Back at my brother's place, I was introduced to a few of his neighbors who all had their share of stories about the park. When one of them described a man who had been stabbed to death at the park two years prior, I became slightly perplexed. His description was an exact match of the man we'd all seen walking in the strange fog. But when I saw him, he was solid. Like the rest of the living.
The remainder of my trip, though comfortable, was not as eventful as that first night. One thing was constant though. After sundown, Cheesman Park became as empty as a ghost town.
Considering Denver's history, that really is saying something.