Hey hooman,

Just survived a ghostly mist and saved Eloise ‘n Barth from phantom hounds at Kelpie Keys. Your brave Pendleton is more than just tail wags and tennis balls – I’m the bark against the dark, a guardian of our furry souls in Pawsburgh. Tail’s still intact, but who knew courage could be so… fluffy?

Stay warm,
Pendle-paws 🐾👻

I’d noticed the breeze had teeth tonight, teeth that didn’t play fair, slicing a chill through Pawsburgh, chilling even the marigolds. My paws took me through the maze of shadow-drenched alleys to Chestnut Cocker Courtyard, where the dim orbs of lamplight usually danced with the laughter of my kind.

But not tonight.

The courtyard was deserted, draped in an unnatural silence that made my twitching ears seek any sound of life. Was there a paw-step, a low growl, a whine, a bark? No. Just the teasing rustle of the wind.

I had been ready for an evening with Bartholomew and Eloise, ready for tales and chases. Now, an eerie fog was creeping, seeping from Kelpie Keys, snaking across the cobblestones like a predator stalking its prey. It masked the way to Fido’s Feast, where turkey, my drooling reverie’s catalyst, awaited those who dared the streets on a night like this.

Somewhere beneath that silver mist, Eloise and Bartholomew would be, should be. The old beagle’s wisdom, the spaniel’s spirited race, all swallowed by the fog’s expanding belly – a supernatural beast at supper.

I needed to find them; needed to hear Barths’ hoarse bark, see Eloise’s flittering tail. The call to protect, it’s a burn within, like this mahogany fur, like Mr. Jensen’s warm, shielding lap. The fog, it felt alive, a living barrier, shushing me with a finger of mist when I dared call their names.

“Bartholomew? Eloise?”

Sssh.

I ventured closer to Tail-Twitching Treats, the fog swirling expectantly around the quaint shop’s frame. The windows, usually gleaming with the promise of canny delights, were blank, unblinking eyes on a petrified face.

“Pendleton, is that you?”

Eloise’s voice, a stark violin note, pierced the fog. But this note quivered with fear – not the vibrant symphony of footfalls I knew so well.

“I’m here, Eloise! Show yourself!”

Heart thundering, a lonesome drumbeat in the eerie silence of Pawsburgh. Eloise. In the fog, shapes shifted, and before me, The Pampered Pooch Salon loomed; its door ajar, whispering promises of respite from this horror. Eloise’s scent, a tangled ribbon, led within.

“Eloise?”

No answer, just my voice, an intruder in a place that demanded silent horror. Inside it was cold, cold like the eyes of the fog. A squeak – soft, plaintive – seeped into my ears. My beloved toy, the rubber duck, companion to joyful romps, now tones of terror in the ghastly pall.

To the rear – that’s where the scent strengthened. Amidst the combs and dryers, the essence of my Spaniel friend pulled me to the back door. It stood open, black as Bartholomew’s tales, and through it ebbed the murky breath of Kelpie Keys.

Out again, into the clutch of the fog, into the darkness that had nestled into Pawsburgh’s heart. My paws unsteady, my once bold nose quivered. And that’s when I saw them – both Bartholomew and Eloise – statues in the mist, agape, eyes wide with horror at Kelpie Keys.

“What… what is it?” I nudged Bartholomew, his fur frost-kissed.

“Do not look, Pendleton.” His whisper was a gasp from the grave. “Turn back.”

Words failed me. I peered into the abyss of Kelpie Keys. A shiver rippled through my coat as I met the hollow gaze of a phantom hound, its fur a patchwork of souls lost, eyes burning embers of hadn’t-forgotten life. A silent arbiter of dog fears; it whispered with a voice of bones clattering.

“Do you chase, Red?” it moaned. “Chase with us…”

A ghostly pack emerging, their paws silent, their eyes hollow pits beckoning me to join their endless hunt.

“No!” I barked, my frisbee, my duck, the turkey feasts of Fido’s Feast, all forgotten for the warmth of Mr. Jensen’s hearth, for the sanctuary of daylight pursuits.

I ran, the wind carried my tail, and the fog laughed behind me, as if it knew I’d return. Because every dog romps back to where the butterflies play near the brook. But we know now of the place where phantom dogs run and fog has teeth.

The End.