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CONFIDENTIAL - CLIENT REPORT
DR. ---------
DEP’T OF PSYCHOLOGY AND ALLIED MENTAL HEALTH
Dr. ---------
My contact in the police dept would not photocopy the original document, but he did let me make a transcript, which you’ll find below. To recap, the original was found by local law enforcement in room 213 of the Sleepy Moon Motel, located on U.S. RT. 11, seven miles west of Karam, Ohio. The document was found in the trash, partially burned (only about 40% of the document was recovered). Presumably it was never mailed, since the resident of room 213 matched descriptions of the letter’s author, J. Archer. Also found were a number of photographs, digital copies of which I’ve pasted into this document. Physical evidence suggests she fled the scene approximately 30 minutes before law enforcement arrived. For clarity, my comments are in *** ALL CAPS ***.
Listen, I know I owe you a lot, but I’d rather not work this case any longer. I can’t handle the weird things that have been happening since you called me last month. This morning, when I gathered up these papers to send you, I found strange comments and gibberish written all over them. Knowing your proclivities, I left them intact rather than erase them or print out a new copy. Maybe they’ll mean something to you. But don’t ask me to look into this situation any further. And don’t try to threaten me. I went over your head and the You Know Who say I don’t need to follow your orders anymore.
K. S. Delburton
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Dear ,
I did it.
I did what they say I did. I want you to know the truth, rather than spend your life wondering. The truth is painful, and it will hurt you. I hope I have the nerve to write everything and send this to you.
I killed him.
I want you to know why.
I’d been working at the Globe for almost a year. “Janet Archer, girl reporter.” Her father’s pride and joy. Ten-and-a-half months of sitting in my cubicle in the basement, typing obituaries and listening to the police scanner. Ten-and-a-half months of city council meetings, zoning hearings, burglaries, drunken teenagers crashing into telephone poles. I was warned in journalism class how working your way up the ladder takes patience. I didn’t think an entry-level job at a small city daily would get me a Pulitzer. I did think I’d have something to show for it, though. Some clips, some features. But the editor wouldn’t give me anything meaty except his hand on my knee when he’d had too much of his lunchtime pick-me-up. I checked all those online job finding sites, but they were a waste of time. Then one day I was flipping through our very own anemic classifieds when I saw it, sandwiched between an opening at a pizzeria and a recruitment ad for the Navy:
WRITER WANTED
Experienced and/or talented writer sought to help elderly recluse compose his memoirs. I’ve led a long and unusual life and need the right wordsmith to tell my story. Only a curious, thorough and detail-oriented scribe will do. Generous salary, flexible hours. Apply in person, 8 am-10 am, 133 Rath St., Ogdenburg.
*** Section Missing ***
and I followed her into the room that seemed to take up the entire front of the house. Except for a single folding chair, the room was empty. No carpet, just stained and scuffed wooden floorboards. The walls were white once, I think, but had aged to a gray. There was a second door in the room. It was black and heavy and closed. The windows had no curtains, just roller blinds that were pulled halfway down. The weak light of the cloudy morning filled the room with the dreary ambiance of an unattended funeral.
There wasn’t as much as a cobweb on any of the walls or the ceiling. And the room had no smell.
“Wait,” the housekeeper told me, the only word I ever heard her say. I sat down slowly, wishing I had brought some coffee. The woman walked out and closed the door. It was as gray as the walls. A few minutes later I heard a vacuum cleaner running from somewhere deeper inside the house.
I sighed and settled into my chair. I tried to brush the wrinkles out of my slacks. I looked out the window at the cracked pavement and uneven sidewalks, the bags of garbage waiting to be picked up and the half-collapsed doghouse in the front yard across the street. I stood up and paced
*** Section Missing ***
the black door. The knob was old and ornate, like something you’d see in an art deco hotel. I kneeled down and looked through the keyhole, but it had been stopped up.
I felt something at my feet.
There was air blowing out from under the door, cold air that tickled the front of my ankles. I touched the crack at the floor. It was just about as wide as my fingertips. And there was definitely cold, almost frigid air streaming through.
I checked my watch. I’d been waiting for more than a half-hour. It was absurd. And yet I didn’t feel like leaving just yet. After all, what was waiting for me out there that was more interesting than this? So I stood up and rapped my knuckles on the black door. Hard.
“Hello,” I called out. “Is anyone there? I’ve been waiting here for over 30 minutes. Hello?”
