![]() ![]() ![]() In the days that follow, Bethany’s body is discovered, and the police launch an investigation. She says nothing to anyone about what has happened: she has already lost her best friend and can’t bear to lose her dog, too. Alice, panic-stricken, grabs the animal and runs home. (The daisy-chain detail always felt slightly awkward, but it was necessary for the ending to land.) Suddenly, out of nowhere, the dog violently turns on Bethany and kills her. ![]() ![]() They’re laughing, gossiping, and they pause at one point to make daisy chains for each other. In my favorite one, two girls, whose names were, say, Alice and Bethany, are walking through a meadow with Alice’s dog. The ghost stories were told in utterly un-spooky conditions-in broad daylight, against the hum and clatter of the cafeteria-but I used to carry them home with me like treasures, to be turned over and marvelled at after dark. There was a period-we must have been eleven or twelve-when nothing compelled us more than made-up fear, and each day we’d rush to school eager to share some newly concocted tale of horror. It was the nineties, and we lived in Oxford, England. My friends and I used to tell one another ghost stories when we were young. ![]()
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