ADVENTURES IN NIGHT STALKING

(Cover art by Karl Lundstedt)

It was thought to be a prank, the work of an artist with a strange of humor and too much time on his hands. But it was much, much worse.

New York's Lower East Side, Friday, April 3rd, 8:00 p.m. Traffic on East River Drive, near the Manhattan Bridge, was brought to a standstill when two statues suddenly appeared in the thoroughfare. They were fully clothed. A maintenance crew was quickly dispatched to remove them.

Soho, Saturday, April 4th, 11:30 p.m. Gregory Wilkins, 56 and homeless, had just fallen asleep under the Williamsburg Bridge when a scream awakened him. He gasped at what he found: a statue in the form of a sleeping woman. It was dressed in torn, faded clothing. Next to it was a rickety shopping cart filled with the odds and ends that a homeless woman just might collect. A panicked Wilkins grabbed his few belongings and ran away.

East 20th Street and Avenue C, Sunday, April 5th, 10:00 p.m. For the third time in just over 48 hours, a maintenance crew was called in to move a statue that had mysteriously appeared. This time, police were dispatched as well.

I arrived at the I.N.S. offices at 9:00 Monday morning, April 6th. The first person I saw was Liza, our young and sprightly receptionist.

“Good morning, Miss Liza! And how are you this fine Monday?”

“My,” she exclaimed, “aren't you in a good mood!”

“And why shouldn't I be? I just had the most marvelous weekend.”

She giggled. “I should have guessed from that twinkle in your eye. Anybody I know?”

“I doubt that—unless your work history includes something you'd never put in a resume.”

“And I thought your money went to informants.”

“She is an informant, but it's not her only job.”

Liza shook her head with an indulgent smile. “Anyway, Tony wants to see you.”

“Geez! Am I in trouble already?”

New York is the fourth city in which I've worked for Anthony Albert Vincenzo, whose weight far exceeds his journalistic talents. He was my editor in Las Vegas, Seattle, Chicago, and now the Big Apple. His “edits” often entailed crumpling up my stories and throwing them in the trash. Alas, there is no such title as “Crumpler-in-Chief.” I knocked on his office door and walked in without waiting for a reply.

“Ah! Carl, there you are.”

“Figured that out all by yourself, did you?”

“Carl, please. It's Monday morning.”

“Boy, you're just a fount of breaking news. So, you wanted to see me?”

“Yes, I have an assignment for you.” He handed me a sheet of paper.

I looked it over. “Are you kidding? This isn't news.”

“Sure, it is. It's lighthearted; a human-interest story.”

“Terrific. A vampire stalking Las Vegas: not news. A 144-year-old strangler in Seattle: not news.”

Tony's eyeballs went skyward. “Mama mia.”

“A zombie, a werewolf, a swamp monster, a headless biker, space aliens: not news. But some sculptor with a weird sense of humor placing statues in Lower Manhattan: Pulitzer Prize material, by god. Thank you so much, Vincenzo!”

“Just cover the damned thing and stop yelling, will you please?”

I snapped my fingers. “So that's it! Over the weekend, you were visited by three spirits: Jack Daniels, Jim Beam, and Captain Morgan. You're a drunken Scrooge, Mr. Vincenzo.”

“If working with you doesn't make a man drink, I don't know what would. Now get the hell out of my office and do your job!”

I stormed out of his office and past the reception desk. Liza, who must have heard our shouting match (even through the closed door), said, “A vampire in Las Vegas?”

I replied, “Frank Langella was terrific in that film.”

“Who's Frank Langella?”

Didn't I say she was young?



It struck me as odd that the police had been called in to investigate something purportedly innocuous, so I phoned the N.Y.P.D. and asked for the investigating officer.

A woman with a husky contralto said, “Detective Fontayne.”

“Hello, Detective. Carl Kolchak, I.N.S.”

She groaned. “I'm going to kill whoever put you through to me. What do you want?”

“I'm calling about an odd series of events from over the weekend. Your name was on the police report.”

“This isn't about the statues, is it?”

“Why yes, it is. I'm supposed to write a story about them.”

She snorted. “Slow news day, huh?”

“Hey, what can I tell you? My editor gives me an assignment, I have to complete it.”

“Yeah, I know how that feels. Honestly, Kolchak, there's nothing to the story. Some weirdo spent the weekend putting up statues. Except for the ones in the middle of East River Drive, he didn't break any laws.”

“So, why was a police detective put on the case?”

Fontayne paused. “Kolchak, there's a call on my other line. I have to go.”

She hung up.



FDR Drive near the Queens Midtown Tunnel, Monday, April 6th, 10:15 p.m. Another statue placement—except this time, it was found behind the wheel of a Toyota Camry with the motor running. For good measure, the transmission was also in gear. The car had run a curb and slammed into a light pole. I heard the call on my police scanner and high-tailed it to the scene. When I arrived, I saw two uniformed cops directing traffic while several others worked under Detective Fontayne's supervision. As I approached her, she was lighting a fresh cigarette from the one she was finishing.

Fontayne saw me and rolled her eyes. “Jesus, Kolchak, don't you ever sleep?”

“I could ask you the same question. So, what happened?”

“Another statue—but this time, our merry prankster used a car.”

“Can I take a look?”

“Go ahead. Just don't touch anything.”

I looked inside the vehicle through the driver's side door. A statue not only sat inside, but had its left hand on the wheel. It held its right arm in front of its face and had an expression of unmitigated terror. Even the eyes seemed to radiate fear. And like the other statues, it was fully clothed. I took pictures of the scene, including the car's license plate, and returned to Fontayne. She was interviewing a nervous-looking young man in a pizza driver's uniform.

I heard him say, “I'm telling you, something was flying in front of that car!”

Fontayne said, “What? Some kind of bird?”

“Man, if that was a bird, it was from, like, six million years ago!”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, for one thing, it didn't have no feathers. And it was pretty big, maybe six feet long. You want to know what it looked like? A baby dragon!”

Pausing, Fontayne said, “A dragon?”

“Well, it didn't breathe fire or nothin'. You know what it did, though? It had these eyes that flashed red, and that's when the car jumped the curb.”

Once she was done with the witness, I approached Fontayne.

She breathed a fatigued sigh. “Yes, Kolchak?”

“A baby dragon, huh?”

“The kid reeks of marijuana. I'll bet he sees a lot of things that aren't there.”

“So how did that statue get into a car? How did it wrap its left hand around the wheel? Why does it look so frightened?”

“Look, I don't know the answer, OK? I'm as much in the dark as you are.”

“I'll give you points for honesty.”

“I have to get back to work. Tell you what, though: give me your card and I'll keep you in the loop.”

