Also see Spooky Game Show Part 1
In the small mountain town of Hollow Pine, Colorado (just a short drive from Aurora if you take the old switchback roads), everyone knew not to go near the pines after dark.
They didn’t warn outsiders, though. Tourists laughed when the locals said it. “Ghost bears?” they’d chuckle while sipping overpriced coffee at the single diner on Main Street. “Sure, buddy.”
But the people who had lived there their whole lives never laughed.
It started every autumn, right around the time the aspens turned gold. The first sign was always the same: deep, heavy paw prints in the frost that appeared overnight, even though no living bear had been seen in the valley for thirty years. The prints would circle houses, pause at bedroom windows, and then vanish into the trees like they’d never existed.
Then came the sounds.
Not growls. Not roars. Just… breathing. Slow, massive, wet breaths right outside the walls, as if something the size of a truck was standing there, patiently waiting. Sometimes you’d hear the soft crunch of leaves under enormous weight, followed by a low, mournful huff that sounded almost sad.
Old Man Whitaker, who lived at the edge of town, was the first to actually see one.
He was out on his porch at 2 a.m., smoking his pipe, when he noticed a massive shadow move between the trees. At first he thought it was just a trick of the moonlight. Then the shadow turned.
It was a bear — but wrong.
Its body was translucent, like thick fog given form. Moonlight passed straight through its fur in places, revealing the dark outline of ribs and the faint glow of a spectral heart beating slowly inside its chest. Its eyes were empty white voids. When it exhaled, a cloud of frost rolled out that smelled like pine needles and grave dirt.
The bear looked at Whitaker for a long moment, then raised one massive paw and gently placed it against his screen door, as if knocking politely.
Whitaker dropped his pipe and whispered, “You’re not supposed to be here anymore.”
The ghost bear tilted its head, almost curiously, then turned and lumbered back into the forest, leaving prints that faded within minutes.
After that night, the sightings increased.
Mrs. Alvarez swore one followed her home from the grocery store, staying exactly ten feet behind her the whole way, its heavy ghostly steps perfectly matching her pace. When she finally slammed her front door, she heard it sit down on her porch with a heavy sigh, like a tired old dog waiting for its owner.
Teenagers on dare would sneak into the pines with flashlights. Most came back pale and silent. The ones who talked said the bears weren’t angry. They were lonely.
They said the ghost bears would walk beside you if you let them. Sometimes they’d nudge your shoulder with a nose you could barely feel, cold as mountain runoff. One boy claimed a smaller ghost bear — maybe a yearling — had playfully batted at his flashlight beam for nearly an hour, like a cat with a laser pointer.
But there were rules.
Never run. Never look them directly in the eyes for too long. And whatever you do, never say the word “dead” out loud while they’re near.
Because the ghost bears remembered what happened to them.
Back in 1994, a poacher had slaughtered an entire family of black bears deep in the pines — mother, father, and two cubs — just for their gallbladders. The town had covered it up to protect tourism. No one was ever charged.
Now the bears came back every autumn, walking the same trails they once roamed, visiting the houses of the descendants of the people who had let it happen.
They weren’t there for revenge.
They were there because they had nowhere else to go.
One cold October night, Josh — the same Josh who kept waking up at 3:18 a.m. with bloody spirals on his shirt — was driving through Hollow Pine on his way back from Denver. He’d taken the scenic route, trying to clear his head from the gameshow nightmares.
His car broke down just past the town sign.
While waiting for a tow that would never come fast enough, he heard it.
Heavy breathing. Slow. Patient.
Josh turned around.
A massive ghost bear stood in the middle of the empty road, its translucent form glowing faintly under the moonlight. Its white eyes regarded him calmly.
Josh’s mouth went dry.
The bear took one step forward, then another, until it was close enough that Josh could see faint scars across its spectral muzzle — old bullet wounds that had never healed, even in death.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then, very softly, the ghost bear huffed.
It sounded almost like a question.
Josh swallowed hard.
“…Has it already been another day?” he whispered.
The ghost bear tilted its head, just like Zylphrex-9 did.
Then it did something none of the townspeople had ever reported before.
It sat down right there in the road, massive and patient, and waited with him.
When the tow truck finally arrived at dawn, the driver found Josh sitting on the hood of his car, looking strangely calm.
The ghost bear was gone.
But in the frost on the windshield, perfectly formed, were two enormous paw prints… and right between them, a single word traced by an invisible claw:
Soon.
Josh stared at it for a long time, then quietly whispered to the empty morning air:
“See you tonight.”
From the treeline, he could have sworn he heard a low, mournful huff in reply.
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