There was no answer. I put my hand on the knob and turned. It moved silently, smoothly, more easily than I expected. But when I tried to push the door open, it wouldn’t budge. It felt like it had been dead bolted from the other side.
“Excuse me, miss.” The voice was dry and brittle. “Can I help you?”
He was tall and thin, with white hair and skin that hadn’t seen the sun in a long time. He wore a dark suit that I knew was out of style, even though I have all the fashion sense of a Mennonite. Wispy hair floated around his pink scalp like smoke.
I stared at him to show he hadn’t startled me, but I kept the anger out of my voice. “I came about the ad in the paper,” I told him, glancing at the folded newspaper I’d left on the chair. “The ad for a writer? I’ve been waiting here for quite a while.”
“Yes,” he sighed. “Yes, I thought that might be it. I’m sorry you had to wait so long. I wasn’t aware you were here until just a moment ago.”
“I’m Janet Archer,” I said, extending my hand in my best job interview style. He took it in the lightest grip I’d ever felt, then let go.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid you’ve come here for nothing. The job is no longer available.”
“You found someone already?”
“No, it’s not that. You see, Mr. Mummer – the gentleman who placed the ad – passed away last night.”
I blinked for a few seconds.
“I’m Theo Fenway, his lawyer. I meant to get here earlier today and post a notice on the door, but…. In any case, I apologize for the inconvenience.”
It was hard to know what to say. I stalled for time by walking over to the chair and picking up my bag and the paper. “Can you tell me - who was he? Why exactly was he looking to hire a writer?”
“He was, as his advertisement stated, hoping to publish his memoirs. As for who he was, I’m afraid that would be a breach of confidentiality. He was a very private man, notwithstanding his aspiration to write his memoirs.”
*** Section Missing ****
three days later that I got an envelope, a plain white #10 envelope that turned up on my desk at work with the rest of the day’s mail. The address was typed - not computer-printed, mind you, but typed. It contained all of 15 words.
‘If you want to know more about Mummer: Sal’s Meat Market, Cole St. 7 pm.’
*** Section Missing ***
from my car I watched the butcher exit the shop and head down the street, carrying a large bundle wrapped in brown paper. The bundle was huge. He had to wrap both arms around it. As I watched him lumber away, something occurred to me. Why was he making such a big delivery on foot? I mean, the guy had the build of Jackie Gleason and walked with a limp. The shop’s van was parked right in front, yet here was this out of shape tub of lard walking down the street. Even if he was going somewhere nearby, taking the van would have been easier. I had to wonder where he was going.
*** INTERVIEWS AT THE BUTCHER SHOP REVEAL THAT A WORKER MATCHING THIS DESCRIPTION QUIT MONTHS AGO, LEAVING NO FORWARDING ADDRESS. ***
*** Section Missing ***
alley was a nightmare of dumpsters, garbage cans, dog shit, broken glass and ripped-up furniture. The guy quickly picked his way through the debris, giving me the impression that he’d done it before. He was out the other end before I got even a quarter of the way through.
I was sure I’d lose him, but when I came to the end of the alley I saw it led to a kind of courtyard bordered by a warehouse and some tenements. The only other exit was closed off by a metal grate.
The butcher stood in the middle of the courtyard. There was a manhole there, blocked off by cones and public works barriers. A temporary cover had been put over it, one of those tent-things that you see when city workers need access. But there were no workers that night, no one around except for the butcher and me.
He moved the cover out of the way. I had to back out of sight as his movements brought me into his field of vision. When I looked again he was crouched over the hole. I watched him hold his parcel over the opening. I heard the paper tear as something fell out. Before I could move to a better spot, the butcher had turned and was coming back in my direction. I wouldn’t have thought a man so big could move so fast. I barely had time to crouch behind some garbage cans before he came barreling down the alley. He shot past me like he was on fire, barely slowing to dodge through the debris. He was gone before I could get back to my feet.
I walked over to the manhole.
There was just a single streetlight in the alley. I hoped it would be bright enough. I cursed myself for not bringing a flashlight. I leaned over the edge and peered in. Some light did filter down, but it took a moment for my eyes to make out the shapes in the darkness.
I noticed the fingers first.
There were hands, severed hands, three or four of them, scattered on the dirty, wet, concrete floor of the sewer. There was a leg, a woman’s I think, complete with a foot. Toenails shining like nickels in the dim light of the street lamp. A slab of flesh with hair and nipples. Soft, glistening shapes that oozed something thick and black. That was all I saw before I had to roll onto my hands and knees and vomit.
