Hey fam! Last night was wild—turns out Pawsburg’s got ghost stories AND ghost dogs! Pepper and I faced our fears (and my doggy instincts), met a spectral pup by the old oak, and helped a lost soul find peace. We’re local heroes now, but don’t worry, I haven’t let the fame go to my furry head. Tail wags and face licks for everyone when I get home! 🐾 – River

The moon hung low over Pawsburg like an unblinking eye, and its pale light spilled upon the cobbled streets of Garnet Greyhound Grove. I, River, the Beagle with the soul of an adventurer and the heart of a pup, found myself shivering not only from the night’s crisp air but from a prickling sense deep in my bones. Pepper normally would scoff at my fearful shivers, ready for a dare, but tonight, even he padded beside me with his tail low.

The evening frolics at Dog’s Delicacies had ended not with contented farewells but with hushed whispers of shadows moving in ways that defied the natural play of light. Max had said in a gravelly tone thick with unease, “There’s something afoot, young pups,” and how right he was.

There we stood at the crossroads of Ruby Rottweiler Ridge and Diamond Doberman Dunes, Pepper and I. “So, what’s the deal with the ghost rumors, River?” he asked, his voice a skipping stone across the pond of night. I sighed, my ears flapping gently at his words. “I reckon it’s just talk. Pawsburg’s got no room for ghosts, only bones and stories.”

But as I said it, a chill wind curled around us, and the darkness of the Ridge seemed to coil like a waking beast. Our four-legged brethren had vanished into their homes, the lights snuffed out as if Pawsburg itself held its breath.

We ventured towards the Ridge, where rumor had staked its claim. A howl split the silence, and not the good, honest kind that calls you to the moon’s kinship. It was a harrowing sound, laced with the dread of untold ages, a sound that had no place among the living.

I should’ve turned, my dog instincts screaming to bolt for Spa for Paws, praying for a bath to cleanse the fear from my fur. But curiosity, the same that had chased countless butterflies, now chased the unknown. And Pepper, well, he was with me, nervous but game.

“We’re rational, right River?” Pepper started, voice quivering. “No ghost’s gonna outsmart a Beagle and a Terrier.” I offered a half-hearted bark, inspiring little confidence.

Before us stood the tallest oak in the Ridge, its limbs thrashing even as the wind died down. Beneath it, a shadow pooled like ink over parchment. Max’s words returned to me, “Nature doesn’t move like that, no sir,” and he was right.

The shadow shifted and a spectral shape emerged, a dog – no, once a dog – its spirit bound to the bark of the ancient oak, eyes hollowed by time, ears torn by the void. Panic gripped my heart, though I stood my ground. “What are you?” I demanded, invoking my bravest memory of barking down the vacuum cleaner.

It replied—”Lost, so lost”—with a voice like autumn leaves scraping across a path.

The moon’s gaze was relentless. “Do you need help?” I asked, my grandmother’s tales speaking of guiding lost spirits home.

It nodded, and on this surreal night, Pepper and I found our bravery not in the chase but in stillness, in listening to the ghost dog speak of burials unmarked and goodbyes unsaid. This wasn’t horror; this was sorrow stretched too thin.

We listened to its story, a tale for the ages, and as dawn approached with warm fingers of light, the shadow danced before fading away, leaving the Ridge a specter’s memory.

Max met us in the morning glow, his knowing eyes asking questions. And as only true friends can, we sat with him at The Pawfect Training Center, recounting our night with an ethereal wag of our tails. Ever since, our escapade has woven through the heart of Pawsburg, a reminder that even in fright, kindness is a light unyielding.

The End.

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