It was on the damp edge of twilight when Gilbert the goose, shawl flapping and lantern swinging from his beak, barged into the Hazelroot Inn shouting, “G-G-GHOST!”

A hush fell across the room. Elder Badger, puffing his pipe near the fire, blinked twice behind his spectacles. Tansy the rabbit dropped her needlework. Even Marmot Twins stopped arguing over their toasted chestnuts.

Only Bramley the owl, perched on the rafters, dared speak.

“Again, Gilbert?”

“I saw it this time!” Gilbert honked. “Drifting over the pond! Like fog, but… wiggly! White and weird! It moaned, too—‘OooOOooOooh’ just like that!”

From the corner, Roscoe the hedgehog muttered, “That’s just your own echo."

Gilbert puffed up his feathers indignantly. His patched plaid vest wrinkled around the edges.

“I know what I saw! I’m going to trap it this time, I am.”

“You mean like last week’s ‘ghost’ that turned out to be a lily pad?” Tansy asked gently.

Gilbert slammed his lantern on the table for emphasis. “That lily pad moved. On its own.”

“It was the wind,” came a chorus of voices.

Gilbert honked. “Fine. Laugh all you like. But when I catch the ghost, you’ll see!”

And with that, he stormed off, trailing the smell of damp feathers and wet leaves behind him.

The next morning dawned crisp and golden, with the scent of earth and chimney smoke curling through the village. At the pond’s edge, Gilbert stood over a curious contraption: a net, two custard pies, and an old gramophone that played spooky moans whenever the wind cranked the handle.

“Ghosts hate custard,” he whispered, setting a pie down delicately beside the reeds. “Can’t resist it. Everyone knows that.”

He tiptoed behind a log and waited. The hours dragged on. Ducks passed by, quacking skeptically. A squirrel tried to nab the pie but got scared off by the gramophone’s sudden WOOoooooOOoooo.

Then—

SPLASH. SNAP. SCREEEE.

The trap sprang.

Gilbert flapped out of hiding. “I’ve got it! I’ve—oh!”

There, wriggling in the net, dripping pondweed and custard, was not a ghost. It was a very guilty-looking raccoon in a tattered cape.

“Rascal?” Gilbert blinked. “You’re the ghost?!”

The raccoon grinned sheepishly, crumbs stuck to his whiskers. “Technically, I was haunting. Spirit of midnight snacking, if you will.”

“You’ve been stealing from the pantry boats!”

“Borrowing,” Rascal corrected, tugging at the net. “I always mean to return things eventually.”

Just then, Elder Badger and the others arrived, having followed the screeching of the trap. They stared at the raccoon, the ghost-pie mess, and the startled but triumphant goose.

Gilbert fluffed up. “Told you. Ghost.”

Elder Badger adjusted his glasses. “Not a ghost, Gilbert. But a thief dressed as one? I daresay your instincts weren’t entirely off.”

Rascal grinned. “Gilbert’s got a nose for trouble.”

“I’ve got a beak,” Gilbert muttered.

Bramley the owl chuckled. “Looks like you’ve caught more than a ghost. You've caught the village pest.”

As they all helped untangle the soggy raccoon and gathered for tea at the inn (with slightly fewer custard pies than expected), Gilbert beamed. The pond wasn’t haunted. But he had been right, and perhaps—just perhaps—that was better than any ghost.