The next time I had a conscious thought, I was back in my apartment, sitting on the edge of my bed. I had taken off my sneakers and was staring at them in the corner of the room. I couldn’t remember leaving the alley. I couldn’t remember how I got home. I couldn’t remember why it was important to do anything but crawl under the covers and pass out, so that’s what I did.
I didn’t go to work the next day.
*** Section Missing ***
‘If you want to know more: K-O Pest Control, 17th St. Ask for Mike.’
*** Section Missing ***
cellar was like a death camp. Rusted canisters of poison hanging on the walls. Jars of amber liquid with limp shapes floating inside. Gas masks and thick rubber gloves. As soon as we got to the bottom of the stairs I wanted to shut my eyes and run.
“Never forget the day we found him,” Mike said. “A sub-basement full of garbage, and there he was, flatout under a pile of greasy newspapers.” We came to a steel-plated door with strange stains around the handle. Mike slipped the key into the lock and used both hands to force it to turn. “Don’t get pissed if he ain’t here,” he said. “Sometimes he’s gone for weeks. Damned if I know how he gets out, but he always comes back.” He opened the door a crack. Weak yellow light made a line across his

“Go ahead,” Mike said. “Ask him a question.”
The kid cocked his head at me. He looked to be about 15. His eyes were small and beady, and his hair grew in matted clumps. He had a pointed nose and I watched him pull his lips into a kind of grimace. Every third tooth seemed to be missing.
“Clever Tim,” the kid whispered. He turned his head to the side and I saw what was left of his earlobe. Ragged strips of flesh hung from his head like the petals of a dying flower. Above them were three scars as wide as my finger.
I knelt to look at his face. “What happened to your ear?” I said softly.
“Clever Tim hid when the dogs came.” His head lolled up and down as he spoke, as if he was singing. “Clever, clever Tim, the wild doesn’t want him no more, no, no. Clever Tim knows lots of things.”
I glanced at Mike, who was staring at the ceiling, looking bored. Then he looked at me and said, “Better ask him something now. In another minute he’ll be a drooling idiot.”
I didn’t think. The words just came out of me. “The other night I saw something. In a… in a hole. But I can’t remember it. Not everything. I can’t remember what happened next and I don’t know if-”
“The spirits are watching you,” he said and laughed. Some spit flew onto my cheek. “When you see the woman with the bird, tell her the answer is seven. Seven, they say!” He made a kind of chuffing noise as he laughed. He seemed to be chewing his tongue.
I heard Mike walking for the door. “That’s as good as you’ll get out of him,” he told me. “See you, Tim.”
When we were outside the door Mike’s cell phone rang. It made us both jump. He turned away from me to talk. I found myself walking back to the metal door. Mike hadn’t locked it yet. I pushed it open and looked in.
Tim wasn’t there. The room was empty except for the furniture. There was no other exit, no door or window. I stared like I was in a trance. Then there was a blur of motion in the corner of my eye, a crinkling of newspaper. I turned my head toward the far wall in time to see something slither away through a small hole near the floor. If I had to guess, I’d say it was a rat, except that I’m not sure I saw anything at all.

*** NO SUCH PEST CONTROL IN THE AREA. DID SHE CHANGE THE NAME? WHY? ***
*** Section Missing ***
‘The Ugly Mug Hanover Street. Bring this.’
*** Section Missing ***
The envelope contained a single playing card, the ace of clubs. The design on the back was something I’d never seen before. It depicted a snake curled into a circle, biting its own tail - a symbol that research told me is called “oroboros.” Arrayed around the snake were 10 symbols: a lightning bolt, a cube, an Egyptian ankh, two overlapping circles, an hourglass, a spiral, a crescent moon, a skull, an open eye and a spider web. I had been sitting in the coffee shop on Hanover for 45 minutes, idly playing with the card. It was worn at the edges, with a faint stain on the face and a crease at one corner. Then the waitress asked me if I wanted another latte.
She wasn’t the woman who’d been waiting on me earlier. She couldn’t have been more than 17, with a punked-out hair cut, a ring through her lip and a dozen thin silver chains around her neck. Part of a tattoo was visible on her collarbone, a flourish of dark ink peeking out of her tank top. I looked into her eyes and felt like I was breathing helium.
She sat down across the table and gestured at the playing card. “Is that yours?” she asked.
“Someone told me to bring it.”
She nodded. “You look tired. Are you sure you’re awake?”
