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"So. Do you two want to hear a ghost story?"
"Um..."
"Yeah, okay. What's it about?"
"It's called 'The Lady In White'. It starts out with a babysitter who's looking after a couple of toddlers. She --"
"Where are the mum and dad?"
"Out somewhere, I guess. That's why they got a babysitter! Anyway..."

The television releases wordless cries of static, momentarily drowning out the wailing police sirens that pollute London's air. EastEnders' characters flicker into life, ignorant of the children sleeping soundly upstairs.

"She's watching TV when..."
"What's she watching?"
"I don't know! Stop interrupting me!"
"Yeah, Emma. Shut up."
"So she's watching TV, and then the phone rings. She picks it up."

Silence trickles into the room.

"She says something but nobody replies, so she hangs up and goes back to the telly. The next minute, she thinks she hears something in the garden. She opens the curtains and looks out."

The cherry tree that was so beautiful in daylight is now overrun by shadows. Luna, locked in a cage of cloud, can do nothing as the darkness spreads. Misleading silhouettes dance through the city, ignoring the pitiful light of the streetlamps.

"She can't see anything 'cause it's so dark outside. The TV's still on, but she isn't watching it anymore. She's wondering if that door opening are the parents coming home, or something else. She runs out into the hallway."

Ice cold air rushes up the stairs, and yet the front door is closed. Is it a barrier, or a death sentence?

"There's nobody there, though. She turns around, sure that there's something behind her."

"He's behind you..." whispers Intuition. The words are like needles, threaded with suspicion and weaving a pattern of terror.

"She can't move for a minute; she's scared, I guess. A second later she snaps out of it, because she wants to go and check on the toddlers. She runs up the stairs and opens the door, though she doesn't remember closing it. Standing by the bed is the lady in white."

Her eyes are colourless slits, crystalline tears of blood rolling down her porcelain cheeks. Her translucent lips are parted, like two lovers separated for eternity. She is shrouded in a gown of mystery and sadness, made with flowing silk and elegant white lace. She is as fragile as the first snowflake of winter, but in her hand she holds a blade. Her fingers grip the ivory hilt with a strength that snowflakes do not possess.

"So what happens?"
"Yeah, who dies? Does she cut them up?"
"No! I don't know what happens. My uncle was telling me the story, and he didn't finish it."
"But I want to know the ending!"
"Look, I'm sorry. Lunch is over now, anyway. I guess I'll see you."

This is the tale of the lady in white.