Dime could hear the giggling again. It was there every time she closed her eyes. Sometimes it was next to her in the bed. Sometimes it slingshot around the room. And sometimes the giggle was a whisper in her ear. The sound was there, followed by a cool breeze, every night without fail.
“Spirits,” “apparitions,” “poltergeists” — Dime knew none of these as she was only seven and a half. But she did know one word for the giggling and the moving objects, and it was “ghost”. Somehow the ghost did not scare her, and she did not want to lose her unearthly companion to the workings of an adult. The ghost was her secret, her giggling friend who she could swear sometimes lay down next to her like they were having a sleepover.
“Goodnight. Sleep tight. No te pico un mosquito,” she would say to the g