I considered that for a few seconds. “I think I’m half asleep,” I told her. The noises of the coffee shop, the clinking of silverware and scraping of chairs across the floor seemed to fall away. The smell of coffee beans and pastries faded. I saw her reach forward and put one finger on the back of my hand. “The dream equation,” she said, “told me someone was coming.”
An electric warmth flowed from her hand into my body. I turned my head and it seemed as if I could see afterimages. Everywhere I looked, people left trails as they moved, reflections of themselves that stretched behind them like time-lapse photography. I opened my mouth to speak, but everything was changing. Everyone, everything was merging with its own reflections. Heads had a hundred faces. Faces had a thousand eyes. A million fingers on my hand. An old man with an infant at his core. A toddler with a coiledup crone inside her.
It was too much. I looked at the girl, the waitress, and her body was like glass. Inside it, in place of her heart, a star of blue light beat. I saw her lips move. “The time equation is incomplete,” her voice said in my mind. “We’re compressing like paper dolls.” I stared at her eyes, which were shining like rain puddles in the sun. I felt my lungs swelling like balloons and my stomach knotting. “Stop,” I wanted to say. The chains around her neck were dull as lead, but below them a silver design flickered and pulsed. Her tattoo, I thought. I could see right through her shirt and realized the design was a bird, a hook-billed falcon that would have
looked at home engraved on the side of an Egyptian tomb.
“The lady with the bird,” I thought. “Tell her.” I heard my voice say the word “Seven,” a few seconds before I opened my mouth and spoke.
“Seven?” she repeated. “Seven?” Laughter like thunder. “Seven! That’s it, there are seven!”
I realized my eyes were closed. I counted to three and opened them. I was standing in the alley behind the coffee shop. It was raining. I was holding an umbrella. It wasn’t my umbrella. The handle was in the shape of a parrot, just like in Mary Poppins.
*** I CONSIDERED INVESTIGATING THIS COFFEE SHOP, BUT OUR MASTERS ADVISED ME TO HOLD OFF AND WAIT FOR MORE INSTRUCTIONS. ***
*** Section Missing ***
‘We meet again, Rath Street, tonight. Answers.’
*** Section Missing ***
“Fenway” wasn’t wearing the suit. Instead he was dressed in rumpled blue jeans and a faded button-down shirt. He looked like someone’s out-of-work uncle. I glared at him for a minute, then said, “I’m waiting.” He smirked. “You’ve got the job. It’s just not the job you thought it was.”
I unzipped my jacket and dropped the note to the floor. “Why do it, Mr. Mummer? Why pretend you’re dead? Why lie to me about who you are? Why even put that ad in the paper? How many people have you done this to?”
He walked across the room and leaned against the windowsill. “Dozens of people answered my ad,” he said. “About half left the house after 15 minutes of waiting. Another quarter left before 30 minutes. But not you. That showed me you had patience.” He gestured toward the black door. “And of the 39 people who answered that advertisement, you were the only one who showed any interest in that door.” He shook his head and chuckled. “My God, a black door in a bare room? And yet most of them just ignored it.”
*** THIS “MUMMER” ISN’T IN ANY OF MY FILES. RECORDS CHECK INDICATES IT IS HIS REAL NAME. YET SOMEHOW HE’S STAYED UNDER MY RADAR UNTIL NOW, EVEN THOUGH I MAKE DAMN SURE TO KNOW ALL THE PLAYERS IN THE AREA. WHO WAS PROTECTING HIM? ***
He walked to the door and put a hand on the knob. “You see, most people are quite adept at closing their eyes to even the most obvious things around them. They see only what they choose to see and block out everything else. I knew you investigated my supposed death and found no record of it. So, I knew you’d be intrigued enough to follow up on the notes I sent you. Would you like to see what’s behind the door now?”
I made fists to keep my hands from shaking.
He didn’t wait for an answer. The knob turned without a sound and the door opened smoothly. He stepped through and I heard him say, “Pardon the chill air in this part of the house. It’s better for preservation.”
I followed him into a narrow room. It was dark, and then my eyes were blinded as he switched on a light. “My life’s work,” he said. “Go ahead, take a look.” I crossed my arms against the cold and turned slowly to take in the whole room. I wanted desperately to squeeze my eyes shut.
There were bookshelves on either side. The shelves sagged under the weight. Bundles of paper. Spiral notebooks, three-ring binders, file folders. More of them piled on a small table. He walked to the far end of the room and turned to look at me. I can’t describe the look on his face. Something like pride mixed with nervousness and relief.
