Hey Mom,

Night turned mystery in Pawsburg. Pursued the unexpected solo, found spectral tales at The Wagging Tail. No Tucker, no Rudy, just a haunted book whispering secrets. Searching for them among the pages and ghosts. Could be a howl of a story if I make it back with my tail still wagging.

Hugs and licks,
Skiddler

Listen to the story here

Ah, there it is again—the whisper of the moon over Pawsburg, pulling me from the solitary comforts of my backyard. Tonight, the shadows hold secrets, ones that tug at my very bones. Tucker’s bark, the baton that usually orchestrates our symphony of mayhem, is silent. And Rudy? Not a hop or a yip to bless my twitching ear. It’s not like them to miss out on a nocturnal escapade. It’s not like me either, but the intrigue is a force I cannot resist.

So, I pry myself from my throne of grass, the kingdom of the day that knows my sun-soaked dreams, and venture toward the wooded whispers of Shiba Inlet, where the trees bend inward as if guarding the heart of Pawsburg. On any other eve, my chums and I would make light work of the ghost stories here, infecting one another with laughter until our sides rivalled the ache of our overworked jaws. But tonight’s solitude dawns a different cloak, a lingering chill that sets my short fur on edge.

I amble with purpose—a dog with a mission, a creature of instinct and squeaky balls, a gourmet of the chicken variety. I’m no stranger to the supernatural, you see. Our tales in Pawsburg often skirt the edge of reality’s fabric. I’ve heard whispers about the Hound Heights specter—a fallen canine doomed to roam the cliffs, mourning for a bone buried too deep.

My path veers unintentionally toward Cavalier Cove. The scent of simmering broths from Canine’s Cuisine and Paw Pad Thai hang heavy in the air, a potent lure for a culinary adventurist as myself. Yet, the bite of this night’s tale is not the hunger for chicken, but the undeniable spine-tingling sensation of an unwelcome gaze. I turn sharply, ears atop my head like perked antennae, eyes meeting darkness that seems to pulsate with unseen life.

“Who goes there?” I demand, my voice a strange echo in the cloak of Pawsburg after-dark. No reply. Only the sound of water lapping at the shores of Cavalier Cove—a symphony of ripples I’ve taught myself to distrust.

I divert my path, feeling the urgency of my mission now, to find Tucker and Rudy, to ensure their barks and leaps still dance through Pawsburg. But fate, with her wry sense of humor, guides my paws to The Wagging Tail Bookstore. A beacon of light, a shrine of written howls and yelps, it quivers. Perhaps a clue between the covers, a narrative secret to finding my pals?

Stepping inside, the musk of aged pages and the leather of well-worn collars fill my nostrils. The Tail Wagger’s Tailor sits adjacent, its windows dark, mannequins standing guard in coats no dog alive would wear… And that’s when I see it—a book, not like the others. Its pages flutter as if caught in a breeze that does not exist.

“Rudy? Tucker?” My call is a mixture of hope and trepidation. No reply. I nuzzle the book open with my snout, the title “The Howling Tome” glimmers ominously. The whisper now becomes a voice—an ethereal, disembodied howl that seems to beckon from the book itself.

With a steady paw, I turn the pages. Each word a footstep deeper into Pawsburg’s untold horrors, each sentence a heartbeat closer to an otherworldly revelation. Shadows stretch, form shapes, creatures with snouts and tails, but missing the warmth of life—ghosts of Pawsburg past, perhaps?

“Looking for us, Skittles?” A voice, distinct and comically droopy with dramatic flair, cuts the silence.

“Tucker? Is that you? This isn’t funny!” I bark back, my heart racing like it’s chasing the squeak of my favorite ball.

“Look deeper,” another voice chimes, Rudy’s pitch-perfect lilt squeezing my heart.

With trembling paws and a sinking gut, I stare down the ghastly void, knowing that the next page might very well alter the fabric of Pawsburg forever. My bravery isn’t choice, it’s necessity—an innate need for the warmth of friendship—and perhaps, deep down, a bit of that night-cloaked horror that gives our tales their thrills.

Here goes nothing, and everything. Turning the page…

The End.

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