Luke Phillips's Blog

I recently picked up a 50th anniversary copy of James Herbert’s ‘The Rats’ – a series of books I was borderline obsessed with when I discovered them in my early teens. Despite being slightly alarmed at the inappropriate content that I somehow missed as a kid, and wouldn’t get past an editor’s desk these days (a teacher thinking of 14-year old girls as crumpet!), it still has me gripped no matter how many times I’ve read it.

In ‘The Rats’, the first of the trilogy, there is a harrowing scene of a school under siege – something I wanted to pay homage to in my own first novel, Shadow Beast.

If you’ve yet to read Shadow Beast, there are some mild spoilers hinted at in this chapter, but not completely given away.

I’ve always had a vision that if the book were ever made into a movie or a series, at least one of the scenes from this chapter would feature ‘Bless the Beasts and the Children’ by The Carpenters playing over the muted action – perhaps as the beast stalks past the classroom windows in slow motion, it’s gruesome prize carried in its jaws.

So, here, in a hopefully to become relatively regular feature I’m naming ‘Chapter Tuesdays’ – here is my homage to classic British horror.

Chapter Twelve

Louise Walsh looked out over the playground from her classroom window. The afternoon play break was nearly over, and she watched as the children finished up their games of chase and hopscotch. A small group of them huddled in one corner, no doubt playing on their portable games machines. At least they’re out in the fresh air, she thought. The small primary school in Cannich was a beautiful stone building that had originally been a church. The traditional layout had been put to good use, with the three rooms that came off the main hall now serving as the classrooms for the different age groups the children were separated into.

Louise had the eldest group – the nine to eleven year olds. Her elder colleagues, Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Henderson, took the younger groups of the fives and the sevens. Amongst other things, Louise was also the acting Headmistress. With such a low intake of children and small classes anyway, there was no need to appoint someone separately in a permanent position. They had run the school like this for two years and it worked well enough.

Being the youngest of the three women, Louise had at first encountered a great deal of subversive hostility, and a two-faced attitude from the older women she found herself working with. The fresh ideas she had brought with her from the London inner-city schools had received a warm welcome on the surface, but had been constantly stalled when she had tried to put them into action. On more than one occasion, she had returned from a difficult day to her small, one-bedroomed cottage and burst into tears with thoughts of returning home to the south. But sticking to her guns on her good days had seen her through, and she now wouldn’t change Cannich for anywhere else in the world.

She picked up her whistle, and walked out of the classroom through the big double doors of the empty hall into the playground. It was a crisp winter’s afternoon and the sun was beginning to burst through a cloudbank. She looked up onto the mountains surrounding the village. If the weather holds, I’ll go for a walk and clear my head, she thought. There was only another forty-five minutes of school left. The overdue marking and reports on her desk could wait. She had all weekend after all. She looked up again to the ridge of the nearest mountain, lifting her hand to shield the glare of the sun from her eyes. She could now see that there was a lot of activity up on the mountainside, and whole parts of the forest seemed to be moving although she couldn’t make out any individual people. I wonder what’s going on, she thought as she heard the buzzing of a helicopter in the distance.

~

Thomas opened up the back of the Overfinch and helped Meg jump down onto the ground. The forest car park, which had been empty yesterday, was now almost full with Army and police cars, some of which sported large radio antennas. The Jaguar saloon had also rolled in behind them. No one had got out of the car though. The Major-General came over to Thomas. 

“I’ve asked some of the Army dog handlers to follow in behind you,” he said. “They’ll follow your lead, and will be under your command. This is new territory for them, so we’re all looking to you really.” 

Great, thought Thomas with some concern, although he managed a weak smile anyway. He could see four men with German shepherd dogs standing near one of the trucks. A young soldier in a beret ran up to them and saluted the Major-General.

“Major-General Sir, we’ve finished the first sweep and found nothing so far. The snipers are on hold and it’s safe for the dog team to move in.”

“Thank you Corporal,” replied the Major-General. “So Mr. Walker, it looks like you have your leave. I’ll introduce you to the dog team.”

Thomas followed the Major-General across the car park. The dog-handlers were all wearing the red berets of the British Military Police. As he looked around, he noticed the green berets of the Royal Marine Commandos gathered around a Land Rover with a large radio mast. The other soldiers were from the 3rd Battalion Royal Regiment of Scotland, based at Fort George. It didn’t escape Thomas that they had been well known for their involvement in operation PANTHER’S CLAW in Afghanistan. He wasn’t sure if it was irony, fate or just some marketing officer who was laughing at him right now. 

Major-General Fitzwilliam returned the salutes he received as they neared. 

“Sergeant Brodie, this is Thomas Walker. He’ll be leading your team and giving you some insight into your quarry. He has experience with this kind of dangerous animal, so take his advice seriously.”

“Yes sir.” Brodie answered.

The sergeant’s smile seemed genuine, and there didn’t seem to be any question or mistrust in his expression. He looked down to see Meg earnestly leaning in to the sergeant’s German shepherd dog, her tail wagging as she licked at its nose in an exuberant fashion. The big dog looked to his handler in confusion, completely unsure how to react to the friendly newcomer. 

“Meg has been trained to follow trails and has plenty of experience tracking cats. She’ll let us know if she’s onto something. Keep your dogs on the lead. We know it’s a dog killer and it’s not my intention to put any of them, or us for that matter, in harm’s way. We’ve just got to find it,” Thomas explained to the group of soldiers. He noticed the rifles slung over their shoulders and winced as he realised his was still in the car. 

“Sergeant Brodie, do you mind holding Meg for a second. I’ve been given permission to bring my rifle and I need to get it from the car.”

The sergeant nodded, his smile suggesting he recognised Thomas’s nervousness. Thomas trotted back to the Overfinch, trying to stifle his urge to run. He felt like he was back at school, trying to impress the older boys on the rugby field. When he returned, he found Sergeant Brodie down on one knee, both he and the big German shepherd making a fuss over Meg. He smiled and felt his walk slow a little as he relaxed. She had always been better with people than him, cutting through any formalities with a confident wag of the tail. 

“Nice gun,” nodded the sergeant. 

“Thanks,” replied Thomas with a little pride. “Let’s hope I won’t need it.”

~

The creature had dozed lazily for some time in the sunlight. It had found a fallen tree that had become hollow, offering warm, dry shelter after it had fed, as well as a comfortable place to sleep. It licked its muzzle as it raised its head. It stood up, arching its back and stretching its stiff muscles as it spread its paws against the ground. It turned its attention to the log and left deep, long scratch marks in the damp, dead bark. As it exerted a little more pressure, part of it splintered and broke away. The creature swatted playfully at the log now, rolling it back and forth with its paws and smashing it carelessly with its own weight as it clambered on top. The soft shards of rotten bark would still make a comfortable bed. The creature rubbed the ground with the sides of its face. As it trotted forward, it lifted its tail and squatted, spraying the area with a potent blend of urine and a secretion from its scent glands. 

Satisfied the new extension to its territory had been marked, it became aware of its thirst and disappeared into the bracken. Its tail flicked casually above the greenery as its head emerged through a hole in the brush to drink from the mountain stream. It drank steadily and enjoyed the rejuvenating taste of the fresh water. It suddenly lifted its head, completely alert. Its ears pricked forward and it scanned the ridge and tree line behind it. Strange sounds echoed through the woods, the same noises that had driven it to this side of the mountain earlier. As it picked up the barks of the dogs, it slunk back into the bracken. It bounded with silent ease out of the trees and foliage. It looked towards Glen Cannich, the loch and nearest of all, the village itself. It listened intently to the sounds floating up the hillside. Having slaked its thirst, it began to heed its body’s next need and padded forward, heading towards the farms and buildings below.

~

Meg was enjoying herself. She strained on the lead and was pulling Thomas along like a locomotive. Her occasional yelps of excitement were met with the same response from the army dogs behind. Thomas and the soldiers encouraged them further into bouts of barking, and he was glad they understood their role as both noise makers and trackers. He hoped to drive the cat from cover, especially if it was lying up, as most of its kind would during the day. They had left the pathways of the forest behind, and were now working their way up a steep ridgeline with a thick cover of bracken and overhanging trees that formed a narrow, natural track to the west. Meg stopped at the crest of the ridge and barked in triumph at the edge of the bracken. Thomas had suspected she’d had something on the nose as they steamed up the hill, and now he was certain of it. A dog searching for a scent would have zigzagged to find it.

Meg stared intently over the bracken. She stood, balancing precariously as she stretched her muzzle out over the brush. Her ears lifted and she let out a whine of unease. Thomas knew she couldn’t see over the bracken and was less sure of herself now. She flattened herself against the ground and looked up at him. He knew this meant that she wanted to be carried and was afraid of something. Slightly more alert, Thomas carefully peered down the mountainside. Nothing stirred or seemed out of place. He tugged at Meg’s lead gently and she took the hint, getting to her feet again. After a quick glance behind her to check the German shepherds were still close, she trotted forward, this time sticking to Thomas’s side on a slack lead as they headed down the ridge.

~

Louise blew hard on the whistle and slowly the sounds echoing around the playground began to soften and fade. Games drew to a halt and the children began to look in her direction.

“Okay children,” she shouted, “form three lines please.”

They separated into their three classes, some slowly packing away their things with exaggerated displeasure that playtime had ended so soon. Out of the corner of her eye, Louise could see Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Henderson making their way across the playground. Hurry up she thought, it’s cold.

~

The creature had edged its way down the mountain, drawing closer to the warm sounds coming from the village. It slunk along the verge and crept up to the stone river that separated Cannich from the mountainside. It paused, hesitating to enter the new environment. It watched and waited, making sure there was no danger here. Its unease lifting, the creature bounded effortlessly across the warm dry surface and over a wall on the other side. It found that the hard ground naturally silenced its footfalls, and it slipped from shadow to shadow as it followed a tree-lined hedgerow. It heard the two female animals chattering on the other side of the hedge and stalked closer. It could sense their frailty in their laboured breathing and padded nearer. They were sitting on a flat piece of dead wood, and had not heard the creature’s approach. Just as it began to flank them, its nostrils were stung by the strong opium scent that hung about them like a cloud. Its lips wrinkled in distaste and it changed course back along the hedgerow. As it rounded a bend, it picked up the sounds that had first roused its curiosity. It padded silently between two stone columns and froze as it saw movement ahead. It had found its prey.

~

Thomas worked his way down the ridge with the Army dog team close behind. As they dipped below the tree line, they found themselves on a gentle slope covered with bracken. Snowdrops and wood crocus had begun to break free from the earth but were not quite yet in flower. It was beautiful and silent, except for the babble of a stream farther down. Meg gave three short barks. Her attention was focused on the other side of the bracken and Thomas knew she had found something. He turned and signalled to the soldiers. They all raised their rifles in readiness and began to creep forward. 

~

Aaron Meeks had taken his rucksack off and was putting his games machine into it, when a movement near the gate made him look up. He started to tremble as he watched the hulking creature strut into the playground. He began to shake with fear as he looked around to see if anyone else was watching. He went to call out but found his voice frozen in his throat. He glanced back again to the creature. It had stopped, and was looking straight at him. Its green eyes were fixed on his. As Aaron stared back, he realised the only thing it could be was a monster. He dropped his rucksack and began to stumble backwards towards the other children. The monster lurched forward with a terrible roar that almost knocked Aaron over. This time, the scream came freely as he ran in terror towards his teacher, Miss Walsh. 

~

Thomas and the soldiers spread out over the area where they’d found the smashed trunk and flattened bracken. Thomas could see the clear outline of the bed the creature had used. It reminded him of the grass nests he had seen tigers make in the Sundarbans of India. Meg and the other dogs would not walk onto the bracken or approach the trunk shards, whining uneasily in the presence of the strong territory marking they all could smell. Meg pulled gently on the lead, her nose pointing down the slope. 

“Let’s not waste any time,” Thomas declared, “call the helicopter and let them know where we are, and that it might be heading towards more open terrain to the west.”

Their position was relayed to the camp at the car park to pass on to the helicopter, and they began their descent. The village lay below them as the forest swept to the north over the mountainside and into Glen Cannich towards the loch. He paused for a second as he tried to anticipate the route the cat would take. The forest path seemed the most likely. He was about to tug Meg back that way, when what sounded like a scream floated thinly up the mountainside. As a second wail met them, the real route the cat had taken became painfully clear to him. 

“Oh my God,” exclaimed Thomas in disbelief as the reality struck him. 

He slipped Meg’s leash as did the soldiers with the German shepherds behind. They all began to run down the slope towards the screams.

~

The creature was startled by the sound and movement that suddenly erupted around it. It roared in angry warning as the young animals bolted back towards the older females and the stone dwelling behind them. It pounced instinctively towards the movement in front of it, cuffing the small thing with a swipe of its paw.

Louise watched in horror as something from a nightmare played out before her. She watched as the gruesome, rippling shape sent little Aaron Meeks flying across the playground. He landed in a heap and did not move once he had crumpled to the floor. Before she had time to think, she found herself running, screaming as she streaked towards the boy. Crying out in terror as tears formed in her eyes, she gasped for air and checked Aaron for signs of life. He was still breathing but looked incredibly pale. She turned his head carefully and as she went to pick him up, felt the blood under his clothes. She glanced towards the open doors of the hall, but instinct spun her back round. She stopped dead as she came face to face with something monstrous, and stared into the green flashing eyes of the creature as it stepped towards her, its face distorting into an angry snarl. 

Louise and the creature stared at each other. She felt rooted to the spot, as if she couldn’t move. Instinct tried to pull her away from the hypnotic gaze of the monster. Somewhere in her subconscious, genetic memory of something sinister stirred. It triggered her body, resuscitating movement to her limbs as she took a step backwards and glanced again at the doors behind. Mrs. Henderson ushered in the last of the children, sobbing as they went. She looked desperately towards Louise, but she too was frozen in fear. Louise looked back to the creature. It snarled. The implied menace was clear and guttural this time. It had not come across an open challenge to a meal before, and the snarl was meant as a warning. Louise instinctively knew this, and could see the creature’s intent in its eyes. It wasn’t going to let them leave the playground alive. 

Holding the boy tightly with one arm, she fumbled with the whistle that hung around her neck. Taking a deep intake of breath, she blew as hard as she could on it. It had the effect she was hoping for. The creature leapt back in surprise, roaring again at the unwelcome sound, but putting a little distance between them. She began to edge backwards, the whistle still in her mouth. The creature flattened its ears and lowered its body to the ground as it began to creep towards her. She blew the whistle again as hard as she could. The beast shook its shaggy head in displeasure, spitting a roar at her as she edged back farther. Its anger seemed to seep from it and threatened to root her to the spot again. She felt nauseous and dizzy, but fought her fear as she continued to step back. She blew on the whistle again, but this time the creature closed the distance between them, coming within several feet. It now knew the sound wasn’t going to hurt it. Shaking with fear, she almost tripped when her heel hit the concrete step of the entrance. She blew the whistle one more time, the sound lost to the answering roar of the creature as she turned and fell through the door. Mrs. Henderson slammed it shut instantly from inside. 