I picked up a notebook. It was filled with writing, neat, block lettering in black ink. The meticulous paragraphs were in sections of some sort, each separated with a title and date. “THE MANIKIN IN THE CLOSET,” “THE WHISPERS IN THE ALLEY,” “GRANDPA’S FAVORITE,” “THE LEG.” I started to read, but when I got to the part about the tank of eels I had to stop.
“What - what are these?” I asked. I thought I knew, but my ears were ringing and I had to stall.
“True stories,” he answered softly. “True stories about the world. I’ve been collecting them all my life. Some are traded, but mostly I interviewed the witnesses myself or saw them happen.”
“These things can’t be true,” I said, and even as the words left my mouth I could smell the urine in Clever Tim’s cell.
“The world’s not what we think it is,” he said. “It’s not the way they tell us. What it all means, I don’t know. I’m just a collector of stories. A recorder. A reporter. But I can’t do it for much longer. Someone else needs to take over, to pick up the trail. You’re that someone.” He was talking fast now, spit flying from his mouth. “I can tell you where to look, who to talk to. There are so many secrets-”
Without meaning to, I glanced down at the table where I’d left the notebook open.
There is a warehouse on Front Street where certain surgical procedures are performed…
“No!” I shouted, cutting off his enthusiasm. “God damn you, no! I won’t be a part of this!”
“But-”
“You’re insane! Do you think I want to end up like you? Living alone in a rundown house with only fantasies and fiction for company?”
“This is not fiction,” he said coldly. “You’ve seen things.”
“You son of a bitch!” My shouting seemed to make him shrink. “Do you realize I lost my job yesterday because I told my boss I wouldn’t go see the company shrink? I can’t sleep for more than three hours at a time without waking up screaming!”
He was in my face before I could turn away. “It’s too late,” he yelled. He grabbed my shoulders. “It’s too late! You’re in it now. You know things. You’ve seen things.” He relaxed his grip, then let go. “You can’t go back once your eyes are opened. Please-” His eyes became soft and watery. “Please. I’ve been doing this for so long. I can’t keep it up. I need someone to take it off my shoulders-”
I cursed at him as I shoved him away. When he hit the floor he made a pathetic gasp, then sucked in a gulp of air. “You don’t understand,” he wheezed.
I pulled out the gun. “My father bought me this when I left for college. He taught me how to shoot. If I ever see or hear from you again, I swear to God I’ll kill you.” I was crying. “I’m not going to play your stupid game.”
He flopped onto his chest for a moment, then started to push himself off the floor. He turned his head and looked at me. And suddenly the position of his body, the angle of his head, sent me somewhere else. I was in the alley again, staring down into the sewer, feeling the bile rise in my throat as I forced myself to count body parts. One hand, two hands, a foot, small like an infant’s...
Then another form moved into view. It slid out of the shadows and hovered over the dismembered body parts. It was dressed in rags. Filthy, tattered cloth that made it hard to see what was happening. A fat, greasy arm slithered out and grabbed a shapeless chunk of organ meat. There were noises. Slapping and smacking and sucking noises. The shadowy figure shifted position. There were crunching sounds. I pressed both hands to my mouth and held tight, but a desperate gasp still escaped my lips.
And it looked at me.
It rolled its shoulders and cocked its head and looked up at me. Even though I was on the street and it was underground, I felt as though I was an ant and it was towering over me. There was blood running down its chin and a mustache of human fat across its upper lip. Its mouth was open wide, so wide, jaws unhinged like a snake’s. Its head had strange bulges. Its eyes were human, so human as they fixed on me, burned into me, tried to obliterate me the way the sun obliterates the night.
Then I heard the gun go off, and I was staring at Mummer’s corpse, watching his blood stain the carpet.
After that, I wandered through the house in a kind of daze. There were more rooms. Many more. An attic. A basement. They were all filled with more stories. Towers of notebooks, mountains of folders, oceans of files. Stories written on cocktail napkins, the backs of envelopes, on box tops and strips of torn-up clothing. Stories written on the walls themselves, the floors, the windows.
I knew what would happen if I left them intact. I knew that sooner or later I’d make myself read them. All of them.
I couldn’t let that happen.
*** Section Missing ***
By the time I was out of state, I was the chief suspect in both the fire and the murder. I don’t know what the “evidence” they found in my apartment was. Someone probably planted something. Anyway, I know how the police work. I’m pretty sure I can stay one step ahead of them.