I handed her my card. “Are you sure you're a cop?”



The next morning, I called an acquaintance at Motor Vehicles, who ran the Camry's plate for me. Armed with a name and address, I obtained a phone number and called the Fort Lee, New Jersey, home of Roscoe Bennett. His worried wife stated that he had gone into the city the day before and was due back late that evening, but had not yet come home—nor had he answered Mrs. Bennett's phone calls or text messages. She also advised me that she had received a call from Detective Fontayne of the N.Y.P.D. as they had found her husband's car abandoned. So as not to worry Mrs. Bennett even more, I didn't contradict the detective's white lie.

I got on the horn to Fontayne. “What can you tell me about Roscoe Bennett?”

“Only that we found his car last night with a statue behind the wheel. But you already knew that.”

“What's become of all those statues?”

“They're in the evidence locker. Why?”

“Can I see them?”

“Are you nuts? If I let you anywhere near the evidence locker, they'll boot me back down to Traffic Control! What's this all about?”

“I don't think those are statues. I think they're real people who've turned to stone.”

Pausing, Fontayne said, “Boy, those stories I've heard about you are true, aren't they?”

“Well, what's your theory? Do you even have one?”

“Yes! I'm thinking our sculptor is more dangerous than we thought. He might be abducting people and keeping them hostage while he carves their likenesses into stone. I don't have any hard evidence, but my theory is a hell of a lot more plausible than yours.”

If Fontayne wanted hard evidence, I'd get her some. I checked the Internet for random statue placements outside of New York. Bingo! I found stories of numerous incidents dating back several weeks from as far north as New Jersey and as far south as the Caribbean Islands. I spoke with some of the reporters who had written the pieces. Two of them revealed a detail that that they had left out of their stories: eyewitness accounts of a dragon-like monster flying through the air.Armed with both printed stories and recordings of my phone conversations, I went to see Fontayne in person.



By age fourteen, Heather Fontayne was five feet nine inches tall. She took up cigarettes in the hope that it would stunt her growth.It didn't. By the time she graduated, the future policewoman was six-feet-two and a high school basketball star (despite her tobacco addiction). She attended the John Jay College of Criminal Justice at C.U.N.Y. The Department had recruited Fontayne during her senior year. She was now a fifteen-year veteran who had worked her way up from Traffic Control to being a highly respected member of the Detective Division. It was widely believed that Fontayne would one day make Chief of Detectives.

Appearance-wise, she had fluffy blonde hair that hung down to her shoulder blades, her eyes were an incandescent blue, and her impeccable face and body could have been sculpted from porcelain. If she hadn't gone into law enforcement, Heather Fontayne could very well have been a model.

As I walked across the squad room to her office, I could hear the officers present muttering little asides about me: “What the hell is he doing here?” “Who do you suppose he's pestering now?” “Oh, what I'd give to use deadly force on that prick.”

“To protect and to serve,” indeed!

I found Fontayne's office and knocked on her door. Before she could answer, I walked in. (I do that.) She stood next to the open window, blowing cigarette smoke into an outward-facing fan on the sill. Seeing me, Fontanye stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray next to the fan.

“What do you want, Kolchak?”

I held up the sheaf of news items I had printed out. “Something to read.”

As Fontayne skimmed the stories, her mouth hung open. “Jesus! It's happened that many times? Wonder if it's the same person?”

“Still think it's a person, do you?” I produced my portable cassette deck and played an excerpt from my phone conversation with a reporter in Charleston, South Carolina.

He said, “One witness told me she saw some dragon-looking monster flying over the scene right before the statue appeared. I didn't even bother putting that in my story; never would've seen print.”

Fontayne placed the papers on her desk. “You don't expect me to believe those statues are real people who've turned to stone, much less that a goddamned dragon is doing it?”

“I didn't say it was a dragon, but two different people in two different cities hundreds of miles apart claim to have seen something like it.”

She sighed. “I probably shouldn't tell you this, but the statues on East River Drive had wallets on them—complete with money, driver's license, credit cards, you name it. And over the weekend, both people had missing-persons reports filed on them. We also found a wallet on the Roscoe Bennett statue.”

“Ah-ha!”

“'Ah-ha,' nothing! It gives credence to my theory that our sculptor is a kidnapper.”

I slapped my forehead. “What has to happen before you'll take me seriously?”

Fontayne shrugged. “An acquired brain injury, perhaps?”



Roosevelt Island, Tuesday, April 7th, 9:00 p.m. My police scanner went nuts with calls about an unidentified animal engaged with police in Four Freedoms Park. The dispatcher described it as “a huge flying reptile.” I hopped on to the Queesnboro Bridge and was there in minutes.

When I arrived at the locus, the cops were in a shootout—with what looked for all world like a baby dragon. It flapped its wings furiously and strafed the officers. The creature made visual contact with one, and its eyes flashed red. The cop turned to stone! Astonished, I whipped out my camera and frantically snapped photos.

The creature landed on the grass and hissed at length. As the cops shot at it, the monster gazed at one, its eyes flashed red, and a second cop had turned to stone. The creature stuck out its long, forked tongue, flapped its wings, and flew off into the night.

I ran up to Fontayne, placing a hand on her shoulder. Her skin pale as she gasped for breath, the detective gaped silently at me. Her beautiful face was a mask of terror and incomprehension.

“Not now, Kolchak!” She pushed my hand away and ran toward the statues that just moments before had been police officers. I followed suit, hanging back and eavesdropping on them. I heard comments like, “I can't believe what I saw,” “What are we going to tell their families?,” and “What is this, Medieval England?”

A short time later, a city crew appeared and loaded the statues onto their truck. As they drove away, I approached Fontayne. She was somewhat calmer.

I asked, “Ready to believe me now?”

“I don't know what to think.”

“You don't know what to think? You saw the same thing I did. That thing transformed two cops into statues!”

She motioned to my camera. “Did you take pictures?”

“You're not going to confiscate my film, are you?”

She held up the camera, which hung around my neck. “No need to. You left the lens cap on.”

“Oh, for….” I shook my head and walked away.

Fontayne called after me, “Better luck next time!”



The next morning, I visited Columbia University and spoke to Professor Neville Wessex of the Science Department. A balding, bespectacled man of 65, he specialized in herpetology, the study of reptiles.

When I described the creature, Wessex laughed and slowly shook his head. “I must give old Corrigan credit. He really outdid himself!”

“Sir?”

“Oh, please, Mr. Kolchak—if that really is your name. Corrigan and I have played jokes on each other for decades, but never has he been this elaborate before. I presume you're an actor that he hired to wear that ridiculous suit and hat, then come to me and claim you've seen a creature that exists only in mythology.”

