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The man’s thin, leathery lips parted, revealing impossibly long teeth, gums withdrawn by malnutrition.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.’