*** MY SOURCE IN THE P.D. TELLS ME SHE REMAINS AT LARGE. WHO’S HELPING HER? THE ENEMY? ***
Everywhere I look, I wonder what I’m seeing. I wonder about the guy in the alley who follows me with his eyes as I walk by. I wonder about the two bald guys sitting in the back of the diner, wearing strange medallions around their necks. I wonder about the huge dog I see walking along the side of the road, vanishing like mist before he’s fully in my headlights.
I wonder what will happen next.
I hope this letter gets to you. It feels like we haven’t spoken in years. I’m not even sure where you’re teaching these days.
I hope I have the courage to mail this to you.
Don’t come looking for me, Dad. Please.
Destroy this letter after you read it.
*** End Transcript ***

- From the first lecture planned for a new course, “Edge Zoology” by Professor Malcolm Yee, instructor, Penn State University, Department of Zoology. (Cancelled following Dr. Yee’s presumed death).

Some people think of me as some kind of Indiana J ones. (Pause for laughter.) They imagine I spend my time pushing through cobweb-infested catacombs or hacking through the jungle with native guides at my heels. I’ve been to both places and found them to be fascinating, but devoid of the kinds of things I search for.
Most of you are familiar with the concept of a “cryptid,” an unknown or hidden type of animal. For all our knowledge and technology, we’re still discovering new species of fauna, from the coelacanth, an ancient fish unchanged since the Devonian era (slide #1), to the pitohui, the world’s only poisonous bird, first identified in 1981 (slide #2). We continue to search for cryptids, whose existence is hinted at by folklore, cultural tradition and physical evidence. The gigantic thunderbird of the American southwest, the dinosaur-like mokele-mbembe of central Africa, the bunyip of Australia’s lakes and rivers. These animals and others draw the attention of thousands of cryptozoologists every year, many of whom are credible scientists.
But I propose the existence of a special category of cryptids. I call them “anthrocryptids.” That is, cryptids that are similar in appearance and intelligence to human beings. These sorts of beings turn up in our history and folklore time and time again. In modern times, the idea that other intelligent life forms might secretly dwell amongst us seems so improbable that it doesn’t bear discussion. But consider this: It’s a widely held secret among zookeepers that every year, hundreds of animals escape from zoo enclosures around the world. And about half the time, the escapees are never recovered. That includes larger beasts like monkeys, ungulates and big cats.
There’s every reason to believe that at least some of these animals manage to find a niche and survive unseen in the local urban, suburban or rural environment. If these creatures,acting on instinct, can hide themselves from a determined search, how much easier would it be for intelligent, man-like life forms to avoid notice when they’re not being looked for? It’s time we developed a methodology for seeking out and studying anthrocryptids. To that end, I’ve used what little we know about them to create three distinct anthrocryptid categories (slide #3).

Ferals
If you wanted to hide from humans, the most obvious solution would be to place yourself as far from civilization as possible. I call the anthrocryptids who take this approach “ferals.” You’re familiar with stories about sasquatch and yeti, and while the most familiar “bigfoot” evidence is almost certainly fraudulent, there are so many accounts of these creatures that they bear continued investigation. The key strategy for finding out more about them is, I think, not to go looking for them in their own environment. Unless you’re trained and practiced for survival in harsh environments, traveling to the remote locations most likely to hide ferals means you put your life in serious danger.
-Habitat
Even if you’re a botanist who spends half his time looking for orchids in the Yucatan, I still wouldn’t recommend a determined search for ferals. As comfortable and familiar as the wilds may seem to you, you’re on their turf. There’s no way they won’t see, hear or smell you coming. You can’t expect to match their knowledge of the terrain, weather, flora or fauna. All you can do is hope to get lucky. It’s a tremendous waste of time, resources and effort. A much better approach is to look for what biologists call “edge environments,” places where two different ecosystems meet. The edge of a field, where an ice pack blends with the ocean, the border between a desert and a savannah. These are all classic edge environments, where organisms can easily be observed moving from one ecoclime to another. In the case of feral anthrocryptids, an edge environment is a place where a relatively small human community abuts a large, undeveloped wilderness. There are probably fewer ferals in such places than there are in less accessible areas, but there’s a greater chance that they’ll make their presence known, either by accident or intent.
Example: Coeur Island, British Columbia
One of an uncounted number of islands between Port H ardy and the British Columbia mainland, Coeur Island is accessible only by water. Even at that, the ocean passages are difficult to cross, especially in fall and spring. There are no towns or any permanent structures on the island. I’ve collected a number of stories of possible feral encounters there, beginning with stories told by the native populations and collected by an early missionary Father Pierre (we’ll hear more about him next week). I’ve also heard the testimony of hunters and fishermen who occasionally visit there today.