“Take him!” Louise screamed as the older teacher scooped up the unconscious boy in her arms.

She picked herself up and flattened herself against the full width of the double doors. The hall was now empty, and she was sure that Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Henderson had closed the outer doors on the other side of the hall. She hoped they had made it to the classrooms. She wanted as many doors closed between them and the thing in the playground. Even now, she couldn’t quite place what it was. All she could think of was the deep green eyes, and the intelligence and emotion she had read in them. Only then did she notice the sudden silence. She had time for one sharp intake of breath before she was knocked to the floor in a violent explosion of wood and metal, as the creature forced its way through the doors.

The wood beneath the creature broke into shards just like the log had done, and it raked its claws down and through. Louise screamed in agony as if red hot pokers had been steadily drawn across her back. The creature yowled with pleasure as it discovered the soft, wriggling flesh beneath it. It nosed through the shards and bit down. Louise felt the hot breath of the thing and cried out as teeth sliced through her ribs and the top of her shoulder. She sobbed, paralysed and helpless as it dragged her out from beneath what remained of the door. It paused momentarily as it bit down again for better purchase. She choked as blood flooded into her throat from her punctured liver and lung. She used the last of her strength to kick out with her arms and legs, her hands scraping against the right eye and nose of the beast. The creature ignored the mild scratch and calmly lifted its head, carrying her forward in its jaws. It stepped proudly through the smashed doorframe and walked the length of the playground with deliberate caution, never taking its eyes from the far wall as it ignored the screams and cries that met is macabre parade past the windows of the classrooms. When it reached the wall, it hesitated only for a second before leaping. Louise never felt the impact as they hit the ground on the other side.

Now within the darkness of the forest trees again, the creature dropped Louise to the floor. It towered over her. She knew all her strength was gone and that life was leaving her. A last breath moved to her lips. The creature bit down into her skull, killing her momentarily before her body gave up naturally. Satisfied that its kill would resist no more, the creature picked up Louise’s corpse in its jaws and began making its way through the thick cover of the trees.

~

Less than a minute passed before Thomas and Meg entered the playground. He had been pointed in the direction of the school by two terrified old women at a bus stop on the edge of the village. Thomas looked over the empty playground. He saw the fearful and tear stained faces looking out at him from the windows. But it was the blood trail leading away from the smashed remains of the heavy oak double doors that he couldn’t take his eyes away from. He read the scene like a map, from the bashed and broken doorframe, to the shredded door parts, twisted bolts and battered hinges littered over the ground. Finally, his eyes were drawn to the trail of crimson dotted blobs that led to the wall, where they stopped. He had no doubt they would continue the other side and on into the dark shade of the forest. He heard the buzz of the Army lynx helicopter as it rumbled into view and began to circle overhead. He looked up and saw the faces of the soldiers as they returned his gaze, the barrel of the 7.62mm general purpose machine gun silhouetted in outline against the sky. But Thomas already knew they were all too late. 

~

You can get your copy of Shadow Beast on Kindle, Amazon, Audible, and iTunes. Find it here: https://a.co/d/7WUVP0j

Fear stalked the land, searching out its prey with a single working eye. A scarred beast that prowled the maize fields of southern Tanzania, its remaining eye glowing in the firelight like an ember from the underworld. Wherever it appeared, someone vanished.

By the time the terror ended in the mid-1940s, villagers whispered that as many as 1,500 people had been taken. Some dismissed the figure as impossible; others swore it was true, pointing to empty huts, abandoned farms, and the silence that hung over Njombe for more than a decade.

This is the story of the Njombe man-eaters: a pride of lions whose reign of fear has no equal in recorded history.

A land in crisis

The Njombe District in the 1930s was an isolated plateau of rolling grasslands and scattered farms in what was then Tanganyika. For centuries, lions and people had co-existed uneasily there: lions taking cattle now and then, villagers spearing lions in retaliation. But the balance was about to tip.

At the turn of the 20th century, rinderpest, a cattle plague introduced by imported livestock, tore through East Africa. It killed not only cows but also wild ungulates including buffalo, wildebeest, eland, and kudu. In short, the very animals lions depended on. At the same time, colonial authorities, desperate to protect settler farms and commercial livestock, sanctioned widespread shooting of wildlife herds.

By the early 1930s, the great prey herds had vanished from much of Njombe. For a pride of lions, starvation loomed.

And then the killings began.

The first attacks

Accounts vary on who the first victims were. Some say it was a group of women cutting grass at the edge of the bush. Others tell of a child herding goats. What is certain is that the attacks were relentless.

Unlike the famous Tsavo man-eaters of 1898, which were just two lions, the Njombe killers operated as a full pride, one perhaps 15 strong. They hunted both day and night, stalking footpaths, raiding fields, and dragging victims from huts in the dark. Witnesses described their tactics as disturbingly coordinated: one lion would chase a fleeing villager toward others lying in ambush, while still more lions waited to carry the body off into the bush.

The result was psychological as well as physical devastation. Farmers abandoned their crops. Markets emptied. Whole families refused to travel. A rural economy, already fragile, teetered on collapse.

Folklore takes hold

As the death toll mounted, explanations turned supernatural.

Villagers spoke of Matamula Mangera, a witch doctor said to have cursed the land, sending spirit lions to punish those who had wronged him. Some claimed they saw lions melt into the shape of men; others swore that no ordinary rifle could kill the beasts.

Central to the lore was the pride’s supposed leader: a huge, one-eyed male called Kipanga. Was he real? Many hunters, including those who later fought the lions, believed so. Others argue Kipanga was more myth than flesh. Either way, the stories gave form to a terror that felt inhuman.

Even colonial officers recorded the atmosphere of dread. In their reports, villagers were described as “so paralysed by fear that they would not leave their huts even to tend their cattle.”

The scale of the slaughter

Could the lions truly have killed 1,500 people?

The figure comes up repeatedly, cited by hunters, missionaries, and later by storytellers such as Peter Hathaway Capstick. But hard evidence is scarce. Colonial records were patchy, and many deaths occurred deep in the bush, where no official ever ventured.

Sceptical historians suggest the real toll may have been in the hundreds, easily still enough to mark Njombe as the worst man-eater outbreak on record. But even if exaggerated, the number reflects the lived truth of the time: that whole communities were emptied, and that people felt they were at war with an enemy that could not be seen until it was too late.

Enter George Rushby

In 1947, after years of unchecked slaughter, the colonial government sent in a man who had made a career of battling Africa’s deadliest creatures: George Gilman Rushby.

Rushby was a former ivory hunter turned game ranger, a wiry, hard-driving man used to solitude and risk. He was already known for his encounters with elephants, leopards, and rogue buffalo. But the lions of Njombe would be his greatest test.

When Rushby arrived, he found villages half-deserted, fields lying fallow, and families so terrified they refused to leave their huts even by day. “The district had come to a standstill,” he later wrote. “The people were simply too frightened to live.”

The hunt

Rushby knew killing one or two lions would not be enough. The whole pride had to be vanquished. He organised local scouts, set baited traps, and began a grim campaign through thorn thickets and tangled river valleys.

The lions proved cunning. They avoided obvious bait, circled ambush sites, and sometimes attacked in the middle of Rushby’s own camp. Several times he narrowly escaped, his rifle raised only moments before a lion charged.

But slowly, methodically, the pride was whittled down. Rushby shot some himself, his trackers accounted for others, and poisoned bait claimed a few more. The turning point, Rushby believed, came when he killed the one-eyed male said to be Kipanga. Without their leader, the pride’s coordination faltered.

By the end of his campaign, Rushby claimed to have destroyed the entire man-eating pride. And just as suddenly as they had begun, the killings stopped.

Myth, memory, and reality

The story of Njombe sits at the uneasy intersection of fact and folklore.

Fact: A pride of lions really did terrorise the region, killing an unknown but horrifying number of people.Folklore: A one-eyed demon lion, spirit beasts conjured by witchcraft, an exact death toll of 1,500.Reality: Ecological collapse drove predators into desperate behaviour, and human fear magnified their legend until they became almost supernatural.

In this way, the Njombe lions became more than animals. They became symbols of a world out of balance.

Echoes today

Such mass outbreaks of man-eating lions are virtually unheard of now. Conservation measures, better livestock protection, and changing landscapes mean lions rarely, if ever, target humans in large numbers. But the underlying lesson remains: when ecosystems are broken, predators adapt in ways dangerous to us.

Human-wildlife conflict still exists across Africa, from elephants raiding crops to leopards taking goats. The Njombe lions are simply the most extreme and unforgettable example of what can happen when that balance tips too far.

A legacy of fear and fascination

Today, the hills of Njombe are quiet. Farmers tend their maize, children herd goats, and lions are seldom seen. But the memory lingers. Around campfires, elders still tell of the years when lions ruled the night, when entire villages hid indoors, and when the roar of a one-eyed beast froze the blood in men’s veins.

Were they spirit lions? A cursed pride? Or simply predators pushed beyond the edge of hunger? Perhaps all of these at once.

What is certain is that for more than a decade, fear itself had teeth and claws in Njombe. And its story remains one of the most chilling chapters in the long, tangled history between people and lions.

If you’d like to read a fictional story which shares the same elements, then check out The Daughters of the Darkness on Amazon, Kindle, and Audible.

https://www.amazon.com/The-Daughters-of-the-Darkness/dp/B081DNT6N3

In the early 20th century, deep in the rugged terrain of the Kumaon region in northern India, a man-eating tigress was terrorising local communities. By the time she was finally brought down in 1907, she had claimed an estimated 436 human lives — a staggering toll that remains the highest attributed to a single big cat. Her name would become infamous: the Champawat Tigress.

Her story, however, is also inextricably linked to one of conservation’s most complex and legendary figures: Jim Corbett. While today he is remembered as a pioneer of wildlife protection — and the namesake of India’s first national park, Corbett began his journey into the wild not as a saviour, but as a hunter. The Champawat tigress was his first true pursuit of a confirmed man-eater. And it was a pursuit that would change the course of his life.

A Killing Machine Created by Human Wounds

We now know the Champawat tigress turned to humans after sustaining severe injuries likely inflicted by poachers or after a confrontation with hunters. Broken canines and damage to her jaw made her unable to bring down natural prey. In desperation, she turned to easier quarry: people.

Her killing spree spanned the border of Nepal and India. After the Nepalese army failed to stop her, she crossed into British India’s Kumaon region. Panic and grief followed in her wake. Villages emptied. Daily life ceased. Entire communities were paralysed by fear.

Enter Jim Corbett

In 1907, Jim Corbett, then a railway man and experienced shikari (hunter), was called upon to stop her. He was young, only in his early 30s, and this marked his first major hunt for a man-eating big cat, a fact made clear in both Corbett’s own writing and subsequent historical biographies. After several failed attempts and tense tracking, he eventually shot the tigress near the village of Champawat. The hunt earned him widespread recognition, but more importantly, it ignited a lifelong mission to understand why big cats turn man-eater, and how to prevent it. He later even became a keen early, wildlife photographer and observer.

Corbett’s later life saw a complete transformation. He would become one of India’s earliest and most passionate voices for tiger conservation, often risking his reputation to defend the species he had once been called to destroy.

The Book: No Beast So Fierce

For those intrigued by the history behind the hunt, Dane Huckelbridge’s No Beast So Fierce (2019) offers a gripping, well-researched account of the Champawat tigress and Corbett’s involvement. It not only explores the hunt itself but also examines the colonial, ecological, and human factors that gave rise to such a tragic chapter. Huckelbridge places the tigress’s killings in the wider context of deforestation, conflict, and human encroachment — themes that still resonate today, when tiger populations have been decimated by a shocking 96% since Corbett’s time.

Setting the Record Straight: A Note on Recent Misinformation

Recently, television host and adventurer Forrest Galante released a YouTube video discussing the Champawat tigress. While his enthusiasm for wildlife storytelling is commendable, the video unfortunately contained some mild inaccuracies. Chief among them was the claim that this was not Jim Corbett’s first hunt for a man-eater.

Corbett himself, in his 1944 book Man-Eaters of Kumaon, makes it clear that the Champawat tigress was his first real confrontation with a man-eating big cat — a life-and-death pursuit that shaped his entire philosophy on wildlife. Galante’s failure to reflect this not only disrespects the historical record but also distorts the narrative of a pivotal moment in conservation history.

As wildlife communicators, we owe it to the truth, and to the animals whose stories we tell to get the facts right. In the name of entertainment and click-bait, this isn’t always the case. We would do well to remember that the Champawat tigress was more than just a man-eater; she was a tragic byproduct of human impact, and her story catalysed the transformation of one of conservation’s most influential figures.

Remembering the Legacy

Today, as tiger numbers teeter and human-wildlife conflict continues, the tale of the Champawat tigress remains deeply relevant. It is a cautionary tale. Not of a monster in the jungle, but of what happens when humans and nature fall fatally out of balance.

Corbett’s journey from hunter to conservationist reminds us that change is possible. And that understanding, compassion, and respect must guide our relationship with the wild.

The party of men and women walked quietly along the edge of ‘the gallops’ – thin, undulating corridors of grass bordering thicker patches of mixed woodland that stretched for some three or four miles around the estate, close to the edge of the strictly manged moorland. The landscape resembled, and indeed would have made for, a decent golf course. Yet, that was not their purpose. The grass was kept naturally short by the grazing deer – and a few centuries before, these were the hunting grounds of the lord of the manor and his guests. Today, the mixed herd was made up of both fallow and sika deer – and although they were no longer hunted with hounds as Lord Croftman would have liked, they were still managed and butchered to supply top-end restaurants and butchers across the North and Borders region. His opposition to the banning of hunting with dogs had not been successful, but a more recent endeavour had been. He had led a last-minute derailment of legislation to ban hunting trophies being imported into the UK, organising enough peers within the House of Lords to suggest amendments to the bill. In America, his attempts would have been described as ‘fillibustering’ – although not quite correctly. However, the end result was the same; the bill had all but been killed. After successfully being voted on in parliament, and even being included in his party’s manifesto – who were still in government, it was a small group within the unelected House of Lords who had been able to veto the much-wanted legislation being called for by the British public. 

Lord Croftman liked to shoot. In his native Britain, he was restricted to his private deer herd and other managed game, such as the pheasants, grouse, and perhaps woodcock they sought this morning. Yet, rooms of his mansion were adorned with more exotic exploits. At the banquets, parties, and public events he attended, he argued – and argued well, how hunting played a significant role in conservation. That fees mustered from safaris and hunting licenses supported local communities living alongside wildlife and protected habitats. As a politician, he was the first to admit that the truth rarely played a part in a good story. His argument ignored both that photographic safaris brought in around ten times that of hunting outfits, and the corruption endemic to both the politicians and private businesses profiting from the latter. 