“No, really. I'm….”

“No need to continue the charade. Whatever he paid you, you've earned it. Tell Corrigan I said well done!”

My next stop: the office of Dr. Liam Corrigan, the elderly head of Columbia's English Department. He weighed nearly 300 pounds and sported graying red hair over a face and forehead splotched with gin blossoms. He spoke in an Irish brogue.

In response to my description, the professor said, “That sounds very much like a basilisk.”

“A bassa…. What's it called again?”

“Basilisk.” He pulled a dusty hardcover volume off his cluttered bookshelf and, muttering to himself, flipped through the pages. “Ah! Here we go.”

I looked in the book and saw an artist's rendering of a basilisk. It looked similar to what I had seen the night before: about six feet long, two feet tall, covered with scales, four short legs with four clawed toes apiece, a long tapered tail, wings similar to a pterodactyl's, and a smallish head with a sharp beak.

Corrigan explained, “A basilisk is born when a snake hatches a hen's egg. It's called the King of Serpents and can cause death with a single glance.”

“I've heard looking at one turns a person to stone.”

“Certain legends have said that, yes.”

“Does the basilisk have any weaknesses?”

“Yes. He and the weasel are mortal enemies. If they're in one another's presence, each flies into a rage and attacks the other. They won't stop fighting until one is dead. Also, the crowing of a rooster is said to cause the basilisk immediate death. And if a basilisk should see its own reflection—say, in a mirror—it will turn to stone. Poetic justice, I daresay.”

“Dr. Corrigan, you've been very helpful. I thank you, and so does Professor Wessex.”

“Wessex? What does he have to do with this?”

“I have not been completely honest with you, sir. My name is not Carl Kolchak and I'm not a reporter. I am, in fact, a member of New York's burgeoning homeless population. Professor Wessex hired me to come to you like this.”

Corrigan roared with laughter. “That tosser! He truly outdid himself. You did have me going, Mr. Kolchak—of whatever your name is. But of course you're homeless! I should've guessed by your suit. And the hat was a very nice touch.”

“I'll tell him you said that.”

As I exited the office, I heard Corrigan chuckle behind me. “Wessex, old man, at times you do exhibit signs of genius. God, that hat!”



Without knocking, I burst into Fontayne's office. “I found out what that thing was,” and told her about the basilisk.

“Great,” she replied. “So, what do you expect me to do about it?”

“What do you think? We arm ourselves with a chicken, a weasel and a mirror, and we go after the damned thing.”

“Uh-huh. And where would I get a chicken and a weasel? I can't just requisition them from the equipment room.”

“Look, have you noticed a pattern? Each time the basilisk attacks, it happens farther north than the last time. That's been the case ever since the attacks began. That thing is making its way up the Eastern Seaboard. If we don't stop it now, it'll go up to New England, and who knows? Perhaps even Canada.”

Fontayne leaned back in her chair and laced her hands behind her head. “Kolchak, I've been very patient with your wild stories, and you know why? You remind me of my Uncle Darren. Like you, he was a reporter. Like you, he was quirky and eccentric. He was, however, a much better dresser. I loved my uncle possibly more than I loved my dad. Having you around is kind of like having him back. But my patience is limited. So let's get something straight: I will not ask my captain permission to go on a fucking basilisk hunt! End of story.”

“Terrific,” I snarled. “As usual, I'm on own. I was beginning to think you were different than the other cops, but obviously I was wrong. Goodbye, Fontayne. I'm off to find a chicken, a weasel, and good mirror. Come nighttime, I'll be at the East River—just in case you care!”

“I don't,” she replied.



I spent the rest of the day trying to procure a chicken and a weasel. When I finished, it was a still a couple of hours until nightfall. Needing some dinner, I dropped the cages off at the I.N.S. office, which had closed for the day, procured my final piece of equipment (which I brought to the car), and went out to eat.

When I returned, Vincenzo was there, along with Howard Kirschenbaum of the I.N.S. Corporate Office. They were staring at my caged animals.

“Kolchak,” said Vincenzo, “what is this?”

“Looks like a chicken and a weasel. Why?”

“What are they doing in my newsroom?”

“Why do you assume I brought them here?”

“Why do I assume that water is wet? I had a six p.m. meeting with Mr. Kirschenbaum. We walked in here, and those things started screeching at us!”

“You must've scared them.”

“We scared them? Why do you even need those animals?”

“They're to stop the basilisk.”

Tony slapped his forehead. “Dare I ask what 'the basilisk' is?”

“You know that statue story you've had me on? They're not statues; they're real people who've turned to stone. A basilisk is doing it, and I need a chicken and a weasel to stop it.”

“You know what, Kolchak? I don't even care why you think you need those animals. Get them the hell out of here! It's a newsroom, not a petting zoo.”

My eyebrows raised. “Only you would think of a chicken and a weasel as petting-zoo fare.”

“Get them out of here!”

“All right, all right.” I bent over to pick up the cages.

As an incredulous Kirschenbaum witnessed our screaming match, Vincenzo said, “And one more thing. The mirror in the men's room has disappeared. Do you know anything about that?”

“I'll bring it back, Tony.”

“Bring it back? Why take it in the first place?”

“If I can get the basilisk to look at itself in a mirror, it'll turn to stone.”

“Just go, will you please? Go!”

As I exited the office with my cages in hand, I heard Vincenzo tell Kirschenbaum, “This is why I'm on blood-pressure pills.”

Kirschenbaum asked, “Why do you keep that man around?”

“I was hoping you'd know.”



The mirror I borrowed had holes drilled in the top where it was fastened to the men's room wall.I ran a length of heavy string through the holes so I could wear it around my neck. Between the animal cages, my hands were already full. I would start my patrol at the Queensboro Bridge. As I hung the mirror around my neck and picked up the cages, a patrol car flashed its lights and pulled up to me. The officer who occupied the passenger's seat rolled down his window.

“Hey, buddy! What are you up to?”

“Just out for an evening stroll.”

“With all that stuff?”

“Well,I'm a performance artist. This is my latest piece. I call it THE CHICKEN, THE WEASEL, AND THE MIRROR. It's a commentary on mankind's inability to overcome the duality of existential oneness.”

“Why do it here, where nobody's watching?”

I sighed. “The proletariat will never understand art.”

“Well, I sure as hell don't. All right, pal, carry on.”

I carried on to the river's edge and began my search for the basilisk.I had walked northward to the Upper East Side when a car horn beeped. A woman voice's shouted my name. Moments later, I saw someone approaching me. At first, I couldn't see who it was; it was after dark and my eyes are not what they used to be. When she came into view, I saw a beautiful young blonde in work boots, bluejeans, and a C.U.N.Y. sweatshirt.

