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Jamwine breathed a deep gasp as he lurched up from his slumber. A dark shadowy form wove through a line of pines that edged the meadow, emitting a loud buzz.
"I'm not afraid of you!" Jamwine cried as he reached for his stick lying across the fire, holding it out in front of him as a torch.
The flames flickered, projecting the shadows of the night across the wall of pines. The dark cloud seemed to grow to an immense size as it hovered across the light of the torch. It was at this moment Jamwine feared for his life, and with a sudden act of courage, he charged toward the swirling specter, shouting. “Be gone you old ghoul!”
A swing of the torch, and suddenly the ghost was gone. A surge of pride filled the old Hobbit, and as the sun peeked over the horizon, camp began to feel a bit less frightening.
He had faced his fears that evening, and while we won’t tell him the phantasm was but merely a swarm of flies hovering over a lost plop of strawberry jam, something had changed inside Jamwine forever that night.