There was an ancient iron gate on the border of a quiet, small town. The streets were lined with cobblestones that curved like drowsy cats, and the porch lights came on at twilight. The gate groaned in the wind and opened to an area where most people sped past during the day and stayed away from at night. It was the cemetery in town. The bent limbs of tall oak trees reached across mossy stones. Ivy wrapped around headstones that were leaning.

When the sun went down, fireflies blinked like little lanterns in the sky. And when the moon rose high and round, silver light spread across the grass like a beautiful blanket. The spirits came out then. They floated between the stones and whirled between the trees and were very proud of their boos. Some books were long and sad. Some were short and to the point. Some were so loud that they shook the iron gate.

And one of them thought his boo was the best of all the ghosts. He wasn't the biggest ghost. He wasn't the oldest. At first glance, he didn't even shine the brightest. But when he took in the cold night air and let out a loud, booming "BOOOOOOO!" —windows shook. Owls flew away in shock. The alley cat by the fence grew twice as big. The other ghosts would stop and look. They would whisper, "That is the loudest boo in town." The small ghost adored how it felt.

He practiced every night. He stretched his thin arms. He rose higher and higher above the headstones. He pictured himself as a storm cloud coming down from the hills. "BOOOOOOO!" he yelled again, making the trees shake. He thought that being the loudest made him the bravest.