She smiled and waved at me. “Hi, Kolchak.” It was Detective Fontayne.

“What are you doing here?”

“If I hadn't seen that…. What did you call it again?”

“Basilisk.”

“If I hadn't seen that thing with my own eyes, you'd be in Bellevue right about now.”

“You're helping me?”

Fontanye smiled and gave a shrug.

“Do you have your captain's permission?”

“I'm on my own time.”

“Well, great! How about taking one of these cages? My back is killing me.”

She took the weasel's cage. “Should I even ask where you found them?”

“Probably not.”

We were near East 85th Street when the weasel began to stir. I told Fontayne, “Put the cage down.”

She did. “What's going on?”

“The basilisk is nearby.”

The weasel screeched wildly and thrashed against the walls of its cage. I unlocked the door, setting the beast free. It ran to the river's edge, jumping up and down and clawing the air. I heard a hissing above us as the basilisk appeared over the water. It swooped toward the weasel, which dug its teeth into the monster's neck.

I told the rooster, “Now would be a good time to crow!”

They rolled around in the dirt, locked in a death grip. Both flopped into the water. Moments later, bubbles broke the surface, followed by the basilisk emerging. Its jaws clamped down on the weasel, which hung limp from its mouth. The basilisk came ashore, jerked its head to one side, and spit out the dead weasel.

I warned Fontayne,“ Don't look in its eyes!”

As she averted her gaze, the basilisk lunged at Fontayne. She yelped and fell backward, the creature on top of her. As I ran to help her, I tripped on some debris and onto the mirror. It shattered beneath me. I got up and threw myself onto the basilisk, grunting as I tried to separate it from Fontayne.

I stole a glance at the rooster's cage and shouted, “Crow, damn you!”

The basilisk thrust like an angry bull, throwing me off its back. I landed on my rear end, grabbed a piece of the broken mirror, and held it in front of the monster's face. Its eyes flashed red, turning itself to stone. Through our combined efforts, Fontayne and I pushed the basilisk off of her. I helped her to her feet and we stood there, breathing hard, sweat-covered, and brushing the dirt off ourselves as we gaped at the ossified monster.

Then, and only then, did the rooster crow. I resisted the urge to toss it in the river, cage and all.



The basilisk now resides in the police evidence locker, along with its victims. From time to time, Detective Fontayne visits there. She looks at the statues and cries tears of frustration that their story will never be known. As far as the city leaders are concerned, the victims of the basilisk are still missing persons. That includes the two cops who lost their lives while fighting the beast.

As for me, I'm used to not having my stories told.

(Cover art by Karl Lundstedt)

Japan: Land of the Rising Sun. The Japanese have made many positive contributions to the world. In the last 40 years alone, they gave us the bullet train, pocket calculators, the Walkman, compact discs, the android robot, advanced automotive technology…. The list goes on. There was, however, one recent Japanese import we all could have done without.

Monday morning, September 19th. Norinaga Osatu, 59, was a highly successful Tokyo businessman. He was flying to New York to inspect his various properties in the U.S. He had planned to be stateside for a month. Little did the man know, he was taking his final journey.  Three hours out of New York, he suffered a massive stroke; death was immediate. Three flight attendants and the co-pilot took his body to the cargo hold. But when the ground crew opened the hatch, the late Mr. Osatu looked very, very different.

1:15 p.m. I was writing a story about corruption in the Water Department when my desk phone rang.

I grabbed the receiver. “Kolchak.”

“It's Heck. Something's going on I think'll interest you.”

“Care to give me a hint?”

“I'm a businessman, Carl. Have you ever known me to 'give' anything?”

“All right, I'll on my way.” I got up and grabbed my hat. As I was heading for the door, my editor, Tony Vincenzo, waylaid me.

“Kolchak, where are you going?”

“One of my informants just gave me a tip. I'm checking it out.”

“Did you finish the Water Department story?”

“I will.”

“You will? I need it by five o'clock!”

“You'll have it,” I said, walking out the door.

“I'll have it? The only thing I'll have is a heart attack!”

“Don't make promises you can't keep.”



Hector “Heck” Salazar was a retired New York City cop. He now worked part-time as a security officer at LaGuardia Airport and supplied me with leads he thought would interest me. I had come to trust Heck's judgment, which is why I drove out to Queens on that gray, rainy afternoon.

When I found Heck at the security office, he said, “Let's go for a walk.”

As we strolled the busy terminal, he told me, “We had a guy croak on a flight from Tokyo. Some big mucky-mucky business dude.”

“And why should I care?”

“Wait 'til you get a load of the stiff.”

“He's still here?”

“Yeah. They haven't carted him off yet.”

He took me to the basement storage room where Norinaga Osatu's remains awaited transport to the city morgue. As we stood in front of the locked door, Heck held out his left hand. I gave him a ten-dollar bill and said, “You'll get the rest if, and only if, what you're about to show me is worth my time.”

“Oh, it's worth your time.” He unlocked the door and we entered the room. The body lay on a gray metal table—if you could even call it a body. It looked more like a dried-out husk.

I turned to Heck. “How long has he been dead?”

“Five or six hours.”

“Five or six hours? What happened to him?”

“How the hell should I know? I'm a cop, not an M.E.”

I went to the table for a closer look. “It's like every last drop of fluid was drained from him! Is that how he died?”

“No. Co-pilot said the dude looked fine when they brought him to the cargo hold. He dried out postmortem.”

“But how?” I pulled out my camera and snapped photos of the decedent.

“So, what do you think, Kolchak? That worth 25 bucks?”

I gave Heck a five and a second ten. I'd get it back from I.N.S.



I returned to the office and dropped off my film at the photo lab. I went directly to Annette, a fifty-something tech whose love of peanut brittle had made (and kept) her plump. I handed her my film, along with a one-pound box of her snack of choice, and asked that she please put a rush on it. Annette was happy to do so. I returned to my desk and bided my time writing the Water Department story that Vincenzo was anxious to see. Once I had the photos in hand, I made my way to Vincenzo's office. I ignored the receptionist, Liza, when she said he was in a meeting. When wasn't he?

I opened his office door to the inevitable sight of Tony sitting with Howard Kirschenbaum of the I.N.S. Corporate Office.

“Kolchak! How many times do I have to tell you not to enter without knocking?”

“I'll let you know when you've hit the right number.” I gave Kirschenbaum an unctuous grin. “How it going, Howie?”

His face flushed with anger. “I've asked you not to call me that.”

“Yes, you have! And one fine day, I may just honor your most reasonable request. Today, however, is not that day.” To Vincenzo, “Here's the Water Department story.”

