As soon as he was in front of his PC he made a series of internet searches for reported sightings of the Beast. He did this often, as he believed that any mention of it could prove to be a valuable lead which would enable him to achieve his life’s ambition.
For once, he struck gold. There had been sightings of an animal in a village called Nobblethwaite which was up in Yorkshire. The animal had been variously described as a ‘big cat’, a ‘puma’, a ‘were-cat’, and — most tellingly of all — ‘the Beast of Nobble Moor’. More recently, there had been a series of unexplained deaths and disappearances in the northern town of Huddersfield.
Hunter immediately realised that the sightings and the deaths were probably related; he suspected that that there was a Beast — perhaps the Beast of Bodmin Moor itself — that had wreaked havoc in Nobblethwaite, and which was now doing the same thing in Huddersfield.
He looked closely at Google maps of the area and pinpointed the locations of the unexplained deaths. He saw that they had all taken place near Stonker edge. The Edge was cheek-by-jowl with Stonker Moor, beyond which lay Nobble Moor and the village of Nobblethwaite.
The geography convinced Hunter that the Beast had made its lair somewhere near Stonker Edge and that it must be venturing into the town at night to wreak havoc.
Exhausted from lack of sleep, but fired up with excitement at the thought he might at last come face-to-face with the Beast, Hunter packed some food, clothing, and equipment in an old camper van he had on his drive before setting off towards the north.
His camper van could do no more than fifty miles per hour, but since that was the fastest speed anyone could travel on the M5 and the M6 due to the many roadworks, that wasn’t a problem.
It took him until 2.00 a.m. to reach Huddersfield, by which time he felt too tired to go any further. He pulled into a lay-by and climbed into the small bed he had in the back of his camper van and slept.
At 9.00 a.m. he somehow managed to rouse himself and eat some breakfast, and he set off again. Soon he was driving up South Stonker Lane, the road leading up to Stonker Edge. It was so steep that he had to use the first gear of his ageing van all the way up it. Travelling at a speed that was not a great improvement on walking pace, he passed two pensioners sitting on a bench. One of them peered up from behind a newspaper and watched him driving by.
When Hunter reached the top of the hill he headed in the direction of Stonker Edge Farm, keeping his eyes peeled for likely-looking hideouts for a Beast. He noticed that the fields around the farm were overgrown with wild grasses and weeds, and there was neither cattle nor crop to be seen anywhere on any of them.
Hunter had grown up on a farm and he knew what a well-kept farm should look like. It was obvious to him that something was wrong. The farm was either derelict, or — he hardly dared think it — the farmer had been killed by the Beast, and he had stumbled upon its lair.
He found a muddy track leading to the farmhouse. It was gated and guarded by an intimidating sign with a skull and crossbones on it. The sign bore the words: ‘Private. Keep Out. Trespassers will be prosecuted — if they survive being shot.’
Hunter left his camper van, opened the gate, and drove through. At the end of the track he came to a cobbled farmyard on which he parked his van. On one side of the yard stood the farmhouse; opposite that, there was a barn and between them there were a few outbuildings and a tractor.
He climbed from his van and peered through the windows of the farmhouse. It looked spotlessly clean inside, and yet the farm itself had been allowed to go to rack and ruin. It was as if the farmer had gone on a long holiday. But that wasn’t possible; farmers didn’t take holidays.
He stepped away from the window and looked around.
Was it possible that the owner had died, and that the place had been put up for sale by a relative who wasn’t interested in farming? Hunter couldn’t see any sale signs anywhere. Nevertheless, he made a quick online check using his mobile phone and quickly eliminated the possibility that the farm was up for sale.
He concluded that it was highly likely that the farmer had become a victim of the Beast.
It occurred to him that he might become the next victim if he wasn’t careful, so he took his illegally-owned shotgun from his camper van, loaded it, and began to explore.
He headed in the direction of the outbuildings. As he approached them, he noticed stains on the side of the tractor. They were faint, having been weathered somewhat, but he was still able to recognise them as bloodstains. He searched the area around the tractor methodically and found pieces of tattered clothing and chips of white matter which he assumed must be bone.
His heart began to beat faster.
He opened up the doors of each of the outhouses in turn and looked inside. They were all empty.
Finally, he headed for the barn. He had good feelings about the barn. His instincts told him that if he was going to find the Beast anywhere, it would be there.
It had two enormous wooden doors set in an arch. There was a smaller, normal-sized door set into one of the big doors, and it was open.
Hunter stood in front of the opening and peered inside. It was too dark to see anything.
He detected a movement in the darkness and levelled his shotgun. Then he felt something he hadn’t expected to feeclass="underline" fear. He forced himself to breathe deeply in order to settle his nerves and he stepped back, so that whatever was lurking in the barn wouldn’t be able to take him by surprise.
He saw it again, a subtle movement in the darkness.
Then the thing in the barn came so close that he was able to see it.
It was a cute little tabby cat.
Hunter relaxed and laughed out loud.
All that panic over a cat, he thought. I nearly blew its head off. How stupid of me to imagine that the beast was in there.
Moments later, more cats emerged from the barn. Three of them caught his eye: a huge black one, a ginger one almost as big, with a midsection that was flat and serrated at the edge; and a grey one which had carbon-fibre blades where it should have had hind legs.
The truth dawned on Hunter: he had found the Beast.
But there wasn’t just one Beast; there was a horde of them, and they were taking an unhealthy interest in him.
He raised his weapon, chuckling in spite of his fear at the discovery that the Beast was very different from what he’d expected it to be.
“Right, you little basta-“
That was when Henderson landed on his head and Goliath took him by the legs. He fell off balance while pulling the trigger of his shotgun, discharging it harmlessly into the air. Then he fell to the ground where he became nothing more than a plate of high-quality cat-food, as fresh, appetising and irresistible as catnip.
The undead felines swarmed over him, biting lumps from his limbs, head and torso. Their attack was so ferocious that he was unable to put up any meaningful resistance. As his life ebbed away, Snark Hunter somehow found the strength to mumble a few mysterious and haunting last words:
“In the midst of the word he was trying to say,
In the midst of his laughter and glee,
He had softly and suddenly vanished away –
For the Snark was a Boojum you see.”
Mercifully, he didn’t survive the attack for long.
CHAPTER 14
Owen Blackhead was puzzled. He had two cats, neither of which had left the house for several days, and that was most unlike them. Their names were Muthah and Fuckah. These were Owen’s names for them, anyway; his wife and children called the cats Belle and Marmalade.