The success had put him in a good mood. He was looking forward to his next trip to South Africa, where he planned to stay on a luxurious ranch that offered him the opportunity to hunt not only what was known as the big five, but also, almost amusingly, a tiger. Although not native to the African continent and only being found in Asia, private hunting operations had stumbled upon a loophole that offered hunters a legitimate way to claim the endangered big cat – with no way to legally do so in their Asian homelands, unless through more illegal means. But with numbers of tigers in captivity outnumbering wild tigers by nearly three to one, “farmed” tigers could be bred under license and raised to be killed, on a continent they were never meant to set foot on in the first place. He would have to wait a few weeks before he could enjoy that sport, but today, he was quietly celebrating his victory with other interested parties who’d helped him stall and kill off the new legislation. After the shoot, both a banquet and a cocktail party would reward those that had remained resolute, even against the overwhelming will of the British public. 

But what do they know, Croftman thought with a smile.

He smiled as the little Land Rover 90 pick-up pulled up beside his guests. The larger, more luxurious SUVs that had dropped them off were parked behind them, on the edge of the trees. Croftman pushed open the passenger door and stepped out, greeting his friends yet ignoring the driver who’d ferried him across the estate, prepared his gun, packed his bag, and supplied his coat.

This was just fine with the driver, Dominic Grey, who trundled the vehicle over to the others and parked up. Dominic had served the estate since leaving school. It didn’t pay much, but it came with accommodation, and Lord Croftman had suggested he might be able to get him into the army if he ‘kept his nose clean’. That, as with many of the Lord’s promises, had never come to fruition. But it didn’t matter now. He took a small, military looking radio from his pocket and switched it on. He checked the channel with a glance and pressed the signal button twice, before switching it off again. Opening the driver’s door, Dominic slipped from the Land Rover and silently made his way towards the trees, moving away from the party as fast as he could without drawing attention.

From where they stood, they could see the mist was beginning to clear from the moor – and in the distance, they could now hear the beaters. Lord Croftman nodded to his companions and the murmurs of conversation came to a stop. The breaches of shotgun barrels were snapped open and charged with cartridges. Then, they waited. The first covey of birds flew over them so fast and so low, only a few of the shooters even had time to raise their guns to the sky, before realising it was hopeless. The natural dip in the land created by the gallops meant that the hunting party were out of sight, even from the air, until the very last minute – and the birds would naturally flee towards the woodland, where they were equally at home. And now, the guns were ready. 

Specks appeared in the sky, rising, and falling in quick, darting, and panicked flight. They lurched back and forth as one, as if being pulled by unseen wires against their will. But in truth the birds were desperate and tired, discombobulated after being forced into flight so early during the day. The guns too moved as one, tracking their targets. Then, just as they appeared overhead and began to wheel about, seeing the danger below, a raucous eruption of simultaneous thunder belched from the barrels. Excited spaniels and Labradors rushed forwards, trimmed tails wagging as they went about their work. 

Lord Croftman smiled broadly, his revelry showing in the twitch in his moustache. He turned to congratulate his nearest shooting partner, a young member of his political party who was blue right down to the blood, when a movement caught his eye. It wasn’t unusual for the mist to cling to the trees the longest, especially along the gallops, where the uneven ground rose and fell more obviously. Beyond a few feet in, unformed shadows hung in the air ominously – their lack of definition inviting speculation and suspicion what might lurk there. But today, the shadows moved – and moved towards them. In a few seconds, a line of men – and several women, Croftman noticed, stepped into the open. They were all dressed in dark, high-end, military-style clothing made of wool and some other material he couldn’t identify. The mottled conifer greens, midnight blues, and dark chocolate browns made for perfect camouflage among the trees. He noticed their lack of body armour and he knew their attire had been chosen for stealth. But it was the modern-looking submachine guns they carried that none of them could take their eyes off.

The line split into two as they approached the shooting party, with an advancing line training their guns directly at them, whilst a rear line formed in their wake, filling the gaps between the others, and maintaining a clear line of sight. Croftman saw one of his gamekeepers, on the far left of his party, swing his shotgun round to face the strangers. The three short bursts of fire came without hesitation before he was even halfway through his turn. He crumpled to the ground, his shotgun spilling from his hands. That’s when the screaming started. 

“Drop your weapons,” ordered a man at the head of the line of armed strangers. 

Croftman noticed how they automatically slowly spread out and flanked the shooting party in a wide semi-circle. These people were military, or ex-military. They had waited until the shotguns had been emptied on the birds before they commenced their assault, striking quickly and effectively before they could have reloaded. And, as they had shown, they were willing to kill. Perhaps, even, were looking for the slightest excuse to do so. Croftman decided not to give them one and threw his shotgun to the ground. He studied the man who had given the order. Tall and lithe, but well built, the man had dark features and hair with thick stubble across his cheeks, chin, and top lip. With him at least, there was no doubt about being military. There was something familiar about him. The man looked at the world though a slight, semi-permanent squint that hid a hawk-like ability to see everything. Croftman knew the man was sizing up most of the party using his peripheral vision and was paying close attention to the hands of those nearest to him. Only an elite and highly trained soldier did that on instinct.

“Listen up,” the man commanded. “Each and every one of you is guilty of two crimes. The first was against democracy, and the second, against the natural world. You ignored the will of the people so you could have a little sport,” he smirked. “The penalty, I’m afraid to tell you, is death.”

A few gasps and stifled scries rose from the shooting party. Croftman felt a swell of anger in his gut. He despised the swagger of this stranger, but he was sickened too by the cowardice his comrades showed so quickly and easily. They were weak. But then, he knew that didn’t he. Wasn’t that how he had been able to bend them to his will in the first place?

“However,” the man continued, “we’re not against a little sport ourselves. Just over half a mile through these woods is the border of the estate. If you get there before we catch you, you’re free to go.”

“And if we don’t?” Croftman growled at the man, glowering.

“Then you’ll be the one hanging from my wall, Lord Croftman,” the man replied, meeting his stare with indifference. “You have a three-minute head start, starting in five… four… three…”

Croftman looked dismayed as his guests leapt towards the trees like greyhounds released from their traps on race day. He went to follow them, but the man who, for now, controlled his destiny, raised his gun a fraction, indicating he should stop. 

“I’m afraid I may have misled you,” the man said. “You and I shall be taking a walk together Lord Croftman – if you’d be good enough to head along the gallops just ahead of me.”

A scream echoed out of the woods and Croftman’s head whipped around in the direction the sound had come from. Confused, he looked at the line of armed men, all still in place. None had moved. The man smiled knowingly, and indicated with one hand that he should keep walking. 

“Your woods are a dangerous place for predators, Lord Croftman,” the man sighed. “They are unwelcome. We’ve just evened the odds a little. Your friends are learning exactly how your kind of conservation treats anything other than humans that might prey on your precious birds.”

~

Julian Gough ran swiftly, weaving through the trees with ease and tenacity. He knew that his youth and fitness were on his side – and maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to be first to the road – he just had to be faster than the majority of the party behind him. To that measure, he glanced behind him. Following his path, but a good distance away and already bright red with the exertion, was Lord Altmann and Baroness Chadlington. Perhaps they thought he knew where he was going and had decided to follow. Out of the two of them, Julian’s money was on the Baroness. Although in her 60s, she was in good shape and seemed active enough. The same could not be said for Lord Altmann, who enjoyed the pleasures of the members dining room in the House of Lords far too often. In fact, he seemed determined to eat his way through the taxpayers’ £3 million subsidiary that covered everything from chargrilled ribeye to duck leg terrine, single handed. He remembered Altmann leeringly jibing about what the members paid for the exquisite version of fish and chips the members restaurant served – coming in at under £8, when the public paid often twice that and more on any High Street. Julian felt little pity that the big man was likely to make it. 

Julian returned his attention to the path ahead and left the trees behind him as he entered a small meadow. He fought the cry of relief that lodged in his throat as he saw the grey bluntness of the high stone wall that marked the estate boundary. Then panic began to set in as he realised it was too high to climb. His feet kept moving though, clinging to the hope that there would be handholds or a way of scrambling up and over. His eyes widened in joy as he saw two round, smooth wooden columns that rose from the ground – some kind of sculpture he guessed. One was shorter than the other, and he was sure he could clamber on top of the shortest and jump to the next, or at least get a handhold on its top, before levering himself up. He sprinted towards them, his desperation fuelling the momentum. The ground seemed to favour him, with the ferns and moss underfoot adding a natural bounce to his run. Julian closed the distance to the sculpture with a few lightning quick strides, then leapt, confident of his footing. His left boot connected well with the shorter stump, and he let the natural momentum and trajectory propel him upwards. His hands reached out for the top of the second pole, his legs spread to grip the smooth wood as his boot heels kicked in further down for full purchase. Then his fingers crept over the top of the pole.

From the sound of the soft, metallic ping to the snap of the bone in his wrists was a matter of milliseconds. Julian screamed. The agony was unbearable and relentless. Panicked by not being able to see what was causing him such unstoppable torment, he thrashed back and forth and bashed his skull against the smooth wood of the pole he was now trapped on. The pressure against his wrists was not just constant but increasing. As his eyes rolled into the back of his head, he was only dimly aware of the arterial blood that began to spill over from the top where the invisible force continued to clamp down on his limbs, denied of fulfilling its purpose to close completely. Phlegm flew from his throat as he convulsed against the pain. One sporadic, desperate, mournful moan escaped his lips before his body, which had felt like it had been on fire for the entire sixty-three seconds he had managed to stay conscious, shut down. Julian Gough slumped against the pole, hanging from his wrists at the full extent of his arms. He died a few moments later. 

The sight was enough to stop Baroness Chadlington in her tracks. She turned up her mouth in disgust as she realised what she was looking at. The anti-hunt mob turned terrorists had constructed a giant pole trap. Used by gamekeepers, they were baited and used to kill birds of prey on estates such as this – often illegally. Of course, that was only if you get caught. And Julian Gough had well and truly been caught. She shuddered. The whole thing was a trap. None of them were meant to get out alive. She could only wonder what else lay in wait for them between here and the wall. Seemingly keen to find out, Lord Altmann dashed past her without a glance back, or up at the unfortunate Gough. For the first time in her life, she froze and did not know what to do. Altmann dashed on, ducking under the bough of a large field elm, and disappeared from sight. Deciding there was nothing to do but follow him, the Baroness tried to calm her nerves – but a short, sharp, miserable cry that could only be Altmann, stopped her in her tracks again. 

Somewhere behind her, she heard the movement of foliage, and it spurred her into movement. Taking care, she moved the obscuring branches of the elm out of the way. She let out a little gasp, as she saw Altmann’s sagging body caught fast by the simplest of traps – a snare around his neck. It was only as she stepped closer that she realised the snare was made from razor wire, and Altmann had near decapitated himself by sheer momentum. Still partially wrapped in the thin, stripped branch strands that had disguised it, the Baroness noticed how the singular path was boxed in on both sides by dense patches of thorn and bracken. It was then she saw that there was also a grim view of Julian Gough, hanging lifelessly from the pole trap. Altmann would have only had to glance away for a second to have become ensnared – and she was in no doubt about what had distracted him. Worried she was now making the same mistake, she moved carefully on along the path, until she came to the estate’s boundary wall.

The path ran along the bottom of the wall in both directions, but she was in no doubt where she needed to head. Dangling from the lofty top of the wall was a thick, green-coloured rope. It looked like it could be military – as the terrorists attacking the hunt clearly were. Both fearing and suspecting a trap, she considered all possibilities. The terrorists hadn’t come through the main gate or along the drive in vehicles, as they would have been heard and stopped. Even if they had forced their way through, the commotion would have caught their attention, and the main house would have called the police, or come to their aid. Neither the police, nor aid, had arrived. The group had approached through the woods – from this direction. There was a chance, perhaps even a good one, that this was how they had entered the estate. 

She could hear the bushes moving around her in more than one place. Her pursuers were no more than 30-50 yards away. Cornered, she realised she had only one chance, and it was right in front of her. Gingerly, she clasped the rope in one hand and pulled gently on it. She felt it become taut – but nothing else happened. Hope sprung in her chest and she leapt upwards, pulling on the rope with haste and bracing her feet against the wall as she began to clamber up. There was a metallic scraping sound, and the rope gave by about half a foot. Instinctively, she looked up as a black, pipe-like object dropped from the top of the wall, held by a counterweight. As it straightened, she found herself looking directly up through its opening. As soon as it clicked into place, there was a flash of light and an explosion of sound.

It was a good few seconds after she had hit the ground that the agonising pain registered. She rolled on the ground, clawing at her face and crying out. She was blind, but her fingers found the raw flesh of her face. Her throat burned as if scalded by acid, yet she gurgled blood that was filling her mouth. It was only then, as her heartbeat hammered in her chest, only to pause erratically and start again slow and unsure, that she realised she couldn’t breathe. As she began to convulse, her arms fell to her side against the ground and her mind became clear and calm. She knew what had killed her. Her own gamekeepers used them on her own land. A pipe gun, filled with a single shot of cyanide crystals. Bait was put on a line, and when pulled hard enough, the trigger depressed – delivering a fatal charge of poison, usually into the unsuspecting creature’s mouth. It was almost ironic. Or perhaps, simple justice. Death came and she thought no more. 

~

As Lord Croftman walked slowly along the gallops, back towards the manor, he glanced over his shoulder at his captor. More screams and the sounds of shots had echoed out of the woodland. His guests were being hunted down and murdered. But by who, and for why? At first, the shock of the events had scrambled his mind – but now, his thoughts were becoming linear again. He realised he knew the man.

“Payne… you’re Montgomery Payne’s boy… goddammit, you’re a soldier,” Croftman realised aghast. “Your father would be ashamed.”

“Not nearly as ashamed as I am of my father,” the man shrugged nonchalantly. “His opinion matters as much to me as mine does his. The only difference is, I can make my grievances felt, as well as heard. That’s far enough.”

Croftman stopped, puffing slightly from working their way up hill, back towards the house. He caught movement to his right and saw two more men crossing a path to reach them. They were carrying a barrel with them. Croftman frowned, not understanding. As they neared, they placed the barrel down, still upright.

“Lord Croftman,” Payne addressed him, perfectly politely and respectfully as he had before. “You instruct your gamekeepers to trap and kill almost any predator that dares to step foot onto your estate. Our recon missions and intelligence revealed some ingenious, if not original devices. Pole traps for birds of prey, pit falls for badgers and foxes, and a variation of this for the stoats and weasels. Do you recognise it?”

Croftman shook his head. “If you intend to have me drink myself to death, I can imagine worse,” he growled. 

“No… this is one of the simplest but most effective traps we found. We just had to make it a little larger, to account for a slightly more… shall we say robust target,” Payne smiled, looking over Croftman’s ample figure with a somewhat judgemental glance. 

Still not understanding, Croftman took a step towards the barrel and craned his neck, not wanting to get too close but curious to see what it contained. What he saw made him freeze in his tracks and he grew visibly pale.

“Just imagine,” Payne explained. “A polecat – protected under the Wildlife and Countryside Act – yet legal for your gamekeepers to shoot, visits your estate. There, they come across a pipe with an inviting scent too tempting to resist. The put their head in and their whiskers tell them there’s room to pass. So, they squeeze in further. On the way in, the indented spikes pointing down at an inward angle brush harmlessly against their fur. It is only when they retreat that they realise, all too late, that it is a trap – as they impale themselves viciously and tear themselves to pieces in their futile attempt to escape.”

