Hildy was not disappointed—at least not right away. There were ghosts everywhere! In fact, there was hardly room in the house to hold them all. Ghosts crowded the basement and the attic, fought for space under the bed and in the closets, and there was always a line for the bathroom. (They didn’t use the toilet, of course, but liked to check their hair in the mirror, to make sure it was disheveled and frightening.) They danced on the lawn at all hours—not because ghosts especially liked to dance, but because the people buried under the house had died of Dancing Plague.11

The ghosts clanked pipes and rattled windows and threw books down from shelves. Hildy walked from room to room introducing herself.

“You can see us?” asked the ghost of a young man. “And you aren’t frightened?”

“Not at all,” Hildy replied. “I like ghosts. Have you ever played stick-a-whack?”

“No, sorry,” the ghost muttered, and turned away.

He seemed disappointed, as if all he’d wanted was to scare someone and she’d robbed him of the chance. So she pretended to be frightened by the next ghost she met, an old woman in the kitchen who was making knives float.

“Ahhhh!” Hildy cried. “What’s happening to my knives! I must be losing my mind!”

The old woman ghost seemed pleased, so she stepped back and raised her arms to make the knives float even higher—and then tripped over another ghost who was crawling on the floor behind her. The old lady ghost went sprawling and the knives clattered onto the counter.

“What do you think you’re doing down there?” the old woman ghost shouted at the crawling ghost. “Can’t you see I’m trying to work?”

“You should watch where you’re going!” the crawling ghost shouted back.

“Watch where I’m going?”

Hildy started to laugh; she couldn’t help it. The two ghosts stopped bickering and stared at her.

“I think she can see us,” said the crawling ghost.

“Yes, obviously,” said the old woman ghost. “And she isn’t frightened in the least.”

“No—I was!” Hildy said, stifling her laughter. “Honestly!”

The old woman ghost stood up and dusted herself off. “You’re clearly humoring me,” she said. “I’ve never been so humiliated in all my death.”

Hildy didn’t know what to do. She had tried being herself and that hadn’t worked, and she’d tried acting like she thought the ghosts wanted her to, and that hadn’t worked, either. Discouraged, she went to the hallway where the ghosts were lined up to use the bathroom and said, “Does anyone want to be my friend? I’m very nice, and I know lots of scary stories about living people that you might enjoy hearing.” But the ghosts shuffled their feet and looked at the floor and said nothing. They could see her desperation, and it made them feel awkward.

After a long silence she slouched away, her face burning with embarrassment. She sat on the porch and watched the plague ghosts dance in the yard. It seemed she had failed. You can’t force people to be friends with you—not even dead people.