Among the most notable is the case of Oscar Johnson in 1922. H e was a logger who was taking time off to do some fishing. He reported that one night while sleeping on the beach, he was picked up in his sleeping bag and carried almost five miles inland. When he was finally set down and able to get out of his bag, he found himself surrounded by a group of large, hirsute creatures that had the combined features of men and apes. He said he was kept prisoner for six days and given meals of water and raw fish before he escaped.
I’ve been to Coeur Island several times. It’s a primeval place. The beach is pristine and the forest, just a hundred yards away, towers over you like an army of giants. At night the northern lights seem close enough to touch. I’ve made several casts of footprints that seem to combine animal and human features. I haven’t encountered any ferals directly. Yet one night my guide and I were awoken to what sounded like the howling of wolves. The next morning, there were several rows of footprints (slide #4) that led from the beach straight into the surf. These are clearly some type of animal print. But as you can see from the tape measure in this picture, the prints are huge. They continue right into the water. Interestingly, they’re headed in the direction of the island across the bay.
(Drink water. Put off questions till later.)

The Unearthly
There are other ways to keep a low profile than to hide. An approach successfully used by many organisms is camouflage. There are many variations on this strategy, from protective coloration - blending into the background - to mimicking another species. I’m convinced that there have been anthrocryptids living among us perhaps as long as we’ve existed. Theoretically, you can find them anywhere, though the only reports I’ve seen tend to place them in somewhat unusual locations. They’re seen at car crashes or other accidents. I also have several citations of them being encountered in airports. More often than not they’re encountered at night. Descriptions of these beings vary, but there are two commonalities to most encounters. The first is their physical appearance. They’re often described has having “unearthly” beauty or “idealized” proportions. Other times they’re more exotic than beautiful; their features seem “designed” or “geometric.” They tend to have delicate facial features, they’re tall and they move very gracefully. Their voices are musical, strangely accented, and they wear cologne with complex scents. They’re often dressed inappropriately - wearing a tuxedo in a supermarket, for example, or a heavy coat and hat on a warm summer day.
-Habitat
What would it take to conceal yourself among a large group of human beings? First of all, your best bet would be to set yourself up among a large, cosmopolitan group, the more diverse the better. In areas where people are used to crossing paths with a range of ethnicities, languages, clothing styles and behaviors, any flaws in your disguise are less likely to stand out. This may be the reason why the vast majority of unearthlies are reported in or near some of the world’s largest cities, especially those with a large tourist base. It would also help to have economic resources at your disposal. Money buys privacy and discretion. Since these beings seem capable of speaking our language and operating within our culture, to a greater or lesser degree, it’s conceivable that they’ve learned to imitate and manipulate our economic activities as well.
Example: Zona del Silencio, Mexico
Anecdotes I’ve collected suggest that unearthlies are able to move freely through restricted areas in places such as government buildings, hospitals and museums. They are also sighted at exclusive resorts, nightclubs and hotels. Such places would make excellent gathering sites, since the staff is expected to be discrete and there’s a high turnover of guests and visitors.
However, my only personal encounter with an unearthly happened to occur in a place that doesn’t match the metropolitan habitat I’ve been talking about. You should know by now that biology in the field doesn’t always follow the neat patterns described in slide lectures.
(Pause for laughter.)
In Mexico, about 400 miles from El Paso, Texas, is a place popularly known as the Zone of Silence (slide #5 ). The Mexican government has renamed it Mar de Tetys, or the Sea of Thetys. It’s essentially a desert of cactus, stone, thorny bushes and poisonous snakes. The only residents are the staff of a scientific research facility located at the center of the zone. Since the 1930’s, it’s been reported that no radio reception is possible within the zone. I found this to be the case when I visited as a graduate student. I won’t say what year (pause for laughter). Not only were our radios and televisions unable to receive signals, our walkie-talkies were inoperable.
Our first day there, we were on our way to the research facility when our jeep stalled. We’d had the vehicle completely serviced before we set out, so you can imagine how frustrated we were. The temperature was about 10 3 degrees, but the engine didn’t seem overheated.
It just wouldn’t start up again. As we were bent over it trying to find the problem, we heard footsteps behind us. I remember turning around and wondering if I was imagining things. I saw a tall person standing there. I tend to think it was a man. The truth is, he could have been either male or female. He had long hair that was so blond it was almost white. His skin was pink, not tan in the slightest, and I couldn’t imagine why the desert sun hadn’t burned him to a crisp. He wore simple clothes. A pale shirt, gray shorts, unremarkable hiking boots.