Croftman couldn’t keep his composure. The very thought of what Payne was suggesting had him doubling over and he vomited over the grass, splashing his own boots as he did so. Before he could stand up straight again, he was lifted upwards by both arms. His head still spinning from nausea, he looked confusedly as the two men dragged him towards the barrel. Just as Payne had described, the inside of the barrel was rammed with 12-inch nails on all sides. They all pointed downwards at a sharp angle. Croftman tried to clear his throat, but nothing happened. In pleading terror, he looked at Payne. He was sure he saw pity there, as Payne gave the nod to the two men holding him. 

Croftman fought desperately, trying to yank his arms from their grasp, but it was to no avail. Before he had time to react, he was being hoisted into the air as they manhandled him. Each held him under the arm, interlocking with their own as they used their other hand to grab at the seat of his pants. He screamed as he was upended and lowered into the barrel headfirst. He felt the press of the sharp metal against his skin, scratching and pressing persistently at his flesh. He opened his eyes, gasping for air. A blaze of pain ripped across his left cheek, shoulder, and neck, as the barrel was upended again and he found himself on his feet. With the confines of the barrel tightest against his midriff, Croftman stood still as a statue, not wanting to risk further injury. He could feel the blood running down his face. His arms were pinned to his sides and the slightest movement resulted in stabbing pain.

“Think of it this way, Lord Croftman,” he heard Payne say – the voice slightly muffled by the barrel. “You will be remembered for generations for what you did. As it should be.”

Croftman felt the kick that took out his knee, causing him to stumble and then fall. The agony of hundreds of footlong iron spikes ripping into his skull, chest, arms, and back all came at once. Instinctively, he jerked his head back, not realising he was already held fast by the nails, and one found his right eye and sliced through, cutting off his scream as more nails were rammed into his mouth with the force of his fall.

Payne watched the barrel roll gently back down the gallops, Lord Croftman’s legs flailing wildly as only that of a corpse could. By the time they dug in like anchors and brought the peer’s makeshift coffin to a stop, he was sure they were broken – and he was even more sure Croftman was dead. Payne sighed and shrugged, then made his way down the gallops with the two men to collect the other trophies of their hunt. 

Ape Canyon is a gorge near Mount Saint Helens, Washington, USA. And if you’re wondering how it got such an intriguing name, on a continent with a distinct lack of apes (at least officially), then you’re in the right place.

This blog marks the 99th anniversary of the Ape Canyon attack, which either took place on 16th July 1924, or was reported on that date via an issue of The Oregonian, depending on the source.

Either way, in July 1924, a group of five miners were taking overnight shelter in their hand-built cabin deep within the canyon. As they settled down for a meal and coffee, and perhaps something stronger, the cabin began to be pelted by sizeable stones and rocks. The miners described their attackers as ‘mountain devils’, and it didn’t take long for the band of men to realise they were surrounded.

Image Credit: Unknown – please contact, as various sources found.

Being hardy folk, and well used to the everyday threats they faced working in the wilderness, the men were armed – and they returned the rock showers with volleys of rifle fire. Each time they did, the sasquatch-like creatures would slink away into the treeline, only to resume their attacks minutes later. They also must have been very close to the makeshift cabin, as it is detailed one of the creatures reached through a hole in the wall and tried to steal an axe, only to be stymied before it could retrieve the weapon fully.

The attacks continued relentlessly until daybreak when the men finally felt able to leave the cabin. Fred Beck, one of the prospectors taking shelter, described seeing one of the creatures in the distance, at the edge of what is now Ape Canyon, and fired at it. His aim is apparently true, as he describes watching it tumble back into the gorge.

Beck would later write a book, titled ‘I Fought the Apemen of Mount St. Helens’. This was published in 1967, amidst the bigfoot furore of that period. 

Sceptics, including William Halliday, Director of the Western Speleological Survey, claim that the assailants were in fact local youths. A fireside story, shared by generations of counsellors at the nearby YMCA Camp Meehan on Spirit Lake, was that it was young campers absentmindedly throwing pumice stones into the canyon, not realising there were miners camped in its bottom. He suggests that looking up, the miners would have only seen moonlit figures throwing stones at them, and the narrow walls of the canyon (as little as 8 feet/2.5m at one point) would have distorted voices into something unrecognisable and frightening. 

Mount St. Helens Today.

However, this does not take into consideration the eyewitness accounts, including the shooting of a creature, and that hairy hand coming into the cabin. 

Perhaps the more sinister alleged encounter involves the disappearance of Jim Carter in 1950. An accomplished skier and mountaineer, Carter was part of a group of 20. The story appeared in an August 1963 issue of the Longview Times by Marge Davenport, titled ‘Ape Canyon Holds Unsolved Mystery’. It was then also included in Roger Patterson’s (yes, that Roger Patterson) 1966 book ‘Do Abominable Snowmen of America Really Exist?’. 

An abridged version of the story is below.

‘Carter’s complete disappearance is an unsolved mystery to this day,’ declared Bob Lee, a well-known Portland mountaineer… ‘Dr. Otto Trott, Lee Stark, and I finally came to the conclusion that the apes got him,’ said Lee seriously… On the way down the mountain, he [Carter] left the other climbers at a landmark called Dog’s Head, at the 8000-foot (2400 m) level. He told them he would ski around to the left and take a picture of the group as they skied down to timberline. That was the last anyone saw of Carter. The next morning searchers found a discarded film box at the point where he had taken a picture. From here, Carter evidently took off down the mountain a wild, death-defying dash, ‘taking chances that no skier of his calibre would take unless something was terribly wrong, or he was being pursued… He jumped over two or three large crevasses and evidently was going like the devil.’ When Carter’s tracks reached the precipitous sides of Ape Canyon, the searchers were amazed to see that Carter had been in such a hurry that he went right down the steep canyon walls. But they did not find him at the bottom… ‘We combed the canyon, one end to the other, for five days. Sometimes there were as many as 75 people in the search party ….’ After two weeks the search was called off.

However, again, there is some debate over the exact facts. The Madera Tribune edition of 23rd May 1950, features a small column, announcing a search for a Joe Carter, aged 18. Whereas the 25th May edition of the San Bernardino Sun of the same year (see below), seems to confirm both that Carter’s first name is Joe and ages him at 32. It is in this article Carter is described as an experienced mountaineer, but also suggests he is diabetic. It’s also where we find the link to the original Ape Canyon legend. 

The San Bernardino Sun, May 25th 1950 describes the search for Joe Carter.

You can see there are discrepancies in the details and even the location reported some 13 years after the event.

It is well known that an employee based in a ranger station enjoyed leaving fake tracks along the shore of the aforementioned Spirit Lake. Patterson too has also been long-suspected of pulling off perhaps the best executed hoax in bigfoot lore – and at the very least, I don’t think it’s unfair to suggest he wouldn’t let the facts get in the way of a good story, as here with Carter. 

Therefore, it’s difficult to lift the facts from the legendary lore of Ape Canyon. I cannot find any reliable reference as to what Ape Canyon was known as before, or when exactly it took that name – but it joins countless others across the USA associated with bigfoot legends. Today, ever changed since the eruption of Mount St. Helens in 1980, there is a popular hiking and mountain bike trail making the area much more accessible, and a local scout brigade use the Ape Caves as a hangout. But maybe, just maybe, a more sinister troop of unknown creatures still lurks down in the canyon that takes their name. 

The sun began to melt into the ocean and the sand on the beach slowly changed colour from pale gold to a washed-out pink, as if it were soaking up blood. The weathered dune grass swayed in the swells of wind that blew in from the cold Atlantic and rustled constantly, sounding out a symphony of wildness. Coll watched from the window of the cabin and felt the stirring of something deep within him. It didn’t show physically. He didn’t smile or relax his shoulders. He simply let out a long-harboured sigh that echoed the sadness that enveloped him. He had come here looking for hope, but now, as the light slowly died, it seemed intangible and gone from him.

Coll had holidayed on the Isle of Mull as a boy. In his youth he had fallen in love with the magical scenery, the wildlife and the people of the island. Now, he had returned to it, the last glimmer of love in his life. He had sought it out as a refuge, daring to hope he could feel love again, even if it was for a place rather than a person. The small rundown croft he had acquired sat on the cliffs above Calgary bay, two miles from the small village of the same name. An overgrown coastal path led up to the croft, where it split into a fork down onto the beach. It was as remote and as westerly as it was possible to be on Mull. Even the islanders referred to it as the wilderness. 

He had taken a tiny salary to watch over the rare salt meadows that lay behind the dunes of the beach. He hadn’t been able to put a word to a page for over a year and he knew his readers, not to mention his publishers, were growing anxious. They would have to wait. As he watched the final glimmer of light retreat beyond the horizon, he gave up on the idea of writing again and settled for the pleasure of reading the words of others. Reading had become his second refuge. As he buried himself in the worlds he encountered within the pages, the hurts of his own were numbed. Tonight, he sat with his favourite, White Fang by Jack London. The light blue cloth of the first edition glinted in the first silvery rays of the newly-emerged moon as he settled down on the leather chair, its weathered golden hide and softened, torn arms taking him in as if an old friend. He brought the paraffin lamp closer to the chair and turned slightly towards the wood burning stove, where two logs crackled together as the room grew dark. He looked out through the window across the bay. The light of a ship far out to sea flickered in the distance. As he lowered his eyes to the first page, the howl of the winter wind helped transport him to the Alaskan wilderness of London’s story. 

Many hours later, he turned the last page over and set the book down on the table next to the lamp. The table was a beautiful old cast iron sewing table with a wooden top. The table, the chair and the oak framed bed in one corner represented the sum total of the furniture in the croft. The stove sat inside a wide and tall chimney breast, above which hung a collection of heavy iron pans. The stove not only served as the heat source for the croft, but also fed into the hot water system, and for that modern touch, Coll was grateful. The claw-footed bath that sat in the only other room of the croft, along with a basin and plumbed in toilet, were necessary luxuries. The croft also had electricity, but he had yet to buy light bulbs or lights for that matter. The main town on Mull, Tobermory, had an ironmongers and general shop that he planned to visit in the morning. It would be his first venture out since his arrival two days ago and he needed fresh supplies to start the work on the croft. He would also stock up on food whilst he was there. He padded across the stone clad floor and sat down on the bed, stripping socks and shoes and snuggling into the blankets in the remainder of his clothes. He waited for the lamp to burn itself out as he fixed his gaze on the ceiling above him, listening to the night and waiting for morning to come. 

He slept as he had come to do so in the past year, a little at a time as exhaustion took him. At first he thought the mournful cry he heard was in his dreams, but as he watched the ceiling come back into focus, he realised that the sound rose up from the beach below the croft. As he lay there, he tried to place the sound. He first considered it to be the moaning of a whale out to sea, but as he awakened further, he realised the sound was close by. It eventually came to him what it was. Somewhere on the beach, a seal was crying. As the voice rose up over the wind that rattled the windows and the rain that spat against the glass, Lucas became agitated. He sat up on the bed, looking out towards the beach, where he could make out the white of the surf. The cry came again and he could not help but feel the sorrow it spoke of in his heart. The sadness it invoked gripped him, as if threatening the fragile peace he clung to in the croft. He knew then that he would have to go to it. He stuffed his sockless feet into his shoes and picked his coat up off the peg on the door. He bent down to his duffle bag and grabbed his torch before opening the door and stepping out into the night. 

The cry stopped as soon as he stepped outside and as it did, the storm ebbed and moonlight broke from behind the clouds. The sand sparkled in the light as Lucas walked down the path to the beach. As he neared the first dunes the crying started again, more insistently than before and he began to sweep the dunes with his torchlight. Each step took him closer until he noticed a dark form lying between two dunes a little way up the beach. As he approached, the crying became almost riotous then suddenly, it stopped. He then heard great sniffs coming from the animal. He took another step and as he did so, the sniffs became quieter. They seemed almost humanlike to him, as if a woman were trying not to cry. As he rounded the next dune his torch beam fell upon two large and magnificent eyes peering up at him from a pale, mottled, dog-like face. It was a female grey seal and it did indeed seem that she had been crying, as great watery tears ran down her cheeks. She made no sound as Lucas approached, but watched him intently. When he was a few feet away, he saw the cause of her torment. A strange harpoon-shaped hook had imbedded itself in one of her hind limbs and had dragged with it a tangle of netting that had wrapped itself around her hind quarters, making it very difficult for her to swim. Lucas imagined her struggling onto the beach from sheer exhaustion and he pitied the animal. He knelt down and considered how he could free her. 

The seal was about five and a half feet long and he was familiar enough with them to know that they had impressive teeth and strength. He didn’t want to approach the seal as he feared she would attack him, but as he looked into the eyes of the animal he felt even more urged to help it. The dark, moist eyes looked back into his and for a moment he thought he recognised something of a pleading look. As if to press this, the seal whined weakly and let its head fall to the sand. Lucas sighed. Then he spoke to her in a gentle voice.

“It’s okay girl. I promise I won’t hurt you. I’m going to help you if you’ll let me. And I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t bite me”. 

Staying crouched, he crept around the seal to her tail end, where the hook and net were. The seal raised her head and twisted round to look at him. Lucas could see that the hook had gone right through and was caught by its barb on the other side of the seal’s hind flipper. He looked back at the seal, knowing what he had to do and how she would probably react. His eyes met hers again and he spoke in the same gentle tone.

“I’m going to break the barb so I can pull the hook out. You’re not going to like it, but I don’t know what else to do”.

The seal whined again but didn’t look away. Lucas bent down and took the barb in his hand. He noticed it was made from some kind of bone, and where he had first thought that it had become entangled in the net, he now saw that it was attached to it. The net itself was strange too and felt like tough, dry seaweed. As he pulled it up and away from the flesh, the seal yelped and snapped round. She moved too quickly for him and before Lucas could let go and move back, her jaws clamped round his wrist. Lucas had closed his eyes, not wanting to see his hand mauled, but although he felt the pressure on his wrist, he felt no further pain. Slowly, he opened his eyes. 

Once more, he was met with the beautiful unblinking eyes of the seal. She held his wrist tight within her jaws but she had not broken the skin. As he knelt beside her, his body touching her own and their gaze unbroken, he seemed to realise her meaning. 

“You’re not taking any chances are you? If I hurt you, you’ll hurt me?”