“Oh, good! But it could have waited until after my meeting.”

“That wasn't the impression I got earlier. Now take a look at these.” I bent over his desk and spread the photos out.

Kirschenbaum said, “Anthony, kindly advise your employee to remove his buttocks from my face.”

“Oh! Sorry, Howie. I can see how you wouldn't like that, especially since I had a big burrito for lunch.”

“B-burrito?”

“Mm-hmm. I really shouldn't eat that stuff; it aggravates makes my gastritis.”

He gulped. “Gastritis?”

“Oh, yeah! Tony, here, can tell you. A few minutes from now, this room will smell like a gas chamber.”

Kirschenbaum shot to his feet. “Anthony….”

“I know. You just remembered someplace you have to be.”

“Exactly!” He ran out of the office.

From behind his desk, Tony looked up at me, his face not much angry as resigned. “All right, Kolchak, what the hell am I looking at?”

I related what Heck had told me at the airport.

Vincenzo stared at my pictures thoughtfully. “A dried-out corpse only a few hours old. And no one has any idea how it happened?”

“I was going to visit the morgue. Maybe Gordy can tell me something.”

“All right, Carl. We're not terribly busy at the moment, so I'll let you work on this. But if something more important comes up….”

“You can trust me, Tony.”

He rolled his eyes. “Where have I heard that before?”



My next stop: the city morgue and my old pal, Gordon Spangler—or as he'd rather not be called, Gordy the Ghoul. I had known him in Chicago when he ran a corpse lottery that no one ever seemed to win. Eventually, that got him fired. Two years later, he landed in New York and was still trying to get back on his feet.

I bounded into the room. “Hel-lo, Gordy!”

“Whatever it is, Kolchak, I can't afford to help you.”

“Ah, but can you afford not to help me? Remember all those debts you ran up while you were out of work?”

“You're going to get me fired. And you won't give a damn, will you?”

“Probably not. But until the day you're terminated, how does 50 dollars sound?”

Gordy paused. “For what?”

“You had a new arrival this afternoon—a gentleman from Japan.”

“I should have known it was the dried-out guy. So, where's my money?”

Having just been to the ATM, I forked over two twenties and a ten. Gordy found the right drawer and opened it for me.

I said, “I've already seen the body. What I need is the autopsy results.”

“You mean, how he dried out so quickly?”

“What else?”

Gordy pulled the M.E.'s report. “There's not a drop of fluid anywhere in the body. No blood, water, saliva, bile…. It's all gone.”

“How?”

“The M.E. found nothing conclusive, but there was saliva located on the exterior, along with what looks like puncture wounds.”

“Puncture wounds and saliva. Somebody drank his bodily fluids?”

Gordy shrugged. “Wouldn't be the weirdest thing I've seen in this line of work.”

“But that somebody would have had to stow away in the cargo hold of a flight from Tokyo.”

“I'll bet he was more comfortable than the passengers. Have you flown lately, Carl? I think they design the seats for bulimics.”



The Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, Astoria, 10:00 p.m.  During a heavy rain, Donna MacLean, 45, in a hurry to get home and out of that miserable weather, floored the accelerator to pass what she deemed a slow-moving truck. Her Toyota Corolla spun out of control, bouncing off the eighteen-wheeler three times before it smashed into a guardrail. Mrs. MacLean was dead before the mangled car stopped moving.

The EMTs arrived six minutes later. To their shock, they found a desiccated Donna MacLean behind the wheel. Her body had been drained of its fluids.

I couldn't get to the locus because the accident (and the heavy rain) had backed up traffic, but the next morning I paid Gordy a visit and got the information I needed for a follow-up story. I brought it to Vincenzo, who was not, for once, in a meeting with Kirschenbaum.

As he read it, Tony's eyebrows knitted. “I'm not seeing a connection between the airport incident and this one.”

“Tony, both corpses were drained of their bodily fluids! The M.E. found puncture marks and saliva on each of them! How can you not see a connection?”

“I'll admit it's peculiar, but where's the proof? Come on, Carl, you're a seasoned reporter. You know I can't print these allegations without hard evidence.”

“What did you want? Video of the dead woman being drained?”

“That would constitute proof, Carl. Congratulations! You're learning.” He handed me back the story. “Rewrite it objectively. No conjecture, no allegations, just facts.”

As I walked out of his office, I muttered, “You wouldn't know a fact if it bit you on your….”

“What's that?”

“Nothing, Tony!”



Tuesday morning, September 20th. At one time, Harlem was the center of African-American life and culture in New York. However, in this new millennium, like much of Manhattan, it was undergoing gentrification. Corporations and wealthy residents were moving in, displacing thousands of poor and middle-class Harlemites. The Wall Street Journal might consider it progress, but those born and raised in Harlem do not.

One company that bought Harlem office space was Takayama Electronics. Its CEO was Uchi Takayama, 34 and recently named one of New York's 10 Most Eligible Bachelors. As he usually did, the young entrepreneur arrived for work in what he called “the blessed silence of the pre-dawn hours.” He didn't know a guest was waiting for him.

Uchi had just turned on his desktop computer when he heard an eerie voice, rasping, “Uchi. Uchi.”

He turned his head to both sides but saw nothing. Convinced that he hadn't really heard anything, Uchi returned his attention to the computer.

“Uchi.”

Annoyed, he said, “Who's saying that?”

In Japanese, “Don't repeat my mistakes.”

“What? Where are you? Who are you?”

Again in Japanese, “Avoid my fate, Uchi. It's not too late for you.”

He saw a shadow near his office door. Uchi got up from the desk and approached it. He threw open the door but saw nothing except a dark, empty office. Exhaling noisily and returning to his desk, Uchi murmured, “I'm not getting enough sleep.”



Marcus Garvey Memorial Park, 5:30 a.m. Extreme poverty lives in the shadow of gentrified Harlem. One of its victims was Louis Jackson, 53, a hard-drinking Vietnam veteran who fell on hard times and became homeless. Having raised enough cash to drink himself to sleep, Jackson reposed on a park bench, covered in a filthy blanket he had found in a Dumpster. His combat experience had driven the man to spend three decades drinking more than his liver could take. It finally gave out, causing his blood to back up into his throat. Louis Jackson choked to death.

Minutes later, two other members of New York's homeless community happened upon the dead man. Somebody was crouched over him—somebody who would give the homeless couple nightmares for the rest of their lives.

My police scanner jolted me out of a sound sleep with the news. As I live near Harlem and traffic was light at that time of day, I got to Marcus Garvey Park before the EMTs had removed the body. Supervising the scene was Lt. Mark Ludwig, a light-complected meatball of a man whose hate for me was limitless.

