Creak, creak, creak, creak... That nasty sound again. This is always heard at the hour of the bull. It's three o'clock in the morning today. I couldn't sleep anymore, I got up, took the gun. It's always been on the next pillow since I've been alone. No one wanted to live on a farm in this wilderness. Last Tuesday there was the same creaking, but I didn't get up, and in the morning I found Daisy, my favorite chicken, dead. I thought it was foxes or wolves, but 2 days later at night I heard the same creaking and in the morning I found a goose dead, and 2 days later a goat...

In an old, slightly crooked house on Maple Street lived a ghost named Gilbert. Unlike other ghosts, Gilbert wasn’t scary at all. He didn’t rattle chains, howl at night, or scare people with cold breath on their necks. No, Gilbert had a different passion: he loved cookies. Every night, when the family in the house went to bed, Gilbert would float into the kitchen. He couldn’t actually eat the cookies — being a ghost had its downsides — but he loved to arrange them in funny patterns: smiley faces, little castles, and even a cookie dinosaur once...