There seemed to be a flicker in the seals eyes. For a second he felt as if she had smiled at him. Lucas slowly and deliberately took the barb in his free hand and brought the point up and gripped it between the thumb and forefinger of the hand that rested within the seals jaws. With one quick movement he snapped it in half and threw the barbed end away. He then pulled at the rod of bone that was left with his free hand, sliding it back through the flesh until it fell out on the other side. The seal whimpered once as he did this and exerted a little more pressure on his wrist as if in reflex, but still did not break the skin. As Lucas pulled the netting away from her flank, he did not break his gaze with the seal. As soon as she was free, she released his wrist and reared up on her stomach. Again, their eyes met and Lucas took an involuntary breath as he revelled in her expressive eyes. She dropped her face close to his and let out a gentle salty breath from her nostrils, so close that he felt the warm air on his own. Then she fell to the sand again and lumbered awkwardly back towards the sea. She slid effortlessly into the water and disappeared beneath the inky surface. Lucas stood up and watched her head reappear a little further out. Her moist eyes met his, and this time he was sure he saw the warm joy of a smile in them. He didn’t know why, but he held up his hand as if to wave at the seal as he walked back up the path. As his head hit the pillow for the second time that night, he drifted off into deep and comfortable sleep for the first time in months. 

I got to keep moving….

And the day keeps on remindin’ me,

There’s a hellhound on my trail…

Robert Johnson, 1937

CHAPTER ONE

Isaac sighed as he placed the trumpet back inside its battered case. The red velvet lining was beginning to look worn and had torn in a few places. He once imagined it covered in stickers of exotic locations and visa tags, but now, the only thing it was coated in was the beer some drunk had knocked over as he passed by. He cleaned and buffed away until the liquid and the smell had gone. He sighed again as he shut the case and locked it. 

Three of the bulbs around his dressing room mirror had blown and never been replaced. It made his strong, dark face look drawn – grey almost. Strange shadows fell down from his brow. His salt and pepper stubble and matching buzz crop hair made him look younger than he was, but the crows-feet and eyes themselves never lied. He was old and tired. 

He took his old trilby hat from the stand and placed it on his head. He looked in the mirror and let out a third and final deep sigh. At least black never went out of fashion. The hat, shirt and suit were the only clothes he owned, but he had never needed more. He opened the door of the dressing room and turned out the lights as he left. 

He crossed the dark bar in silence, giving a simple nod of the head to Bubba – the big, mean looking, but actually kindly owner who was stacking the tables and chairs. In a few short steps he was out into the early morning air. 

Honestly, what do I expect? he thought. He looked around. He was playing in a swamp, on the outskirts of a town even Louisiana considered distinctly back-water. This is how he would end his days, playing in an out-of-town bar surrounded by nothing but swamp, gators and cottonmouths. He shuffled along the dirt track to the crossroads where he would wait for his grandson. He set down the trumpet case, disturbing the dust a little so that it was picked up and carried a little in the wind. 

It wasn’t cold out, but he felt a sudden chill in the air. As he looked up, he watched as the stars seemed to go out one by one. He checked his watch to see if he was early, only to notice the second hand slowly shudder and then stop. He heard the wind pick up, then suddenly, it was rushing along the road, howling like an express train, and, as he looked, he caught the thick tendrils of a twister as it touched down a little way from the crossroads. As his breath caught in his chest, it seemed to suddenly change size and velocity, passing him by in a cyclone of brown tainted air and tumbleweed. He realised it was just a dust devil, but he felt unnerved and on edge. 

He looked back up the road and saw a pair of headlights steadily approaching him. He smiled with relief, grateful for his grandson’s timely appearance. But as the car drew near, he realised it wasn’t his grandson in his dishevelled Volkswagen bus. It was a sleek, black, 1965 Lincoln Continental in immaculate condition. It looked like it had just driven off the production line. It slowly trundled to a halt beside him, the big V8 four-stroke engine burbling and rumbling its displeasure of the low spluttered revs as it idled. The blacked-out window now opposite him slithered downwards with an electric hum. A silver-haired, handsome – but older white man, met his gaze with steely blue eyes and a smile that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a crocodile. 

“You must be the Isaac I’ve heard so much about,” grinned the man. 

At that, the driver’s door opened and a very large black man, wearing an expensive and tight fitting pinstripe suit stepped out. He had a huge barrel chest and he seemed to ripple as he walked. Isaac had seen Cassius Clay and Doug Jones fight at Madison Square Gardens in 1963, and he felt sure this man would have been able to hold his own against either of them, or perhaps even both at the same time. As it was, he appeared to be the man in the car’s valet, as he opened the door for him. 

The man wore a perfectly tailored, dark grey pinstripe suit, with a claret red tie and a white silk shirt underneath. As he stepped from the car, he put on a matching grey pinstripe fedora with a claret silk band. Isaac had always liked the look and feel of a hat and found himself warming to the man unintentionally.

“Who have you heard about me from?” Isaac asked, wondering if he could be a talent scout maybe. 

“Oh word gets around,” smiled the man. “Smokey Bo Benson mentioned you, wanted me to check you out.”

“Really? Thought that boy died a long time ago,” Isaac smiled. 

“Bluesmen don’t die, they just improvise,” grinned the man. 

“You play?” Isaac asked.

“I’ve been known to play a mean fiddle from time to time,” the man quipped with a grin. “Why don’t we talk about getting you out of this dump and into the limelight Isaac? Come sit with me whilst you wait for your grandson.”

Isaac took a step towards the car. After all, what do I have to lose he thought. 

CHAPTER ONEHERUHANTO ISLAND, NORTH PACIFIC

The grate over the waste pipe had corroded. Esteban knew it wouldn’t hold his weight, but his gut was telling him Ming was down there. The saltwater crocodile was over a hundred years old and one of the most legendary pursuits of the so-called ‘Hell Hunt’. And the old male croc was a legend for a reason – Ming had survived every season so far, whilst those who had gone after him had not. Esteban wanted him more than any other of the potential trophies on the island. He held his shotgun out in front of him as he jumped, crashing through the rusted metal grate, and landing confidently in the recess of the pipe below.

The smell hit him immediately. Rancid flesh and rotting carrion. The tell-tale stench of a crocodile’s larder. He edged forward into the gloom. The damp air engulfed him, and he could barely breathe. As his eyes adjusted, he began to make out shapes in the gloom. Shapes that moved and came towards him. He soon detected the eyeshine of an animal directly in front of him. It raised up onto its haunches as if to study him. Esteban raised his gun and fired. The pipe erupted into light and then noise. He felt fear take hold in the pit of his stomach and he wanted to retch. He had seen what was coming for him down the pipe. High-pitched squeals and the clicks of a thousand claws raking on metal echoed towards him. He fired again, then threw the prized shotgun out of their reach back through the broken grate above him, just before they swarmed him and began to feast.

~

General Tiao smiled at his own cunning. The giant African pouched rats had been a delightful addition to the island, and more than one hunter had mistaken their stash and stink for Ming. They were also now completely dependent on meat and a force to be reckoned with. There was no camera feed inside of the pipe as the rats had chewed through the wiring, but Tiao had known Esteban’s fate as soon as he had headed for the pipe. He now turned his attention to the island’s only current surviving guest, although he suspected that wouldn’t be the case for long, as far as the unfortunate Englishman was concerned.

Rupert Witherspoon knelt to examine the steaming pile of dung that sat in the centre of the trail. The predator had evacuated its bowels both as a warning and in defiance of its pursuer. It knew it was being tracked and a spray of faecal matter not only lightened the load, but also often confused and distracted anything behind long enough to make an escape possible. Tiao watched the screen as the Englishman wiped the sweat from his brow and took a moment to gather himself. It wasn’t hard to imagine why. As he stood up, Tiao noticed the slight tremble in his arms as Witherspoon worked the pump of his shotgun to chamber the next round. Undoubtedly, the jungle had just gone very quiet and the hairs on the back of the Englishman’s neck would be standing on end. They both knew he was in the presence of one of the world’s most proficient predators – in this case, the Amur tiger.

Khan was a formidable opponent. A mature and rather well-fed male, he tipped the scales at over 600lbs. He was also especially grumpy and irritable, even for a tiger. His long fur and heavy build were far better suited to his natural home of the Russian arctic. But here, those attributes made him uncomfortable and often, hot and bothered. Combined with a short temper, it meant he was always ready for a fight. Tiao often had to intervene to put distance between Khan and his pursuers. The tiger had no fear of humans and actively sought them out as prey. The Englishman would have been claimed by Khan on his first day on the island, had it not been for numerous diversions and distractions. But now his time, just like his luck, had run out.

Tiao watched the monitor as the man crept forward along the trail, oblivious to the fact that the animal he was tracking had just emerged from a thicket of bamboo and back onto the trail some thirty feet behind him. Tiao wondered if the man realised how stupid he looked in the leather bush hat and drovers coat, especially given his pasty skin and thin wire spectacles. The tiger sprang forward and was on the man within a few easy bounds. Witherspoon only had time to let out a wimpish bleat of fear as he was engulfed by Khan in full fury. The tiger bit down through the back of the man’s neck. Tiao sighed. The Hell Hunt was over, at least until his next round of guests took their chances with the lethal menagerie that called the island home. This time round, Tiao had been glad at the misfortune of the human hunters. There were plenty of game animals on the island, and the extortionate fees paid made them easily replaceable. But the more unique specimens, such as Khan and Ming, were much harder and more expensive to procure and replace. He was glad he would not have to go to the trouble before his next guests arrived.

CHAPTER TWOSAN ANGELO, TEXAS, USA

David Moore and Noah Ramirez were happy with their spot. They were positioned on the north shore of the Twin Buttes reservoir, facing west and towards the San Angelo Regional Airport. The cove they were in wasn’t easy to reach, so they were pretty sure they wouldn’t have any competition. They’d scouted here several evenings in advance and baited several prime locations. All were within range of their rifles – both David’s Mossberg Patriot Predator in 22-250 Remington, and Noah’s Savage Model 24, which boasted a Remington .223 barrel on top, and a 12-gauge shotgun tube beneath. This gave Noah the best of both worlds in varmint hunting, with the long range of a decent rifle, and the close comfort of a shotgun for when a coyote or bobcat sprung out of the brush unexpectedly.

Only four of their 24 hours remained.

CHAPTER THREECANNICH, SCOTLAND

Thomas opened his eyes and for a moment, didn’t stir. He wasn’t startled, but something had woken him. This wasn’t unusual. Five hundred metres from the house, a remarkable predator that the world hadn’t seen in Millennia, casually patrolled its enclosure, occasionally letting out a roar that had been officially recorded at 147 decibels. It was quite something, but somehow, he’d grown used to it. The lynx housed in a paddock next door, not so much. They still viewed their outsized neighbour and distant cousin with suspicion. After all, the sabretooth was big enough to see them as a snack rather than family.

That wasn’t what had woken him though. He moved his head slowly and quietly to the side. His wife, Catherine, still slept. Her snores were sweet and soft. She always worked harder than he did. She was tired, and sleep was a luxury they didn’t always have. Silently, he lifted his side of the bed covers and brought his feet to the floor. Dressed only in a pair of pyjama shorts, he tip-toed over to the window and looked out. He could see the enclosures for both cats from where he stood but saw no sign of them. The sun was barely just beginning to edge above the forest canopy, still almost entirely shielded from view by the mountains beyond. Known locally as “the Walls of Mullardoch”, the series of Munros – mountains over 3,000 feet, contained the river valley, loch, and ancient forest that leant their name to these granite precipices. The highest of the mountains was Càrn Eige, a lone, pyramid-shaped peak that stood tall and resilient against the rest. It was the same mountain where Thomas had tracked and faced the hybrid father of Tama, the sabretooth now in the enclosure outside. Tama too was a hybrid, her mother being a mountain lion from a collection in a nearby glen. Zoo fences hadn’t been enough to stop her father from reaching the female in heat, to mate. Thomas carefully eyed the enclosure fences. Nothing was out of place.

Thomas cocked his head and placed his hand on the glass. A few moments later, he felt it more than heard it. He glanced at Catherine, who still slumbered, then ran barefoot from the room – silent, but unable to control his excitement any longer. He took the stairs three steps at a time, quickly rounding the corner and bursting into the downstairs room of his seven-year-old daughter, Cassie. As he had expected, she too was standing at the locked glass doors to the rear of the room, looking out. Like him, she was also in her pyjamas – dark blue with assorted dinosaurs on them. She turned her head sharply, causing her shoulder-length, red curly hair to sway and bounce with the movement. She smiled when she saw her dad.

“Did you hear it, Dadda?” she chirped in her soft, Scottish lilt, her eyes bright with wonder.

Thomas smiled. Despite being born in Drumnadrochit, on the shores of Loch Ness, he had lost his accent after a move in his early years to the North of England. Catherine shared his mixed heritage with a mother who also hailed from Scotland, but she too had grown up in London, meaning neither of them had accents. Cassie’s was one that made him smile. In fact, Cassie just made him smile, full stop.

“I think I did,” he finally replied, drawing closer. 

He unlocked the doors and took Cassie’s hand as they stepped out onto the deck. He looked down as Cassie lifted her head and gave him a mischievous smile whilst holding a finger to her lips. He did as he was told and closed his eyes, listening. Then it came. Soft and distant, but unmistakable. The “sawing” call of a leopard. 

CHAPTER TBA

Thomas froze as he saw the print etched into the soft sand of the loch shore. Over the last few weeks, he’d begun to seek out paths and trails where he might find traces of his elusive new neighbour. As his excursions had taken him farther into the forest, he had discovered a stream that ended in a seven-foot waterfall that fed into the loch. Here, he had found the spoor of the leopard – a male, just as he’d suspected. After the pattern repeated itself a few times, he accepted that the leopard drank here often, and it had become part of his regular route. Today though, as he’d feared and been told, the cat’s injury was recorded in the shallow impressions before him. The right front paw barely touched the ground, and the rear footing was irregular and turned outward. Usually, a leopard’s feet turned naturally inwards, and the rear paw would automatically be placed where the front paw was – known as proprioception. But this cat was hopping awkwardly and dragging its front paw, which it held off the ground as it went. The farmer had found his mark, and now, what had been a benign creature minding its own business and keeping to itself, was more likely of becoming dangerous and turning on the easily killed sheep. The farmer had inadvertently created the problem he had been seeking to prevent. It also didn’t slip Thomas’ mind that many a maneater had started its career after being wounded in a similar fashion.

Thomas took a breath and reminded himself that this leopard had been reported as black, and therefore was more likely to be descended from animals that lived in Southeast Asia. That meant it was probably an Indochinese leopard, a subspecies that was slighter and lither than the African cats he had more experience with. He was also led to believe they were less confrontational and aggressive because of their smaller size. Their dark coat had proven to be an evolutionary advantage in the thick jungles of Thailand and Malaysia. South of the Kra Isthmus – the narrowest part of the Malay peninsula, and where the jungles were thickest, all leopards were melanistic and dark in colour. They were built to hide and ambush rather than waltz into a stand-up fight.Unfortunately, their black coat also made them highly desirable in the exotic pet trade. Melanistic leopards were also known as black panthers, and it was they that had been sought after significantly when keeping such animals had been popular in the 1960s and early 70s.

CHAPTER ONE

“There’s no such thing as monsters

They are hiding and watching

Just wait and see

Oh, there are monsters

For you and me.”

Nursey Rhyme, 1903. Author unknown.