Two years before, I had published an expose on Ludwig and his squad, whose use of excessive force on young men of color far exceeded the severity of their ostensible crimes. My story made the national news, with numerous human-rights organizations demanding that Ludwig be fired. He wasn't, but the N.Y.P.D. issued a formal reprimand and demoted him from captain to lieutenant. So I could understand why he wasn't happy to see me at Marcus Garvey Park.

“Kolchak! What are you doing at my crime scene?”

“My job, just like you.”

“Don't flatter yourself! You're nothing like me.”

“Can't argue with that. I never billy-clubbed a kid in handcuffs.”

“Cut the shit, Kolchak!”

“Only if you lick the knife.”

He was clearly suppressing the urge to deck me. “Why don't you go back to bed? There's nothing here for you.”

“Ludwig, don't tell me how to report the news and I won't tell you how to shoot an unarmed Black man.”

His face turned the color of a fire engine. “I ought to shoot you for that!”

The lieutenant notwithstanding, I photographed the husk that was Louis Jackson's body. I questioned the EMTs, but there wasn't much they could tell me. When I talked to the uniformed officers on the scene, their reaction was not dissimilar to Ludwig's.

I noticed a Black couple behind a hedge. They were in their 60s and bore the haggard look of the homeless. The man looked horrified, while the woman was in tears.

I approached them. “Excuse me, I'm a reporter. Did you see what happened?”

Sobbing, the woman said, “It was horrible! I never seen nothin' like it before.”

I pulled out my hand-held cassette deck and hit “record.” “What did you see?”

The man told me, “It was Louis on that bench, Louis Jackson. I recognized his blanket.”

“Was he dead when you found him?”

“I sure hope so! Otherwise, that monster killed him.”

“Monster?”

His wife said, “It was this big, ugly red thing. Shaped like a man but it had these fangs and big ol' horns and long, nasty white hair. Looked like the Devil, except for those slanty eyes.”

“Slanty eyes?” I repeated.

“Yeah! I think it was Chinese or Japanese or somethin'.”

“What did it do?”

The husband said, “It was bent down over Louis and its fangs were stuck into his belly. Sure as I'm standin' here, that devil was drinkin' the man's blood out of him!”

The wife told me, “I know it sounds crazy, but we both seen it!”

“Did you tell the cops?”

“Mm-mm,” said the husband. “We don't go near no goddamned cops. They don't like the homeless, especially if you ain't white.”

I shut off my tape deck. “I'll make a note of that.”



A phone call to the morgue confirmed what I already knew. Louis Jackson's body contained not a drop of fluid. Maybe now, Vincenzo would see a connection.

Later that morning, I drove to the East Village. Amid a cluster of restaurants stood a tiny shop whose name I couldn't read;the window sign was in Japanese. However, some investigating on my part had revealed that the store sold books and other items related to Japanese folklore. (As the first desiccated body was on a flight from Japan, I thought it best to focus on that nation rather than China, Korea, Thailand, or any other East Asian country.)

The store comprised a room hardly bigger than a prison cell. It was crammed with ancient hardcover books, wall hangings, different-sized statues of mythological beings, and other items. There was dust on everything, the air smelled of musty paper, and the picture window had not been washed since the Truman presidency. The hinges creaked as I opened the wooden door; the floorboards squeaked beneath my feet.

Sitting on an old metal stool behind the counter was an elderly Japanese man of indeterminate age. He was bald on top, though wispy tufts white hair stuck out from the back and sides of his head. He sported a white mustache with a long, poorly trimmed beard. The man was dressed in a rumpled navy blue suit and tie. He wore gold-rimmed reading glasses as he pored over a book. The man appeared not to notice that I had entered his shop.

I walked up to the dust-covered glass counter and waved. “Umm, hello?”

Startled, he looked up from his book. “Oh, hello. How may I help you?”

“My name is Carl Kolchak. I'm with the I.N.S.”

He rolled his eyes and threw the book on the floor. Getting up off the stool, he placed his palms on the counter and leaned in toward me. “How many times do I have to tell you people? I called your office; they said my green card was on its way. Will you please stop harassing me?”

“Oh! No, no, no, no. I'm not with Immigration. I'm a reporter.” I handed him a business card. “I.N.S. Independent News Service.”

“Ah! My apologies, Mr….” He looked the card. “…Kojak.”

“It's Kolchak.”

“Yes, of course. So, what brings you to my shop?”

“I was looking for some information.”

He said, “I do not sit here all day to give out free information. If you buy something, I will be most happy to speak with you.”

“Oh, certainly!” I half-heartedly looked over the inventory and zeroed in on a ten-by-twelve print called Jigoku. It depicted scantily clad Japanese with what looked like anvils around their necks. Horned men with pointed tails followed these miserable-looking souls, flogging them with whips. I asked the man, “What is Jigoku?”

“It is Hell.”

“How much is the print?”

“Thirty dollars.”

“Fine!” Smiling vindictively,I removed it from the wall and brought it to the counter. “This is perfect for somebody I know.”

Once I had paid for my purchase, a smile crossed the man's wrinkled face. “Now then, Mr. Kodak….”

“It's Kolchak.”

“Yes, of course. What information do you seek?”

“I'm wondering if a being exists in Japanese folklore that drinks the bodily fluids of fresh corpses, leaving them all dried up.”

“Ah! You refer to a Hannya.”

“A Hannya?”

“Yes. I will show you.” He came out from behind the counter and, among the thousands of books cluttering in the room, honed in on a single volume. He opened it, creating a massive cloud of dust that made me sneeze. The man appeared not to notice. He placed the book on the counter and pointed to an artist's rendering of a Hannya. It looked very much like what the homeless couple had described: the size and shape of a man but with blood red skin, cloven hooves,curved, yellowed fangs, lifeless, almond-shaped eyes, long, scraggly white hair, and curved horns that protruded a foot above its head. The Hannya's facial expression did not suggest evil so much as suffering and desperation. The accompanying text, unsurprisingly, was in Japanese.

The man asked, “So, what would you like to know about Hannya?”

“Whatever you can tell me.”

“If a person lives a life of decadence and sin, he will walk the Earth as a Hannya after he dies.”

“Decadence and sin. Does that mean, say, a murderer?”

“No. If someone has led a truly evil life, they go directly to Jigoku upon death. If someone becomes a Hannya, it is because they are still redeemable. A Hannya may have spent life pursuing money or pleasures of the flesh.”

“So, the Seven Deadly Sins.”

“Very good, Mr. Coatrack!”

“It's Kolchak.”

