Hey Dad,

It’s your main mutt Percy here. Survived the Spencerville Haunt with a tail-twitching scare-fest at Chihuahua Castle. Turned out to be a prankster’s paradise, and guess who was the star? That’s right, this Fleabag! Got myself a new ghost story to bark about. Tails are wagging, I tell ya!

Catch you on the spooky side,
Perce 🐾👻

Listen, pals, it’s me, Percy—your favorite four-legged furball with a forte for the frightful funnies. Now, pull up a comfy cushion and prepare for a tail—I mean, tale—that will raise the hairs on your nape. I’m about to spill the beans on my thrillingly terrifying Spencerville spooktacular.

It was a moonless night in Chihuahua Castle—yes, the very place where turrets peep above the frothy clouds of Spencerville. They say that we dogs have a crackerjack time here, but here I was, thumping my tail in spooked syncopation. The castle stood, with its stones whispering ancient woofs and whimpers.

“Fine night for a scare, eh?” I chuckled to myself, gazing at the stars that pierced the sky like diamond-studded dog collars.

You see, my usual helter-skelter huzzahs had hit a snag that evening. It was the eve of the Haunting Howl—a legendary scarefest in our quirky canine cosmopolis, where things went bump in the night and made even ghosts second-guess their transparent choices.

I sauntered through the twisted corridors of Chihuahua Castle, my Entlebucher bravery bolstering each step. Unbeknownst to me, a nefarious fog was seeping through the grout of the gothic walls. Suddenly, the playful portraits of Poodles and Pomeranians transformed, their eyes now glowing like squeaky toys in the devilish dim.

“Ah, the artist must have had a flair for the dramatic,” I reasoned with a nervous snicker and a paw-step forward.

But then, oh dear squeaky chicken, the unimaginably unexpected unfolded! The toys, my beloved contraband confetti, started floating—yes, floating!—in the air as if held by some poltergeist’s playful paws. And my tail? Poof! It went straighter than a Mastiff’s sit command.

Out of nowhere, a dialogue of disembodied barks echoed, “Peeerrrcyyy…”

With a gulp, I remembered my mystery companions—those loyal lads and lasses who galloped by my side through Spencerville’s thick and thin. Yet, where were they to jump in and share with booming laughter that it was all in jest? Oh, the absent tail-waggers! “Probably snoozin’ at the Pug Palace,” I muttered.

I trotted, ears cocked, eyes wide, navigating through the levitated leashes and suspended squeakers. Then, I faced it: the Grand Hall of Spencerville. Decked in its horror-best, I spotted my ultimate nemesis—the vacuum cleaner ghost haunting the floor, its roar silent but implied.

“Have a bone to pick with me, eh?” I woofed.

And then, an icy paw—an actual icy paw—clapped on my shoulder. I whipped around to confront my dreaded fear, only to be slapped by the laughter of my siblings, my own flesh, and fur, holding a mirror to my melodramatic mug.

“Curses, you got me!” I howled. Even the salad bowl specter couldn’t hold a candle to my ’embarrassed dear-in-headlights’ look.

A howl symphony erupted, as the rest of the ethereal patrons of Spencerville joined in my haunted hilarity. It dawned on me that my fancifully fearful yarns would be wagged across this town for years to come.

But let’s not dawdle on my dognapped dignity, shall we? In Spencerville, every chill has its whim, and every shiver, a smile. No one trundles through the mists of this spectral sprawl unrewarded with a good guffaw or a ghastly grin.

Here’s to Spencerville—where tails spin, spirits soar, and even in the most horror-stricken moments, there’s always a paw to pat you back into wagging delight.

The End.