‘Somebody get this poor sonofabitch some help!’ Gordon shouted as he rushed forward and knelt down beside the thing. Closer now, he could see this quivering pale creature in rags had once been human but could barely be described as that now. Looking at the gaunt, starved-to-within-an-inch-of-death face, the deeply recessed and shadowed eyes, he saw an emptiness that would haunt him for the rest of his life and flavour the way he would tell this story to his children, and their children.

Those were the eyes of someone who had glimpsed the Angel of Death himself.

He leaned closer to the man. ‘We’ll get you some help. Some food and water,’ he whispered, suspecting it was already long past doing the poor wretch any good. Those empty eyes met his and Gordon swore for a moment that he saw the flickering flames of hell in those wide, dilated pupils.

My God, he may die right here.

Gordon reached out and gently held one of this poor man’s bony claws. The loose folds of skin on his hands reminded him of the turkey-wattle skin of an old man.

No man should die without a name.

‘Can you tell me your name, sir?’

The man’s thin, leathery lips parted, revealing impossibly long teeth, gums withdrawn by malnutrition. He struggled to say something — little more than a mucous-clogged rattle.

‘Tell me again,’ whispered Gordon, his face just inches away now. He could feel tiny, rapid puffs of fetid air against his cheek.

The man tried again, panting with effort, managing just the faintest whisper that sounded like rustling wings.

‘My name is… Ben…’

The Present

CHAPTER 1

Thursday

Sierra Nevada Mountains, California

Julian Cooke squatted down amidst the knee-high ferns, looking up at the thick canopy of pine needles and the stout straight trunks of the Douglas firs around them, before turning to look at the camera.

‘Ready?’

‘Yeah, I’m running,’ Rose replied.

Self-consciously he patted down his coarse dark hair and adjusted the round steel-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose.

‘There’s a rich tradition of fire-side tales that come from this part of America, the wilderness of the Sierra Nevada mountain range,’ he started, looking squarely at the lens of the digital camera that Rose was holding. ‘They come in all shapes and sizes out here: ghost stories, stories of alien abductions, sightings of Bigfoot… sightings of Elvis.’ Julian arched his thick, dark eyebrows and shrugged.

A trademark gesture. The shrug, the flickering expression of mild disbelief… an understated gesture of gently mocking cynicism.

He sighed. ‘Some of the people I’ve spoken to here will tell you of a giant Indian spirit, as tall as a house yet invisible, moving through the woods leaving broken trees in its path. Then, of course, you’ll get those who talk of a hooded monk, and others… a witch, seen moving in the half-light of dusk. I’ve spoken to several people who confidently assure me that a friend has even captured the hooded figure on camera, something that might just happen tonight… if we get lucky.’

His thick Groucho eyebrows arched again behind the glasses and the hint of a tongue-in-cheek smile played across his lips. He held the expression for a couple of seconds, then relaxed.

‘How was that?’ he asked, rubbing his cold hands together.

Rose Whitely nodded. ‘Yup, it was good. A bit on the cheesy side maybe.’

‘Bugger. It felt cheesy doing it. I hate these talk-to-camera pieces.’

She disconnected the camera and collapsed the tripod with a practised efficiency. ‘Well, we need a set-up piece, Jules. At the moment we’ve got more than enough footage of you interviewing the yokels-’ She shot a glance towards the park ranger sitting patiently on a log nearby and sipping her coffee from a Thermos. ‘I’m sorry, Grace, I didn’t mean it to sound like that.’

Grace shook her head. ‘No offence taken,’ she replied with a gruff, twenty-a-day voice.

Rose turned back to Julian. ‘Anyway, it looked good. You looked like David Attenborough crouching there amidst the foliage.’

Julian smiled. ‘Did I?’ He liked that.

‘Well, no, not really.’ Rose looked up at the sky. Through the canopy of leaves and branches, the languid white sky was beginning to dim. ‘I think we’re losing the last of our daylight for shooting.’

Julian nodded. ‘Yup, I think we’re done.’

Grace tipped the dregs of her coffee away, screwed the cap on her Thermos and stood up. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘we’ve got an hour of light. Need to find a decent-size clearing to pitch the tents.’

She bent down and scooped up her backpack, slung her rifle over one shoulder and pushed through the undergrowth. ‘Let’s move out.’

Julian watched her for a moment, groaning as he wearily picked up his pack and pulled the straps over his shoulders. Rose brushed past him, carrying about twice the load — camping pack, camera and equipment — and grinned.

‘She is something of a character, isn’t she?’