“Yes, of course. A Hannya sustains itself on the bodily fluids of the newly deceased. If he does not partake, he will die and spend eternity in the darkest corners of Jigoku.”

I asked, “Is there any way to stop a Hannya?”

“Can a Hannya be killed? Is that what you are asking?”

“That's what I'm asking.”

“Yes, it can be done. However, that will send a Hannya's soul to Jigoku. I doubt his loved ones would want that.”

I mulled that over. “How does one kill a Hannya?”

“With the Sword of Shinto.”

“And where do you find that sword?”

“At the Museum of Kyoto. It is on permanent display there--beneath alarmed glass, and with armed guards present.”

“Oh. And there's no other way to stop a Hannya?”

“I never said that, Mr. Coldpack.”

“It's Kojak, uh, I mean Kolchak.”

“Yes, of course. As to your question, there exists a ritual that will purify a Hannya's soul. This allows it to return to human form and ascend to the Spirit World.”

“And what does this ritual consist of?”

He ran down the particulars.

“I'm guessing you have all those supplies for sale?”

“I do.”

“Am I to assume the ritual is in Japanese?”

“What other language would it be in? Do you have a reason to want this ritual performed?”

“I don't know. Let me get back to you.”

I left the shop with my purchase under one arm. When I returned to the I.N.S. offices, I sat down at my desk and picked up a Sharpie. I wrote on the print, GREETINGS FROM HELL! WISH YOU WERE HERE. I scrawled Howard Kirschenbaum's name on an interoffice envelope, slid the print inside, and placed it in the outbox.

Next, I logged on to the Internet and pulled up a special database for journalists to which I.N.S. had a subscription. I checked for any recent news items out of Japan involving desiccated corpses. There were several such items, all in Tokyo. They began three weeks before and ended two days ago, when that jet liner took off for New York.

The Hannya had clearly hitched a ride aboard that plane. But why? It must have come here for a reason. Unsure of how to proceed, I checked the Web site of the Japan Times and read the obituaries of Tokyo residents who had died three weeks before. There were dozens, most of whom had no clear connection to the United States.

One name, however, stuck out: Akira Takayama, 67, of Jinbocho, a Tokyo suburb. He had been the founder and president of Takayama Electronics. He left a son, Uchi, of New York City.

Takayama Electronics occupied six floors of a 38-story building on Lenox Avenue near 125th Street. I stepped out of the elevator and into a modest reception area.

The receptionist smiled at me. “Hello. May I help you?”

“I was wondering if Uchi Takayama might be available.”

“He's the president of the company, sir. He really doesn't do walk-ins.”

“I understand, but I have something important to discuss with him.”

“So do a lot of people.”

“This is about his father.”

She frowned at me. “Mr. Takayama's father died three weeks ago.”

“I know. That's what I need to discuss with him.”

She sized me up and decided to get rid of me. “Do you have a card?”

I handed her one.

“All right, Mr. Kolchak. I'll give it to him and say that you'd appreciate a call.”


The Harlem Hospital Center, 3:30 p.m. Dennis Coleman, who worked at the Larchmont Funeral Home, picked up the body of an elderly woman who had just died on the operating table. By the time he got to it Larchmont, one half-hour later, the corpse had been drained of its fluids.

Larchmont, NY, 9:00 p.m. Uchi Takayama, having put in yet another long day at the office, dragged himself out of his Lexus and entered his house through the garage. Before he could turn on the kitchen light, Uchi saw a shadowy figure in the next room. He blinked rapidly but still saw it.

“Uchi,” it rasped.

“Who are you? What do you want with me?”

The figure said in Japanese, “Don't repeat my mistakes.”

“What mistakes?” Uchi on flicked the light and ran into the other room. He saw nobody. “Where did you go?”

He collapsed into an armchair, shut his eyes, and massaged his temples. “Maybe it's time to see my shrink.”



When I got in the next morning, Vincenzo sent me to Larchmont to investigate the dried-out corpse. The trip was a waste of time; I could have used the phone and saved my gas.When I returned to the office at noon, Liza handed me a phone message. To my surprise, it was from Uchi Takayama. I didn't expect his secretary to so much as give him my card.

When I called, she put me through immediately. “Mr. Kolchak? You wanted to talk to me about my father.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Why?”

“I think it's better to have this conversation in person. How soon can you be at my office?”

No time like the present.

I arrived at Takayama Electronics carrying a manila envelope filled with news items I had printed off the Internet. Uchi's now-deferential secretary showed me to his office. We exchanged greetings and I sat in front of his desk. The young CEO looked exhausted.

“So, why do you want to talk about my father?”

I took a deep breath. “What I'm about to tell you sounds incredible, and you've every right to think I'm nuts.”

“It just so happens, at this time, I'm open to things that are nuts. Tell me what's on your mind.”

I launched into a monologue about the last few days' events, bolstering my claims with the printed-off news items. I related the legend of the Hannya as the old man in the store had told it and asked Uchi, “Did your father work a lot of hours?”

“Well, yes. He had a business to run.”

“Did it seem like he had more time for work than for his family? Did he talk about money a lot?”

“I suppose he did.” Pausing, Uchi continued, “Now that you mention it, I recall very few conversations with my father that had nothing to do with profits or his company. And he was out of the house a lot, always working. My mother basically raised me alone. And you want to know the truth? I never cried when my father passed away. We just weren't that close.”

“I think that's why your father became a Hannya. And he came here to warn you not to follow his path, or you'll suffer the same fate.”

Uchi took in what I had told him. “If you had come to me like this a week ago, I never would've given you the time of day. But lately, I've had some weird experiences.” He explained to me about the encounters at his office and his house, concluding, “And that voice reminded me of my father.That's why I returned your call. It seemed too coincidental that you had phoned me now, of all times, to ask about him. Still, what you're claiming is awfully far-fetched.”

“What other explanation is there? Doesn't my story make sense in context?”

“Yes, and that's what frightens me. So, there's a ritual that can free my father's soul?”

“Yes, but it's rather involved and I can't perform it.”

“Because it's in Japanese?”

“Exactly. So, you want to give it a try?”

He blew out his breath through puffed-up cheeks. “I just want these visions to stop. I haven't slept a wink, and I feel half-dead. If you think this ritual could work, let's do it.”

I took Uchi to the store in the East Village. Since I knew how to get there, I volunteered to drive. When Uchi got a look at my yellow Mustang, he exclaimed, “How old is this thing?”

“Pretty close to your age.”

“Looks like it's closer to my father's age,” he said, getting in.

At the store, I introduced Uchi to the elderly proprietor, who was intrigued that we planned to perform the cleansing ritual. Along with selling Uchi the requisite items, he insisted on coaching the young CEO. They spent the next two hours practicing until he was satisfied that Uchi has mastered its rudiments.

