveyards: they are persuasive and opportunistic.

Out from the earth came a procession. Not frightening; not menacing; more like a marching band of people who had forgotten the proper hour for a parade and decided All Hallows Eve would do nicely. They carried lanterns that were cooled blue by the fog. They had shoes that tapped old rhythms on the ground. They smiled the way folks do at a family reunion when they are pleased but reserved.

The pigeon threw himself from his branch and landed with a theatrical bow. The calico rose and walked the length of the wall like a queen making sure everyone was in their place. The owl gave one long tut and then, because owls are above false modesty, allowed itself to be amused. Scraps darted forward with the grin of a canine who had found an unexpected festival.

Toby, who now realized his solo had turned into an invitation, did the only sensible thing left: he stopped whistling. He let the song dissolve into the fog and folded his hands around the pumpkin like a contrite child. For reasons that the old rules do not explain, silence in a graveyard is an apology that goes a long way.

The procession paused. An elderly woman with a laugh like wind chimes gave Toby a nod that meant "Lesson learned." A boy with a marble collection gave him one of his own, the marble that had rolled earlier now returned by polite hands. The pigeon, flushed with the glory of having completed his audition for nocturnal management, resumed his hoots and immediately started an argument with a bat about the best line of sonnets for moonlight.

"Whistling stirs stories," said the calico at last in a voice like warm cloth. "Some stories like to cross doors once they are woken."

Toby, chastened and wiser, tucked his pumpkin under his arm and walked home with Scraps at his heels. The procession melted back into the stones like a dream letting go of the bed. The owl resumed its dignified silence, a small smile hidden beneath feathers. The pigeon preened as if he had always been an owl and would be forevermore. The calico settled herself on the wall again and waited for the next person who thought a whistle could out-singing the night.

If you ask anyone in town why you should not whistle past the graveyard on a foggy All Hallows Eve while carrying a pumpkin with a candle, they will tell you to keep your tune to yourself and your shoes on the path. They will point out the pigeon with big ambitions, the cat that waits, the Jack Russell who is never lost, and the owl that tut-sighs at the fuss.

Mostly, though, they will smile and say the true reason is simpler: music in such a place tends to find friends you did not mean to invite. And when friends of the old, quiet sort come out to listen, it is only polite to stop whistling and listen back.

Write a tall tale of 2000 words or less - you can go longer if space is needed - that's suitable for a General Audience, so "U" rated, about why you should not whistle past a graveyard in a quiet part of town, on a dark and foggy All Hallows Eve night, while carrying a carved pumpkin, scary face illuminated by a candle inside.

Elements for possible inclusion;
- a pigeon, awake well past its bed time, hooting because it identifies as an owl
- a calico cat sitting on the cemetery wall seemingly waiting for something, or someone
- a skittish Jack Russel just trying to get home, but totally isn't lost
- an owl sitting in a tree 'tutting' disapprovingly the goings on (it's just a normal night for it "what's so special about tonight?!").

Old Bartholomew Flinch lived in a cottage that was practically kissing the old cemetery fence. On most nights, this was perfectly fine. Bartholomew was, after all, a jolly fellow who believed the departed were better neighbors than the gossiping greengrocers. They were quiet, they didn't borrow your wheelbarrow without asking, and they certainly didn't complain about his award-winning turnip harvest. But All Hallows' Eve was different. It was the one night the whispers of the wind weren't just the wind, and the shadows weren't just shadows. It was the one night Old Bartholomew believed you shouldn't, under any circumstances, whistle past the graveyard..

Now, Bartholomew had a grandson named Timmy who, at ten years old, believed most things his grandpa said, except for the things that seemed, well, silly. And the whistling rule, on the scariest night of the year, while holding a perfectly carved pumpkin with a flickering candle inside, was the silliest of all.

"Just to keep your courage strong, Timmy!" Old Bartholomew had insisted, as he handed over the fiery-eyed pumpkin. "But remember, that's just a distraction. The graveyard has its own rules."

Timmy, with the brave bravado only a ten-year-old could muster, decided to put his grandpa's theory to the test. He stepped out into the dark, foggy night, the glowing jack-o'-lantern casting dancing, monstrous shadows on the cobblestones. The graveyard loomed to his left, a dark, silent ocean of marble and stone.
Just then, a pigeon, perched on a weather-beaten tombstone, let out a noise. A sound that was a lot less coo and a lot more... hoot. "Hoooo-hoooo," it declared, puffing out its chest with immense pride. It had been practicing all year and felt quite confident in its new persona. It saw the real, very unamused owl in the tree above and simply gave it a look that said, We're colleagues, right?.