Dr. Drake Dumm waited. The two parents sitting across from him hadn’t said a word, but it was plain as day his conclusions had not been well received. The father had a strong chin and a wavy mop of black hair that was kept under control with the minimum amount of wax. He wore light denim jeans and a dark, heavy shirt. His arms were crossed against his chest, forming a barrier between him and Drake. He tapped his foot, constant enough to create a beat and his jaw was clenched tight. Any minute now, Drake knew beads of sweat would start to form on his brow – if he didn’t explode first. The mother was the opposite. Blonde and petite like her daughter, with long straight hair, she clutched her coat like her life depended on it, and her teeth were pressing hard against her bottom lip. She rubbed her left arm above the elbow with her right hand, heavily invested in a microscopic examination of her feet, visible through the canvas sandals she wore. If he pulled a gun on her now, he doubted she would make eye contact even then.

“So, she’s making all this up then, for no reason.” Bruce, the girl’s father accused.

Drake addressed him quickly and assertively, making direct eye contact.

“That a monster is visiting her nightly and tapping on her window, hoping she’ll come out and play? There should be no doubt she’s making it up Mr. Clark. But I certainly never suggested for no reason.”

“So, you’re going to tell us it’s our fault, right?”.

“Blame isn’t something I like to assert in therapy Mr. Clark,” Drake explained. “And I don’t have enough facts after a single session to determine cause.”

“Is she… unwell?” Bianca, the mother asked.

“Think of Sienna as a ball of string. We’re going to have to pull at some threads before we unravel what’s underneath. But in our session, Sienna was confident, alert, polite, and honest.” 

“But you just said she was making it all up!” the father barked.

“Mr. Clark.” Drake objected, leaning forward over the desk. 

Psychology 101 – move closer to be closer.

“Bruce,” he nodded, quieter.

“Bruce,” Drake acknowledged. “Sienna whole-heartedly believes every part of her story. The reason you are here is because her story comes across as genuine.”

“We obviously don’t believe there’s a monster visiting our daughter, but we thought it might be… you know, a guy, a pervert. In a mask or something.”

“In our initial assessment, you stated that there was no evidence of anyone being on your property, no footprints below the window, no security lights going on. I believe you also have a dog?”

“And a cat,” Bianca added, seemingly eager to help. 

“What breed is the dog, may I ask?” Drake enquired.

“An Australian shepherd, named Dingo.”

Drake nodded. He was familiar with the breed – enough to know that they had originated from California, bred from collies. They had good herding instincts, were easy to train due to being intelligent, and were protective of their homes and family.

“Then I think it’s highly unlikely. However, one of the things I would suggest is that you set up a trail camera outside Sienna’s bedroom. But you must understand this isn’t to prove that something or someone is visiting Sienna in the night. It’s to prove they aren’t.”

Bruce nodded, although it seemed a little reluctantly.

“Having an imaginary friend is completely normal for children, and it’s more typical in girls. Especially when they’re an only child,” Drake explained. “Children with imaginary friends have been shown to be more creative, better at seeing other people’s perspectives, and are better at keeping themselves entertained. There is no link between imaginary friends and mental illness, or other issues.”

Drake shifted his weight in his seat, subtly directing his attention back to Bianca, the girl’s mother, as she had been the one to bring up being unwell.

“But… this isn’t really an imaginary friend, is it?” Bianca asked, looking directly at him. “It’s a monster.”

Drake sat back and gave a slight nod of acknowledgement, aiming to provide both comfort and a softened rebuttal.

“Imaginary friends usually fall into one of two categories,” Drake explained. “The first, often visualised as a baby animal, enables the child to take on a nurturing, teacher-like role. The other, are beings like superheroes or creatures and people with magical powers. In those cases, it’s often about feeling competent.”

“You’re losing me Doc,” Bruce interrupted, holding up a hand.

Drake gave the father the same nod he’d shared with the mother just a few moments ago.

“Let’s say Sienna needs to feel brave or good about doing something,” Drake continued. “What better way of reminding yourself, than knowing you’ve faced a monster. But, ultimately, this monster can’t and won’t harm her. And despite us associating this creature…”

“It’s a werewolf thing, I think,” Bianca stammered.

Drake smiled appreciatively and leant forward again, his elbows resting on the desk.

“We think of it as scary because we’ve seen movies and pop-culture references that tell us that. Sienna doesn’t have our tarnished insight. What she has, is a playful, brown – I assume Dingo is brown, like Sienna says the monster is?”

Both parents nodded. He could see they were taken aback and were joining the dots, just as he had.

“A playful, brown, dog-like monster,” Drake continued.

“We’re just worried that she’ll go off into the forest, at night,” Bianca explained. “You know what we’re like in the South. Locking doors is almost unheard of. But we’re checking doors and windows every night. Maybe it’s making us paranoid,” she shrugged, looking at Bruce.

“As I said, Sienna’s behaviour is well within normal expectations and she will grow out of it,” Drake said. “The only flag of concern was this latest incident, where she blamed some bad behaviour on the creature.”

Bruce nodded, a flash of colour flooding his cheeks. 

“She tried to unlock the front door,” he answered. “If I hadn’t stayed up watching the TV, I wouldn’t have seen her. She snuck right past the doorway.”

Bianca offered a weak smile.

“When we asked, she said the doggy told her to do it,” she stammered, a tear racing down her cheek.

Drake turned in his chair and took the silk handkerchief from the breast pocket of the linen blazer draped over the back of his chair. He handed it to Bianca, with his gaze fixed on Bruce. By not making eye contact with the woman, he hoped to save her any embarrassment she felt for breaking down.

“Again, I want to reassure you that you’re not alone, that many other parents have gone through what you are, and that Sienna’s behaviour is completely normal for her age,” Drake smiled reassuringly. “And it is nothing that you’ve done or are to blame for,” he added.

When he looked again at Mrs Clark, she smiled, and he could see that she had wiped her tears away. The damp handkerchief had been half pushed back across the desk to him.

“The only reason I would recommend I see Sienna again is so we can guide her away from negative behaviours and prevent anything potentially unhealthy like a paracosm being established,” Drake explained.

“A para-what?” Mr. Clark asked.

“A paracosm is a detailed imaginary world that some people retreat to in order to process emotions or situations they find difficult in the real world,” Drake continued. “There are many benign examples of this – C.S. Lewis created Narnia based on a world he invented with his brother as children. However, very rarely, when a child experiences trauma, they can revert to an earlier stage of development to feel safe. A paracosm works in very much the same way, enabling the child to step out of reality to protect themselves from things that upset or frighten them. Yet, if it becomes a refuge – a place where they’d perhaps rather spend more time than the real world, then that can have significant psychological consequences.”

Drake immediately regretted his explanation, reading the wide-eyed looks of concern in both parents. He raised his hands slowly, as if in surrender.

“That is not what is happening here,” he said quietly and calmly. “Sienna is clearly imaginative and as an only child, is used to playing and entertaining herself. We just need to make sure it stays the right side of the fence.”

The Clarks didn’t take too much time deciding whether to take his advice. A few moments after they left, his assistant buzzed through to the office, confirming their next appointment, and reminding him he was clear for the rest of the day. He walked through to join her in the lobby, just off the hall of his home-turned-practice. Evelyn Harper was the embodiment of southern hospitality. The African American woman was in her late 50s and had been both a schoolteacher and a legal clerk. Drake had met her whilst volunteering at a feed the homeless kitchen, set up in the town’s community hall. Her compassion and kindness had been as genuine as her cooking, and he asked her to work for him on the spot. She turned him down then, and the next two times. Then, a little while after, as his reputation spread, she had turned up on his door one day, stated her terms, and told him she would start the next Monday. She had both a fine sense of humour and a heart that never seemed to run out of love. Many of his patients – the children of the town, knew her from the private lessons she used to give. They always seemed glad to see a friendly and familiar face.

Evelyn beamed at him as he lingered close to her desk.

“Your sister called,” she informed him.

Drake lifted his chin and smiled mischievously, teasing at the prospect he wouldn’t call her back, even though he knew Evelyn had promised her he would.

“I’ll call Amelia after I’ve taken a load off,” he assured his assistant, as she gave her best schoolteacher look in warning.

“There’s some peach cobbler and iced tea in the kitchen,” she smiled, grabbing her back and getting up from her chair.

She walked over to him and cocked her head.

“You did good,” she said quietly. “They left more hopeful than when they came in. That’s all that matters.”

Drake gave a single nod and spun on his heels, escorting her to the front door and opening it for her. He wished her a pleasant weekend and closed it behind her. He walked back along the corridor towards his office. He paused just for a moment to peer through the two-way mirror into the observation room. The lights were still on and reflected off the brightly coloured toys and highly polished surfaces. It was a far cry from the dark, clinical room he’d visited as a child. He opened the door and flicked the switch. Closing the door, he started towards his office again, only to snap his gaze back into the room through the glass. He let out a long, annoyed sigh as he noticed the light from the hall now reflecting off the black, beady, plastic eyes of the teddy bear sat on top of a bookshelf.

He’d converted most of the lower floor of the house to be his practice. A living room had become a reception and waiting room. A dining room was the observation room, and the rear parlour was his office. And a downstairs bathroom had been converted into a smaller privy, now reserved for his patients. The front opened into a large hallway with these rooms to the right of a large, open, wooden staircase that led upstairs. To the left of the hall was a second front room that acted as a library and study. He had spent a lot of time, not to mention money, on selecting just the right antique furniture to match the vintage character of the house, complete with its cherry red hardwood floors. It made those visiting feel at home, and that he, perhaps, wasn’t as much of an outsider as they thought. Drake passed through the room on his way to the kitchen in the back. He caught his reflection in the large mirror, set between two dressers. His blonde hair was slicked back, and his eyes shone blue from behind his thin, metal-framed glasses – their years of practice at hiding tiredness and most other emotions put to good effect. He wondered, if maybe, he was trying a little too hard. The braces over his softly striped, light-coloured linen shirt holding up his neat, neutrally toned trousers gave off a deliberate Atticus Finch vibe. 

He passed through the double-door sized cased opening that led to the kitchen, where his slice of peach cobbler sat in a bowl, a scoop of vanilla ice cream slowly melting next to it. He picked up the bowl, complete with spoon, and the glass of iced tea next to it from the table and pushed open the back door with his foot. He walked out slowly onto the wraparound veranda and slumped down into one of the wicker chairs. Drake propped his feet up on the rail and sliced a bite of cobbler and a slither of ice cream with the edge of his spoon, before lifting it into his mouth with great satisfaction. He took his time to both enjoy the treat and the warm pink and orange sunset. When done, Drake placed the empty bowl down on the deck and took out his phone. His sister answered almost immediately.

“Hi Amelia,” he smiled. 

“Finally,” she sighed in mock frustration. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Drake relied, stiffening slightly. “You?”

Amelia paused.

“I’m good, Howard and the kids too.”

“Mom, dad? Everything okay?” he asked, his throat drying a little.

“You need to ask them yourself,” she growled. There was a pause. “They’re fine,” Amelia replied. He could sense the smile returning in her voice. “I can call you without needing or wanting something, you know.”

“Yeah, but you don’t,” he accused, laughing.

“Okay, don’t freak out or lecture me, but I’ve emailed you something.”

Drake was puzzled. She sounded excited and goofball-like. So, why would he freak out. He pulled the smartphone away from his ear and hit the button on the screen marked ‘mail’. His inbox had over a dozen unread messages, and he scrolled down until he recognised his sister’s email address. He tapped on it to open it. The message was a link to a news story from their hometown of Silvertail, West Virginia – where Amelia and his parents still lived. 

The headline read: Boy, 6, kills cat and says monster under his bed told him to do it.

Drake sucked in a breath.

“Why’d the parents let it get put in the paper?” he asked.

“Wasn’t their cat he killed,” Amelia said dryly. She had a morbid sense of humour. “It was the neighbours. To the back of them… Drake, have you noticed the address?”

Drake went back to his screen and scrolled through the article. Then there it was. 13 Westwood Drive. The “unlucky” house. The one they had spent their childhood in. Only… it was the neighbours with the dead cat that lived there, not the boy and his family. Drake remembered the layout and wondered if much had changed. The backyards of both properties met a no-man’s land in the middle, made up of a small strip of dense trees and scrub. But there were no fences or barriers, at least there hadn’t been then. There would be nothing stopping the boy, or anybody else, from accessing the other property with ease. And vice versa.

From a clinical point of view, the story contained two major red flags. First, the child had taken a life. Second, the boy had refused to take responsibility for it and blamed someone else. Something else. Famously, harming, torturing, or murdering an animal and feeling no regret or remorse, was believed to be an indicator of potential serial killers. He suddenly felt cold and an involuntary shiver ran down his spine, as he remembered the same was said about children who set fire to things.

“You still there?” Amelia asked, her voice bringing him back to the present.

“Is that why you sent me this? The old house?” he accused. 

“You know why I sent it,” she snapped. “But it’s not just that… I know Harper. And Asher. He’s a sweet kid. The Williams folks are a nice family.”

Drake choked on his laugh.

“He was quiet and polite, mainly kept to himself. It’s hard to believe he could do something like this,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“Exactly,” Amelia chimed in, all too eagerly.

“Sis, I just gave you word for word what was said about Ted Bundy,” Drake grimaced. “They just leave out the bit where he burned a neighbourhood cat alive.”

“He’s not like… that’s not what I meant,” she said. 

He could tell he had hurt her feelings.

“Maybe you’re right,” she replied. “And clearly, anyone who sets fire to something – say a building, must have something very wrong with them.”

“What is it you want me to do?” Drake demanded. 

“You know what smalltown America is like,” Amelia sighed. “They don’t want him in their schools. The doctors don’t know to cure anything a kid has, unless it’s with lollipops and ice cream. I… I think you can help him. I want you to.”

“Because it’ll get me up there, get me home.”

“Tell me you’re over it. Not just avoiding it. Over it. You’ve had closure. You’re free of it.”

Drake looked up at the darkening sky and sighed. He rested his elbows on his knees and rocked gently back and forth, the phone still to his ear.

“I’ll sleep on it,” he said quietly. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

~

The light bronze Chevy Malibu, complete with rental sticker still in the window, pulled up outside the yellow-boarded house. The driver switched off the engine, reclined his seat, and began to watch for his mark.

CHAPTER TWO

Drake sat up in bed with a start. He took ragged, raspy breaths. Panting hard, he found it hard to move. The think grey cotton of his T-Shirt had turned dark and damp with sweat. His eyes felt too big for their sockets, and he began to panic, realising he couldn’t blink. Tremors ran down his arms and legs and across his shoulders. Someone had cried out; he was sure of it. Then, slowly, as rationality began to return to his splintered mind, he realised it had been him. Vomit rose in his throat, and he forced it back down. Controlling his breathing, he listened to the thunder of his pulse lessen in his ears and, as he began to calm, he was able to close his eyes again.