My professor said hello and asked if the stranger was from the research center. He shook his head and then spoke in a voice that was midrange between a man’s and a woman’s. He asked if we had been sent by “the authorities.” We said we hadn’t, that we were there to do some fossil hunting. He nodded. We stared at each other for a few awkward moments. The stranger had a slight smile on his face the whole time. Then the jeep’s engine suddenly sprang to life, startling the two of us. By the time we turned back to the stranger, he was gone. The incident left us both badly shaken. We realized later that the stranger had carried no water bottle or hiking gear of any kind. Not even a sun hat. And even though the terrain around us was flat as a pancake, the stranger had vanished in seconds, leaving not even a footprint. When we reached the research facility, the staff assured us that there was no one in the area who met that description.
Certainly no one could have hiked that far into the zone without provisions, and a routine aerial survey later that day showed no evidence of any vehicle but our own.

The Outsiders
The third group, outsiders, might also be termed zoophantoms, suggesting something that takes the illusion of an organism but may be of a different order altogether. In previous ages these creatures might have been called “spirits” or “ghosts.” It’s difficult to engage in discussion about them without becoming mired in centuries of religious and cultural bias. But I believe that a detached, clear-minded approach to investigating them is the best tack.
(Slide #6 , pause for laughter)
Outsiders come in many forms, from animated balls of light to spectral visitations to simulacrums of seeming flesh and blood. Their most prominent characteristic is that they seem to behave as if coming from “outside” our own frame of reference. They appear and disappear, pass through solid objects, generate changes in temperature and upset our understanding of the physical world. Sometimes they resemble a deceased loved one, or a stranger whose identity is discovered later. Some of them seem to act mindlessly, wandering without purpose or repeating the same behavior over and over again. Others may act deliberately or even maliciously.
-Habitat
Careful observation of the data, and application of simple models of animal behavior, yields some interesting theories about these cryptids. First of all, they seem very territorial. They’re usually associated with a very specific location - a house, a certain stretch of road, a particular riverbank or cemetery. Outsiders do not seem to like crowds. They don’t seem to like mingling with humans, but they do like to be where humans have been. I believe that’s the key to understanding them.
Outsiders have an affiliation with human emotion. They tend to turn up at places of emotional turmoil. Houses where murders took place, burial mounds that were once central to a culture’s grieving process, even sites where opposing armies clashed and spilled blood. These places appeal to them, but only after the action is over, sometimes centuries after. If human emotions leave behind some type of subtle energy or vibration, perhaps these ephemeral creatures feed on them. If their choice of territory proves unlucky - the house is sold, the old castle is refurbished - they rely on startling behavior to try to reclaim their areas.
Example: Cemetery of St. James, London, England
Two years ago a friend of a friend described what seemed to me to be incidents of outsider activity. I was particularly intrigued because the events occurred in a cemetery. To me, the possibility added credence to the idea that outsiders are not the souls of the restless dead. After all, nobody actually dies in a cemetery, and the deceased usually had no attachment to the place during life. However, if you’re a creature that thrives on extremes of emotion, the place is perfect. There are plenty of visitors to provide sustenance, but no permanent residents to intrude on your privacy.
(Pause for laughter.)
Long story short, we spend the night in the 30-acre Cemetery of St. James, in the Highgate section of north London. Over 16 7 ,000 people are buried there. Every so often a disinterred body is found, causing quite a stir. (Pause for laughter). There’s also a longstanding rumor that a vampire has its tomb there. My associate had connections that got us permission to remain on the grounds after dark. After the sun went down, the gravestones and monuments seemed to take on different shapes in the corners of your eyes. It’s remarkable how the wind through the foliage sounds like whispering. Our night there passed uneventfully, and the sophisticated equipment we’d brought detected nothing unusual.
Or so we thought.
After I’d returned home, I ran the field recordings I’d made through some analysis software. It turned out there was one anomaly recorded, at about 4 am, somewhere within two feet of the grave over which we’d been keeping vigil. Close examination and amplification of the faint signal suggested that it was an approximation of a human voice, repeating the following six words 70 times and then going silent: “You pull and I shall push.” I’m still not sure what to make of that. Maybe some of you will figure it out.
(PAUSE FOR L AUGHTER)
(TAKE QUESTIONS IF TIME PERMITS)