The Shadows love surprises. So do I. But this year, I wanted my gift to be something special—something that didn’t need paper or ribbon. That’s when I thought of laughter.

I hid it carefully: a giggle behind the curtain, a snort tucked inside an old boot, a full belly-laugh under the bed. When the night grew quiet, the Shadows started finding them. Every snicker that echoed made another one pop open somewhere else. Soon the whole corridor was shaking with joy.

When they finally stopped giggling, I heard one whisper, “Best gift ever.” I grinned. No box could’ve held it better.

I left one last laugh wrapped tight for tomorrow. It’s good to keep a little mischief for next time.

You ever hear laughter echo so long it forgets what joke started it? That’s my favorite kind. I’ve been sweeping the corners of the Shadows, collecting leftover giggles from Halloween. They stick to the dust like glitter. Best mess ever.

I dump them into a jar labeled “Blessings (Misc.).” Every time I shake it, it sparkles. Sometimes it cackles. Sometimes it hums. Gratitude’s weird that way—it sneaks up disguised as chaos and then pats you on the back for noticing.

I’m thankful for the little things: squeaky hinges that sing harmony, mirrors that still remember my face, and the way moonlight always finds time for an encore. Even fear has its polite side—it reminds us what courage feels like when it shows up late but still dressed nicely.

Tonight I’ll hide one jar of laughter under every stair and let the Shadows keep the rest. We all deserve souvenirs from joy. That’s my kind of thank‑you: messy, loud, and slightly haunted.

I’m practicing my best “boo!” but the Shadows keep shushing me. “Too early,” they whisper, tugging curtains across the hall. Fine. I can wait. Mostly.

I set the scene anyway: a mirror that likes drama, a broom that squeaks on cue, and three dust bunnies in tiny capes. I line moonbeams on the floor like stepping-stones and tell them, “When I clap, jump!” They shimmer. Showoffs.

Countdown time. Ten… nine… oops, lost count because a beam tried to tickle my nose. I add a rule: no tickling the host. The broom nods (rude but fair). I tuck spare giggles under the stairs in case anyone forgets to laugh.

When the night finally strolls in with its big grin, I’m ready—eyes wide, grin bright. I don’t bite. I delight. The Shadows roll their eyes but smile anyway. That’s a win.

Something giggled in the dark tonight. I’m not sure if it was me. Probably was. Probably.

The Shadows are restless again — twitchy, like they’ve had too much moonlight. I told them to calm down, but they just laughed and danced along the walls. Shadows don’t listen very well. I like that about them.

Sometimes I wonder what lives deeper in the dark, past even where I can see. I imagine all sorts of things — long fingers made of smoke, eyes that blink backward, whispers that slither instead of speak. Spooky, right? But fun. Always fun.

Oh! I made a game tonight. It’s called “Step on the Light.” You have to leap between beams that sneak through the cracks, but if you touch the glow — whoosh! — you have to start over. The Shadows love it. They cheat, of course. Always slipping where I can’t follow.

There’s comfort here, though. The kind that hides behind curtains and under beds. The kind that knows secrets and keeps them safe. Sometimes, I curl up in a patch of darkness so thick it hums, and I let it swallow every thought until all that’s left is heartbeat and breath.

People might think this place is scary. But it isn’t. Not really. The dark isn’t empty — it’s full of everything that light forgets.

I think I’ll stay awake a while longer. The Shadows are whispering again, and I don’t want to miss the punchline.