The real owl, an old, sensible bird with an impressive set of judgmental feathers, rolled its eyes so hard it nearly fell off its branch. Honestly, it seemed to think. What is with these city birds? It let out a loud, disapproving "Tut-tut-tut".

Next, a sleek calico cat, perched with an almost royal air atop the cemetery wall, watched Timmy's approach. The cat didn't twitch, didn't blink. It simply sat, tail curled neatly around its paws, as if it were expecting an important delivery.

Timmy, feeling a nervous flutter, decided to turn on the whistle. A cheerful, perfectly innocent tune came out, a little off-key, but still a tune. The moment the sound left his lips, everything changed. The fog seemed to thicken and writhe, as if waking up.

The calico cat's tail uncurled and began to swish, a slow, deliberate metronome counting down to... something. The owl in the tree stopped its tutting and stared, wide-eyed, its feathery disapproval giving way to genuine alarm. Even the "hooting" pigeon suddenly forgot how to "hooo" and instead let out a terrified, squawking "CAW!".

From the shadows of the graveyard, a noise emerged. Not a clanking chain or a mournful groan, but a frantic, high-pitched patter. A skittish Jack Russell terrier, who was definitely not lost but simply taking a very long, very complicated detour, shot out from behind a large crypt. It skidded to a halt, nose twitching. It looked at Timmy, at the whistling, at the graveyard, and then with a whimper, tucked its tail between its legs and bolted in the opposite direction.

Timmy stopped whistling. The patter of the dog faded, but the new sound was closer. A faint, low hum, like a bee trapped in a jar, seemed to emanate from the ground itself. The hum grew louder, more distinct, and then began to pulse in time with the candle flame inside Timmy's pumpkin. The carved face, which a moment ago had looked comically spooky, now seemed to twist and contort with a life of its own.

The calico cat finally moved. It dropped silently from the wall and began to walk, not toward Timmy, but toward a specific, ancient-looking tombstone. It stopped and sat down, looking not at the stone, but at the empty patch of fog right in front of it.

Suddenly, a wisp of vapor detached itself from the fog and began to swirl, coalescing into a vaguely human shape. It drifted toward the cat, and the cat let out a soft, pleased purr. Then another wisp appeared, and another. They all drifted toward the whistling. And toward the candle flame.

Timmy, with the wisdom that only comes from true, pants-wetting fear, knew he had made a terrible mistake. He dropped the pumpkin, and it landed with a soft thump but did not break. The candle inside flickered wildly, and the ghostly wisps began to gather around it.

That's when he heard the music. It wasn't his whistle. It was a faint, old-fashioned, reedy tune, like a long-forgotten folk song being played on a dusty gramophone. The wisps began to sway and dance to the melody, their vaporous forms becoming clearer. He could see their vague, smiling faces, their old-timey clothes.

The biggest of the wisps, a woman with a large, misty bonnet, seemed to curtsey to him. "Thank you, young man!" a voice, like rustling leaves, whispered in his ear. "We haven't had a proper dance in ages! My, you brought the party right to our doorstep!"

She pointed a gauzy finger at his discarded jack-o'-lantern. "And a lovely centerpiece, too!"

Timmy didn't stick around to chat. He bolted for his grandpa's cottage, leaving the ghostly revelers to their silent, joyous dance. He slammed the door, bolted it, and sank to the floor, gasping.

Old Bartholomew looked down at him, a twinkle in his eye. "Forgot to mention that part, didn't I?" he chuckled. "Seems you whistled up a party, Timmy. What kind of party guests were they?"

"Friendly," Timmy managed to whisper, trembling. "And... old-fashioned."

"Ah, the graveyard gala," Bartholomew said, nodding sagely. "They appreciate good music. But once the party starts, they don't want it to end."

That night, Timmy and his grandpa watched from the window. The graveyard was no longer dark and foggy. It was filled with a soft, ethereal light, the wisps of the departed dancing merrily around the single, flickering flame of the jack-o'-lantern. The calico cat sat serenely at the edge of the dancing circle, purring. And the judgmental owl just shook its head in silent, feathery exasperation. The hooting pigeon, however, had found a new, livelier crowd and was trying to teach a ghostly lady with a parasol how to do the "hoooo".

Timmy never whistled past the graveyard again on All Hallows' Eve. Not because he was scared of ghosts, but because he knew, deep in his ten-year-old heart, that some parties, once started, are much harder to finish than they are to get into.