Humans,
It was the fall of ‘86, and the leaves had barely finished turning when I lumbered into town looking for a Michelin-starred cafe to squelch my rising appetite. My belly rumbled with the endless hunger of hyperphagia—the ancient switch inside an ursine body that shouts: Feast, feast, feast, or you’ll never survive the season.
All the restaurants were closed, but driven by desire, I found a few pumpkins in doorways, all of which I crunched in three big bites (not even bothering to turn them into a baking project). I then enjoyed a batch of caramel apples, left to cool on a windowsill. But what I smelled next made my hungry heart begin to howl: plastic buckets full of grub, sweet-smelling bags torn open, glittering wrappers in tiny human hands, shining like treasure under the streetlights. Candy, and piles of it: chocolate bars, sour worms, peanut butter cups, lollipops.
I did not hesitate. Something primal rose inside me; a sickening craving for confections, goodies, and sweetmeats. I tore through driveways, porches, and streets, feverish, paws sticky with sugar. Children screamed and ran, but I paid them no mind. I was in a frenzy. My hunt for sustenance was louder than their terror.
By midnight, I had eaten one hundred pounds of Halloween candy. My fur was matted with nougat. My claws were purple from grape lollipops. My teeth hurt, my eyes buzzed, and my stomach bulged so wide I could barely roll myself back into the woods.
The next morning, deep inside my den, I wheezed and groaned with pain, clutching my aching belly. But the worst part was the shame. The embarrassment at having scared young children haunted me, and then a realization much, much worse: how had I binged so badly on such cheap, meaningless, poorly-prepared junk? I knew I could never show my face there again. I vowed I would never return.
The town was littered with empty wrappers that night, but no one ever found the bear. Only pawprints remained—leading to the edge of the woods, and then stopping suddenly, as if he had vanished into thin air. And now, every year, when the October moon rises high and the air smells of sugar and smoke, the townsfolk swear they hear it—the rustle of wrappers in the dark, and the low, frenzied growl of an extremely hungry bear.
Friends, I vowed that night – and I reiterate my promise to you: this will never happen again. You have nothing to fear if you come to one of my dinners, and I promise to serve only paw-crafted delicacies of the highest quality. If you don’t trust me, please see my spooky new fall menu below.
Yours in all transparency,
Bear