He had been free of the nightmares for years. Yet one, brief conversation with his sister had been enough to bring at least one back. He threw the covers back and dropped his feet to the floor. Rolling forward, he staggered into a standing position. Using the furniture to support and guide him, he made his way downstairs. The urge to switch on the lights was almost overwhelming, but he fought it with all his might. Not until I get to the kitchen, he demanded of himself. Leaning heavily on the banister, he poured himself down the stairs, pausing at the bottom. Shaking his head violently and running a hand through his hair, he straightened up. Calmly and collectedly, he walked slowly through the library room and into the kitchen, reaching for the light switch as he passed under the beam of the double doorframe.

He reached for a glass from the shelf and slowly turned the brass taps over the sink. He watched the water slash against the ceramic bottom and drain away, in a daze. Putting the glass down on the counter, he cupped his hands and threw water over his face. He massaged his temples and dragged his fingers down across his face, stretching the skin around his chin tightly. After filling the glass, Drake walked out into the cold night air and sat in the same chair he had in the afternoon. This time though, he looked up at the stars. There was the tiniest hint of a breeze, and it quickly cooled his sweat-laced skin. His soaked-through T-shirt felt cold, but not in a bad way. It made him feel alive and awake, and that was what he wanted. Dragging the empty adjacent chair over to him, he propped his feet up on it and sipped at the water. Ten minutes went by, then twenty. It was at the half-hour mark he truly began to feel cold, and he re-entered the house as the first hints of dawn began to creep across the sky.

~

He’d waited as long as he could, but now, he really had to go. Lou Green had parked the rental car in sight of the house, but also close to a little stretch of trees for this very purpose. Quietly and slowly, he opened the door and got out. Lou hesitated. It was a quiet street, and the houses were spaced far apart, with little lots of scrub in between. Although he was sure he hadn’t attracted any attention since his arrival, he still peered up the road to the next house along. It was a good two hundred yards away and shrouded in darkness. All was quiet. The only other vehicle he’d seen had belonged to the parents of the little girl, and they’d left hours ago. Lou also knew he had every right to quit. His relief hadn’t arrived, and he’d already stayed much later than he’d intended. But the agency in West Virginia had paid him good money. His motel was only ten minutes away, but he’d left it too long now. He’d never make it in time. With another quick glance up and down the street, he walked back behind the car and into the trees.

Lou unzipped his fly and relieved himself over the roots of a thick-trunked scarlet oak. The tree was so large, he couldn’t see all the way round it, and it shielded him from prying eyes. As he finished up, he heard something move in the branches above. His head snapped upwards, and he scanned the shadows. Somewhere above, a branch buckled and shook. Possum he thought, dismissing smaller critters like squirrels. Whatever was above him had some weight to it. But there was something else too. He stood still and quiet, his head craned upwards and his senses alert. There was no more movement, but there was something. God, he thought, realising he could hear the creature breathing. The noise was raspy and ragged, like the thing had a cold. Each breath was laboured and as if laced with mucus.

Then, suddenly, there was the slightest movement. Lou didn’t see what hit him, but it knocked him to the ground. Dazed, he blinked slowly, and tried to turn his head, but couldn’t. He had collapsed onto the ground, with one leg bent underneath him. His scalp felt like it was on fire. Carefully, he tried to move his arm and hand. The left was no good, but the right came free, and he touched the top of his head, near his hairline. He flinched, and a searing pain raced over his scalp. He couldn’t see in the dark, but he knew the moistness sticking to his fingers was blood. He was hurt, and more badly than he thought. He tried to get up again, which was when a shadow fell across him.

The figure was in silhouette and the moon was at its back. Lou couldn’t work out what he was looking at. It seemed hunched with rounded shoulders. The legs were thin and spindly, almost too slender to hold up the body, which was thickset. An obvious pot belly bloomed over where he imagined the waistline would be. Its arms were much more muscular, and long, thick fingers of one hand were gripped tightly round a wooden staff that the figure leant upon. Then it turned its head slightly. Two orbs of gold glowed just for a moment, where he imagined its eye sockets must be. It moved again, looking towards the house he had been watching most of the day. Doing so gave him a glimpse of the crooked, bent, oversized nose that was thin and sharp. Lou let his gaze rise along the wooden staff it clutched, and he let out a gasp of fright when he saw the gleam of metal at its top. It’s some kind of spear, Lou thought, dread and panic flooding his thoughts.

The figure took a step towards him, and its own foot touched his. That’s when Lou realised how small the thing was. He doubted it would even come up to his waist. He still couldn’t see it properly, but he could now make out the outline of clothing. It was wearing a simple vest or waistcoat that covered its torso. Around its waist was a thick heavy belt that was bent out of shape by the pot belly. Like its arms, the legs were bare, but it wore pointed boots over its long, slender feet. As it lent towards him, Lou saw the flash of its golden-coloured eyes again. There wasn’t much light, only a soft glow from the street beyond and a slither of moonshine. But it was enough. Enough to see the sneer on the creature’s face. Lou saw its jagged, irregular teeth and the singular droplet of saliva that ran to the end of a canine, before dropping onto his shirt. That’s when Lous realised the creature was standing directly over him, to the side. Unable to get up, and his head beginning to spin, Lou opened his mouth to yell for help. 

The flash of the blade was quicker than his thought. He felt no pain, only shock. He could see the shaft of the spear, gripped firmly in both hands by the creature. A slight tremble from the creature’s hands ran along the metal, causing his head to move in unison. That’s when Lou realised the spear had penetrated his body. Why couldn’t he feel anything. How long had it been since he had blinked… this was the last conscious thought that slipped through his mind before the darkness came.

The creature stood poised, its grip on the weapon rigorous and dedicated. Only when it was sure the man was dead, did it pull the tip of the pikestaff from its victim. The blade had sliced through the man’s throat and out through the back, severing the spine. After mashing flesh and bone, it had sunk more securely into the tree behind the man. The creature pulled his weapon away effortlessly and rested it lengthways against the tree, tip pointed into the ground. Its eyes dropped to the dark liquid spilling from the wounds caused by the spear tips entry and exit. Reaching up, the creature removed its cap and carefully smoothed out the creases in it. Then, slowly, and methodically, it dipped the cap in the dead man’s blood until it was saturated. With equal care, the creature then cleaned the blade of its pikestaff. Seemingly satisfied with its work, it leant on the weapon, and turned its gaze toward the house the man had been watching, still just visible through the trees. It grinned… and then vanished. 

CHAPTER ONE

Inky blackness consumed the night sky. Indigo streaks and green flares broke up the smog-clad clouds, reminding Jordan Knight of swamp gas. She knew it was pollution from the near six and a half million vehicles that trudged along Los Angeles streets and highways every day, but she still thought it looked pretty. But, just like the soft yellow light of the flickering streetlamps, the illumination was unnatural. The downtown street she was walking along, and the city itself, never saw a pitch-black night. From up in the Hollywood hills or the Santa Monica mountains, the fragmented L.A skyline gave off a ghostly pale glow that seeped into everything surrounding it. 

Like any city though, there was darkness here. It waited in the alleyways and parking lots. It stalked the city parks and roadsides. And it always found prey. On average, three hundred people were murdered every year within city limits. Another two and a half thousand were victims of rape. Eight thousand citizens would be robbed in the coming twelve months, and sixteen thousand would be assaulted. The statistics, which Jordan knew off by heart, made her habit of walking the streets of her downtown neighbourhood in the early hours look unwise. Strangely, it was the veiled threat and uncertainty that made Jordan enjoy it. Confidence also came in the form of a neatly holstered Sig Sauer P320 XCOMPACT pistol, and a bronze-plated badge in her jacket pocket with the numbers 8306 and letters L A P D stamped into it. 

She crossed the street, taking a left as she passed under a streetlight. It was habit by now, a good place to see if she had picked up any unwanted interest. But no shadows were catching up with her own, and the only footsteps she could hear were hers, as the soft echo of her sneakers sounded out on the hard concrete of the sidewalk. At the end of the street she could see lights, and she wondered if Lorenzo’s would still be open. It was unlikely, being the wrong side of 3am, but Anthony – or “Little Tony” as everyone seemed to call him, often let the hours slide by if everyone was having a good time. She was glad to have found a decent jazz club only a few blocks away from her apartment. Especially one where they didn’t water down the drinks and served decent food. 

She slowed as she approached, trying to gauge if the lights were indeed coming from Lorenzo’s. As she got closer, she heard the lonely notes of a piano seemingly chiming along with the rhythm of her heartbeat. She paused by the steps that led down to the entrance. It was dark. Officially closed. She decided to try her luck. She stepped as heavily as she could on the stone stairway, as if to give Tony warning of her arrival. She pushed down on the handle of the dark red door and smiled as it swung open. Instantly, the piano music stopped. 

“Had a feeling you’d be coming around. Why is it always when I don’t see you, I know I’m going to see you?” came a smooth, deep and booming voice out of the darkness. 

“Come on Tony, you know I can’t sit in here when you’re open. Otherwise, I’d have to pay,” Jordan replied, walking forwards.

“And?” the voice challenged. 

“And… I wouldn’t get private performances from LA’s most underrated pianist. You don’t take to the stage unless you’re closed.”

Tony responded with an amused grunt. As she walked forwards, she could see his huge form sat at the piano. The instrument itself was one of the things that had first indicated that Lorenzo’s was a special place. It was a Stuart & Sons grand, of which there were only about eighty in the world. It boasted an extended keyboard, which meant a musician with enough talent could play things on it that would be impossible on other pianos. It was also eye-catchingly finished in blackheart sassafras timber, with long strips of dark brown set against pale yellow grain. 

For a man that must have weighed well over 300lbs, Little Tony was light on his feet. The heavyset African-American wore a tailored charcoal pinstripe suit and a blood-red shirt, the colour of which she caught as he walked underneath one of the few spotlights still turned on. He was headed to the bar. She smiled. 

Tony picked out a cocktail glass and placed it on the counter. Now nearer, Jordan could hear the strain of the air as is battled past his stuffy, partially-closed nostrils. A generous pouring of vodka went into an ice-stuffed stainless-steel shaker, followed by Cointreau and cranberry juice. Jordan watched as his large left hand roughly squeezed a ripe lime until it burst, allowing the juice to join the rest of the contents. He slapped the lid on without ceremony, then, using both hands, he shook the container violently. He poured the cosmopolitan expertly into the spotlessly clean glass and stood back. 

“What would I do without you, Tony?” Jordan laughed.

“You’d god-damn go someplace else and flutter your eyelids at them until you got what you wanted,” Tony challenged. 

“I don’t do that to you,” she huffed. “And I can’t get what I want anywhere else, they’re all closed,” she said softly.

“Imagine,” Tony replied with mock surprise. “You know I only do this because you told me it helps you sleep.”

“It does, but not as much as…”

Tony let out a sigh and turned his back to Jordan and took a key out of his right suit pocket. He unlocked a cabinet at the rear of the bar and reached in. Jordan couldn’t see past his mass, but she could hear him at work. When he returned, he was carrying a small plate. On it, thinly-sliced Ibérico bellota ham sat beside Cornish Kern cheese. 

“You have New York taste and L.A. attitude Ms Knight. That’s a dangerous combination,” Tony scoffed. “And cheese before bedtime is meant to give you nightmares”. 

“Don’t forget my English education,” Jordan replied, upgrading her colloquial British accent to something more aristocratic. “But nothing gives me nightmares,” she added, much more softly. 

An hour later, Jordan slipped back into her apartment. She silently walked past the kitchen, quickly checking on the sleeping white and tan pit-bull terrier stretched out in front of the refrigerator. World’s greatest guard dog she thought, smiling. She walked into the bedroom and took off her sneakers. She placed the pair of black Bottega Veneta shoes in their empty slot inside the wardrobe, then lay down on the bed. She closed her eyes.

~

Three hours and thirty-seven minutes later, the ringing of her cell phone dragged her from the recesses of sleep. She studied the lit-up screen for a second, seeing it was her partner, Lucas Christian. 

“You awake boss?” came his tentative query.

“Who on Earth do you think’s answering the phone, genius,” she replied, trying to vail the croak in her voice. 

“I honestly don’t know sometimes, but whoever she is, she’s needed at the launderette on East 3rd Street, you know, the one opposite the Korean BBQ?”

“What have we got?” 

“It’s best you just come see for yourself. Let’s just say if you weren’t you, they’d be thinking about calling the Feds.”

Jordan put down the phone and sat up, swinging her legs out of the bed. She stripped off the sweat pants and T-Shirt she’d been wearing as she headed for the shower. Three minutes later, she finished towelling herself down in front of the wardrobe. She picked out a charcoal coloured suit and a white shirt as she refreshed her underwear. Dressing quickly, she slid the gun holster back on, covering it with the suit jacket, which in turn covered her slim frame, bulking it out slightly. After grabbing a pre-packed blue leather wallet bag that would fit into the suit’s inner pocket, she popped her feet back into the black designer sneakers and checked herself in the mirror. The gun and the bag equalled out the pull on the jacket as she’d hoped. She pulled her long dark hair up into a ponytail. Her green eyes flashed in the darkness of the bedroom, where she hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights. She felt tired, but she knew she looked better than she felt, and that was all that would matter. Her male colleagues, although their own grooming habits were questionable and nowhere near as fine-tuned as hers, would see weakness instead of the toll of the job they all suffered from. 

Lucas’ comment about the Feds had sparked her interest. Something significant had happened. As she walked out, she passed the framed doctorate in Criminal Psychology from Stanford that hung above a small bookshelf. Beside the collector’s edition of Sherlock Holmes stories, were three books she herself had written. One put the spotlight on unsolved murder cases, three of which no longer fit that category, thanks to her. The second focused on the social motives behind violent crime. The third was by far her “best-seller”, giving a blow-by-blow account of her part in taking down a cunning and sadistic serial killer known as “The Fox”.

A further nod to her obsession and career trotted up to greet her in the hall. “Watson” was a handsome dog, mainly white, with a tan eye patch and saddle. She had rescued him from a dog-fighting ring discovered in the 7th precinct. As a homicide detective, she hadn’t been involved directly, but she had seen the pups brought in. His brothers and sisters had gone to the shelter. Watson came home with her, and she had named him after the famous companion of Sherlock Holmes. So far, it was the only long-term relationship she’d had in L.A. She made a fuss of the dog and kissed him on top of his muzzle.

~

Lucas looked up as he heard the distinct rumble of Jordan’s car. The black 1977 Jaguar XJC coupé had a V12 engine and he could only imagine it was hell to drive in L.A. traffic. With lowered suspension and a custom set up, it wasn’t quite as out of place in the city as it seemed, but it was still an unusual sight. He watched, bemused, as the comparatively small Jordan appeared beside the enormous car. She wandered over to him. He reached inside the unmarked Dodge he had driven from the precinct and took the reinforced cardboard cup from the holder. He handed her the black tea as soon as she crossed the street to join him.

“Do you know how hard it is to find a coffee shop that serves tea you approve of, in a recyclable cup?” he complained.

“You wanted to be my partner, partner,” she chastised. “I work better alone.”

“You’re about to get your chance,” Lucas hinted, nodding towards the door of the launderette, crowded with uniformed officers. “Shall we?”

