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When my daughter was nine years old, our neighbor gave us a book.
Some children's stories.
Okay, we said, thanks, and that evening I sat next to my daughter, and started reading.

"There was a girl, named Mary. Once she went to a store. Mary stopped at crosswalk, waiting for the red light to change. It was very cold day. The winter wind was beating at Mary's face, but still, she waited. There were no cars on the street, but Mary knew you should cross the street only at green light. She waited and waited. And she did not know the light was broken..."

I stopped.
I imagined that Mary. I "saw" how that girl became a snowdrift, vainly waiting for the green light. I glanced at my daughter, and realized she had the same thought.

"Let's try another story... " I said uncertainly. I browsed through the pages: "John was a good boy. He had only straight A's. He always listened to his parents. He..."

He even did not exist, I thought, and started reading a third story aloud: "Laura and Mark were at home alone. Their mother told them to be good kids. So, they sat at their chairs. They did not get up until their mom went back home. The mother was very happy..."

I stopped again, and looked at my daughter. She shuddered, and sighed.
"Mom," she said to me. "I do love scary stories, but this is the most horrific book ever."

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