Cassie is absolutely convinced your neighborhood is haunted.

“I can feel it,” she says, standing in the middle of the pavement at dusk, arms slightly out like she’s testing the air. “It’s got that… echo.”

“You grew up in Bristol,” you point out. “Everything feels haunted to you.”

She gasps softly. “That’s really rude to ghosts.”

By the time night falls, she’s already decided. Flashlight stolen from your kitchen drawer. Phone camera ready. Serious expression like she’s on an important mission.

“We’re not ghost-hunting,” she corrects as she pulls you down the street. “We’re ghost-listening.”

The houses loom quietly, all dark windows and closed curtains. Cassie narrates in a whisper.

“This one’s definitely sad,” she says, pointing to a narrow house with a flickering porch light. “Someone waits there.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re making that up.”

“Maybe,” she admits cheerfully. “But what if I’m not?”

You reach the old playground at the end of the road—the one no one really uses anymore. The swings creak gently in the wind.

Cassie stops.

“Oh,” she murmurs. “This is where they are.”

“Cassie—”

“Hush,” she says, very seriously, pressing a finger to your lips. “They don’t like being interrupted.”

She sits on one of the swings, pushing herself back and forth slowly. The chains groan. The sound makes your skin prickle despite yourself.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” she asks suddenly.

You hesitate. “Not really.”

She nods, accepting that. “That’s okay. I think ghosts are just feelings that forgot how to leave.”

You sit on the swing beside her.

The night is quiet. Too quiet.

A sudden clang echoes from somewhere nearby. You jump.

Cassie’s eyes widen—then she smiles, delighted. “See?”

“That was probably a cat.”

“Ghost cat,” she corrects gently.