Jordan walked through the door and stopped. Her eyes scanned the shop front. Everything looked normal. Nothing broken, upturned, or out of place. A residual layer of dust suggested the floor hadn’t been cleaned in a couple of days. She noticed the imprints of the heavy-footed officers leading beyond the counter and followed them. 

“Forensics are on their way, but you’ve got the place to yourself until then,” Lucas added.

Jordan knew that was unusual. Captain Ramirez would have had to make the call to break protocol. It was a rare privilege for detectives to access the crime scene before forensics. She sipped her tea as she made her way further back into the store. She froze as what was waiting for her came into view. The round, glass-fronted door to one of the stainless-steel industrial dry-cleaning machines was open, and she could see smears of pink smudged across it. She took a sip of her tea and walked forward. Inside the machine was the crumpled body of a man. The corpse sagged to its left. Jordan guessed part of the shoulder was crushed, and the collar bone and sternum were both certainly broken. Apart from a pair of shredded boxer shorts, he was naked. His skin had turned the colour of a boiled lobster. Bluish purple bruises and ruptured contusions covered the body, and what remained of his skin looked like it had been through a cheese grater. The left eye was missing completely. The thumb of his left hand was also gone. The rest of his fingers were grotesquely twisted backwards, all broken. But despite the mess the body was in, she already knew exactly who she was looking at.

Vincent Bianchi – known in certain circles as the Great White. A known money mover for a syndicate based on the West Coast, he was a big hitter. Or at least, he had been. Her eyes had swept the floor as she walked in. Blessed with an eidetic, or “photographic” memory as it was popularly and incorrectly known as, she retraced her steps in her mind and knew the crime scene was spotless. Yet somehow, a heavyset, six-foot three-inch man had been stuffed into a dry-cleaning machine. Presumably against his will. As a lover of Italian food, it had always been a gripe of Jordan’s that Bianchi owned three of the best restaurants in the area, and a decent nightclub. She never visited them out of principle. She looked at the dials of the machine. They were still on. 

“Someone has a well-developed sense of irony,” she stated, looking closer. 

“What’s that boss?” Lucas asked. 

“A well-known money launderer who’s been laundered? I can imagine the headlines already. See the froth around the mouth and nostrils? He drowned in the solvent. His skin is bleached from the heat of the drying process, and he’s been torn and busted up pretty badly by the sieve. But he was already dead by then, so the blood is only on the surface, see?”

“Guess we don’t need forensics after all,” Lucas shrugged.

“Oh, we do.” 

Lucas looked at her for an explanation. 

“Look around, Detective,” Jordan prompted. “No signs of a struggle. Nothing out of place. But there is something missing, at least from our vic. Two things actually.”

“Okay, so, I saw his eye was out. Wasn’t that just the machine?” 

“Far too neat. As was whatever took his thumb off.”

“Oh yeah,” declared Lucas, peering closer.

“Some detective,” Jordan smirked. “The point is. Vincent Bianchi was subject to extreme violence, and his substantial frame was loaded into that machine whilst he was still alive. But this place looks like it’s business as usual. That’s anything but usual, and I’d gander too subtle for his syndicate friends. I’d like to take a look at the office.”

“Back there, to the left,” Lucas indicated. 

Jordan walked to the office, sure of what she would find. She pushed open the door and saw it straight away. The electronic safe, which she guessed required a thumb print and iris scan, was open and empty. Except it wasn’t. Inside was a single hundred-dollar bill, weighted down at both ends by Bianchi’s missing body parts. The eye in particular seemed to have been turned slightly upward, as if to meet the gaze of anyone looking in. As she peered closer, she noticed something else. A series of small, printed letters across the top of the bill. 

“Rinsed the laundry. Will keep an eye on you J. X.”

CHAPTER TWO

The big Jaguar’s engine growled as it worked its way through the downtown traffic. Bianchi owned a condo on the 20th floor of “The Quillon”, one of the newer high rises on the north side of Wilshire Boulevard, at the far west of what was known as the Wilshire Corridor. The drive wasn’t going to be quick. Lucas had ditched the pool car, and they had both left the launderette as it was being processed by the forensics team. Lucas sat in uncomfortable silence in the passenger seat, finally bringing up what had been on his mind all morning. 

“So…other than the guy’s thumb, what did I miss back there?” Lucas asked.

“Meaning?” Jordan shot back sharply. 

“The note. Kind of seemed that might have been meant for you?”

“That’s quite a leap,” Jordan dismissed, not taking her eyes from the traffic ahead. “You can’t make those kinds of assumptions if you want to solve cases Lucas. The significance of the letter J could mean anything – we don’t have enough to go on yet. We need more parameters to establish any kind of link or motive, based on evidence. And we don’t have a lot of that yet.”

 “Sorry Doc, my bad,” Lucas nodded, amused. “So, what’s your take so far?”

“Break it down for me, what are the facts – you’re meant to be a detective too remember,” she teased, shaking her head. 

Lucas sensed he’d gotten off lightly. 

“The crime scene was clean. For all intents and purposes, indications are that Bianchi entered the machine whilst alive, without force. It’s also indicated that the thumb and eye were removed post-mortem. Robbery appears to be the motive, and whoever did it, knows Bianchi’s connection to the syndicates. That’s why we think only Bianchi’s personal money was taken. The business holdings were untouched, and in a separate safe.”

“Good, glad you were listening when I was talking to forensics,” Jordan mused. “What can you conclude about our suspect?”

“They’re clearly persuasive – and don’t rely on brute force to get the job done. They also know what they’re doing – no trace evidence, fingerprints, or otherwise immediately identifiable. So, this is unlikely to be their first rodeo. And, the note, the sense of humour – suggests intelligence and a need to be in the spotlight.”

“Not bad Lucas,” Jordan replied genuinely. “You’re dangerously close to crossing the line from a rookie gumshoe to some fairly decent behavioural analysis there.”

“Learnt from the best, boss,” Lucas chuffed. 

“Now all I need to do is get you to work on your dress sense,” Jordan laughed, noting his sand-coloured suit and off-white shirt that was noticeably missing a tie.

Lucas was literally head and shoulders taller than Jordan, much to the amusement of their precinct colleagues. It had often been said that they looked like a father and daughter when they walked down a corridor together, at least height wise. Lucas looked every bit the Californian stereotype. Blonde hair, blue eyes, tan skin. He even surfed. It was a stark contrast to Jordan’s slimline stature, straight dark hair and pinkish white skin, often reminding Lucas of the stereotypical English rose. 

It was another thirty minutes before they pulled into the underground parking levels of The Quillon. As they walked towards the private elevator that would lead them to the 20th floor and Bianchi’s condo, Jordan noted the three reserved parking spaces for the apartment. Two were occupied by expensive looking Cadillacs – an enormous black SUV, and an equally large black sedan. The third space was empty, but a small oil stain on the floor and a narrow tyre track showed it had maybe only recently been vacated. Jordan pressed the intercom button for the elevator. It was answered immediately.

“Bianchi residence,” came a deep, but well-spoken voice. 

“Detectives Knight and Christian, L.A.P.D, we’re investigating the murder of Vincent Bianchi. I believe you were made aware of our request to see Mr. Bianchi’s home and personal affects?”

“Why do you think we’re here, sweetheart,” the voice replied. Jordan caught the muffled laughter from whoever else was already upstairs. “Hit the button for the 20th floor, it’s the only stop on that level.”

Jordan and Lucas stepped into the elevator. When the doors opened, it was onto a wide, white-painted corridor. More doors on each side led off to what Jordan presumed were bedrooms and bathrooms. She could see the corridor culminated in a living area. A well-built man in a turtle-neck and blazer greeted them. Jordan noted two more men stepped into view from either side of the doors opening onto the lounge. One, wearing a dark brown leather jacket narrowed his eyes as she approached. 

“You’re a cop?” he barked as he approached. 

“That’s right, they even let us girls join the force now,” Jordan replied, pulling her badge. Lucas was still showing his to the guy in the turtleneck. “Wow, looks like we already have a detective here, could have saved us the drive over,” she quipped. 

“You look familiar. You investigated Bianchi before?” the man questioned. 

“He might have crossed my path, why, how many’d he kill?” Jordan shot back. 

There was no reply, but the man seemed to continue to scrutinise her. 

“Okay boys,” Jordan declared, as if tired. “Let’s cut to the chase. My name is Detective Knight. This is my partner, Detective Lucas. You don’t want us to be here and you want this to all go away. So, show us some ID and answer our questions, and we’ll leave quicker and quieter than if you don’t. I take it you are all employees of Mr. Bianchi?” 

“We work together, put it that way,” the man in the turtleneck replied, opening his wallet to show them a California driving license. The name printed on it was Ivan Miller. 

“In what capacity?” Lucas demanded, stepping forward to check the second man’s ID, revealing him to be a Levi Jones. 

“Protection mostly,” the big guy in the leather jacket stated, holding his ground at the end of the corridor and still staring hard at Jordan. 

“Might want to update those resumés,” Lucas whispered under his breath. 

“We’re more about protecting certain assets Mr. Bianchi has in play. And they ain’t been affected, in fact…” Ivan replied, only to be cut off by a murderous look from the man in the leather jacket. 

Jordan walked up the corridor, ignoring Bianchi’s muscle as she made her way across the room to a large, glass-topped desk that sat in a corner of the expansive lounge. His gaze followed her. Wall-to-wall windows flanked the desk on both sides, giving breath-taking views from the city skyscrapers to the ocean. 

“Go ahead Ivan, finish that sentence, unless you’re chicken?” Jordan taunted.

“It’s nothing,” the heavy in the leather jacket cut in. “Syndicate business. As we said, we ain’t here as Mr. Bianchi’s protection.”

“You think he had his hand in the till?” Jordan enquired, looking over the desk and not meeting his gaze, although she caught the inflection that indicated she was right. “How’d you find out?”

“Something you cops like, an anonymous tip. Complete with returned monies,” the heavy replied.

Jordan flicked through the papers that were on the desk, checking the drawers. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, then her eye caught the indent on a pad she had brushed aside. It was extremely faint – made from the press of a pen or pencil on the sheet above, which was now missing. Jordan reached into her suit jacket, retrieving the pink leather wallet bag and unfastening the silver skull catch.

“Being a cop must pay well,” the leather-jacketed goon huffed. “That’s designer. My girlfriend has the same one, but black. I bought it, so I know what it cost lady.”

“Alexander McQueen,” Jordan remarked, as she fished out a sophisticated looking eyebrow pen and gently began to sweep it back and forth across the paper pad. “And, I imagine legitimately-obtained gains are something you’re less of an expert on.”

Jordan stared down at the paper. The imprint and lettering were much clearer now.

Meet her at the shop. Midnight.

“Do you know who he was meeting at the shop?” Jordan asked, looking up at the room. “I presume the shop is the dry-cleaning business?”

“Yep, that’s what he called it,” Ivan replied. 

Jordan decided to focus on him, as he seemed to be more amenable and inclined to talk.

“Who was she?”

“We don’t know, he told us it was a date. We presumed it was a girl, you know, a…”

“Hooker?” Jordan answered for him, recognising his discomfort. 

The man nodded.

“Tell me what you know,” Jordan chirped, confidently. 

“Not much to tell. We’re not permanently attached to Mr. Bianchi. We only know he had a date, because he called Joey to tell him,” he nodded towards the man in the leather jacket. 

“I thought Mr. Bianchi was married?” Jordan declared with mock surprise.

‘Yeah, well, he’s also Italian,” Joey laughed, heartlessly. 

“Okay gents, a couple of things, then we’ll be out of your hair. First, I need to know what the Great White was wearing yesterday, and I need to know where the other car is.”

“How did you know a car was missing?” Joey challenged.

“Because I can read, and I can count,” Jordan sighed. Despite her flippancy, her hand tensed, ready to break to the holster hidden underneath her suit jacket. She could feel the tension, and her every instinct was reading the room. Even though the hostility seemed to only come from Joey, it was beginning to infect the other two. She could sense the agitation growing in all of them. 

“Err, boss, I think I might know what he was wearing yesterday,” Lucas stated, looking through a door into the nearest bedroom. 

Jordan crossed the lounge and peered in. A dark-coloured suit, a powder blue shirt, and pink and blue polka dot tie were laid out on the bed, sheathed in plastic. The white logo for Bianchi Dry Cleaning stood out against the clothing. As she took a step closer, she spotted the fine cotton pink socks neatly folded into the breast pocket of the suit. 

“This is what he was wearing?” Jordan asked Ivan. 

“We think so,” he nodded. 

“The suspect dry-cleaned his clothes, then brought them back here?” Lucas asked out loud. 

“As well as the syndicate stuff?” Jordan added. “This all happened this morning?”

The silence that met the question confirmed it. 

“Sorry boys, we’re not getting out of here as quickly as you thought,” Jordan remarked. “Lucas, we’ll need forensics, and security logs for the building, camera footage from every store, hotel, and apartment block that has a view of the building entrance or parking level.” 

“So, Joey, how much do you think they took altogether? I’m guessing anyone who took the time to come back here perhaps gave the place a once-over to make it worth their while?”

“We were trying to figure that out when you got here,” Joey shrugged. 

“You mean someone beat you to the loot?” Jordan challenged. 

“Want my help or not lady?” Joey grunted. 

“My apologies, what do you know was taken, as you carefully and meticulously tried to account for Mr. Bianchi’s personal affects?” 

“We figure about $4 million in cash,” Joey replied. “About a mill from here, and there would have been two to three at the office, easy. His watches are missing too, and some jewellery. They left the small stuff but took anything with big stones. Most of it isn’t traceable, except that car you mentioned.”

“Everything they took is easy collateral – they can shift it and sell it with little or no trouble,” Jordan mused. “So, the car?”

“A 1963, light blue Jaguar E-Type convertible with a red leather interior. Guy thought he was James Bond or something.” 

“Know the license number?” 

“I’m surprised you don’t yourself. Now I seen you up close, I got a feeling I know where I seen you befores,” Joey grinned. 

“Oh really?” Jordan challenged. 

“Couple of days ago, we were driving in. I only caught a glimpse, but you were stood by that very car, like you’d been looking at it. You walked to the lobby elevator, and you were wearing sunglasses, but it sure looked like you now I think about it.” 

“I can assure you, unless Mr. Bianchi was upgrading from low-level money movement, he wouldn’t have been on my radar,” Jordan rebutted.

Jordan and Lucas waited until the forensics team and uniformed officers arrived to take over. As they left, they saw Joey and the other two confiding together. Even as the elevator doors closed, Joey didn’t take his eyes from Jordan, still talking to the others until they were blocked from sight. 

“So, you been looking into Bianchi?” Lucas asked, quietly, as they walked back to the car. “Best I know now, or this gets ugly fast.”

“I don’t even eat in his restaurants, which is more devastating than it sounds,” Jordan replied. “That enforcer, Joey, he didn’t see me. But he definitely saw someone we need to talk to. I think we can safely say our leading suspect is currently female.”

“And looks like you,” Lucas grinned, regretting the remark instantly as he met Jordan’s angered stare.