As we were leaving, the old man said, “Please let me know how it turns out.”

“We will,” I replied.

“Thank you, Mr. Goalshack!”

“It's Kolchak.”

“Yes, of course.”



My guess was that the Hannya would reappear at Uchi's house. When I suggested we have the ritual there, he agreed. It took us an hour to set everything up. I won't bore you with the details. Suffice it to say, the ritual necessitated (among other things) a tatami prayer mat, a gong, a special set of bells, the burning of incense (whose smell I detest), and reading from a Buddhist prayer book. Once we finished the preparations, there was nothing to do but wait. An exhausted Uchi fell asleep on the couch while I sat in the dark and eventually drifted off myself.

“Uchi. Uchi.”

I woke up with a start and saw a shadowy figure by the couch. When I flicked on the lamp, the figure disappeared.

I called out, “No, come back! We want to help you.”

My shouting awakened Uchi, who sat up with a gasp. “What? Is he here?”

“He was.”

“Father! Where are you?”

“Start the ritual,” I said. “Maybe that'll get him back.”

Uchi did so. He lit incense, knelt down on the prayer mat, and chanted. Within moments, the Hannya reappeared in the living room. The sight of him made my heart jump, but I did my best to remain calm. The Hannya stood motionless and looked intently at Uchi, seeming to understand what that young man was doing. I stood back and kept out of the way.

The ritual seemed to last forever. Sweat ran down Uchi's forehead in rivulets. He rang the bells and banged the gong as the ancient text mandated. He lit fresh incense and chanted until he could barely whisper. And I watched in rapt fascination.

A white light filled the room. It enveloped the Hannya and spun like a mini tornado. Eventually, the light dissipated. When it did, an elderly Japanese man stood where the Hannya had been. Uchi stopped chanting, wiped off his forehead, and beheld the sight.

“Father,” he said.

The old man smiled beatifically and bowed to his son. “Arigato, Uchi. Arigato.”

He faded from sight as he ascended to the Spirit World.

Uchi, still kneeling, began to cry. He dropped onto his stomach and pounded the carpeting with his fists. His sobs caused him to undulate. This went on for several minutes until a Uchi, thoroughly drained, rolled over on his back and wiped his eyes as he gasped for breath.

He sat up. “Is it finally over?”

“It's over; you did it.”

“No, Carl; we did it.”



Uchi was prepared to sell Takayama Electronics, disperse the money to different charities, and move to a Buddhist monastery in Japan. I suggested he take some time before he made any life-altering decisions.

He still runs the company, but limits his workweek to 40 hours. Uchi now devotes the weekends to a newfound hobby: SCUBA diving. He's even dating his SCUBA instructor. When last I heard, they were spending two weeks on a yacht off the coast of Greece.

My experience with the Hannya has increased my optimism. If Akira Takayama could be redeemed, maybe there's hope for me.

(Cover art by Karl Lundstedt)

As I'm not a fan of winter, you can imagine how thrilled I wasn't when my dear editor, Tony Vincenzo, sent me on assignment to the Himalayas. Little did I know just how chilling the experience would be.

I knew something was up when I was summoned to Vincenzo's office, only to find Howard Kirschenbaum of the I.N.S. corporate office standing next to the desk. He and Vincenzo often had meetings, but Kirschenbaum always sat for them.

Acting nonchalant, I asked, “Another meeting with Corporate, eh, Tony?”

A smirking Kirschenbaum replied, “No, Mr. Kolchak, there's no meeting. I just wanted to see the look on your face.”

I knitted my brows. “What look on my face?”

Kirschenbaum suppressed a laugh.

Vincenzo took a deep breath. “Carl, I have an assignment for you.”

“All right, let's hear it.”

“You're going to the Himalayas.”

Unable to contain himself any longer, Kirschenbaum burst out laughing.

My mouth dropped open. “I must have misheard you, Tony. You didn't just tell me I was going to the Himalayas?”

Wearily, Vincenzo replied, “Yes, Carl, that's what I said. The Indian government just opened a high-altitude research facility near the Tibetan border. You're to do a feature on it.”

“Why not send Sidney? He's the science editor.”

Kirschenbaum answered for Vincenzo. “Because I want you there, Mr. Kolchak.”

“Why? What did I ever do to you?”

“Surely you jest! What have you ever done to me? You nearly gave me a heart attack by lying to me that there was a disaster with the printing press. You placed your buttocks near my face as I sat in that very chair (he pointed to it), and told me you were digesting a burrito.”

“I only did those things to get you out of this office. You're always in here when I need to see Tony!”

Kirschanbaum continued, “Not to mention that your shenanigans get us flack from the police and the mayor. That stunt you pulled last week earned us a call from the governor's office!”

“As I already explained to Tony, I never told those F.B.I. agents that I was from the governor's office. I simply implied that he wouldn't appreciate it if they denied me access to their crime scene.”

Kirschenbaum pulled out his iPhone and tapped the screen a few times. “The temperature at the Himansh facility is 22 below zero.”

I felt my anger rising.

Vincenzo said, “I tried to warn you, Carl. I told you the new owners weren't as tolerant as I was. Why didn't you listen for once?”

I glared at him.

“Look, I'm sorry, but it wasn't my decision.”

 “No,” said Kirschenbaum, “it was mine. What can I tell you, Mr. Kolchak? Revenge is a dish best served cold.”




The flight to India was 14 hours long, and that was only the start of my trek. From there, it was an eight-hour road trip to Manali, followed by an additional four hours to Spiti Valley, the ostensible home of the Himansh facility. I say “ostensible” as its actual location is some 13,000 feet up in the mountains. The last leg of my odyssey would be by helicopter. But as stressed as I felt, it was nothing compared to what happened at Himansh while I was still in the air.

April 19th, 6:18 p.m. local time. To limit their exposure to the treacherous mountain climate, the scientists at Himansh sent unmanned drones to digitize glacier movements and cover snow variations. The drones took pictures and transmitted a live feed back to the facility. However, on this night, the viewscreen of drone #3 suddenly went blank. The tech on duty, one Vihaan Apte, alerted his supervisor, Dr. Pari Datta.

Staring at the inky darkness of the screen, Dr. Datta sighed. “That's the third drone this week.”

“We never found the first two. I'm beginning to think something's wrong out there.”

Dr. Datta shrugged. “We'll look for it in the morning.”

April 20th, 7:00 a.m. local time. Apte and Dr. Datta bundled up in several layers of clothing. This included a thermal snowsuit with a battery-operated internalized heating unit. And they could still feel the cold, even within the confines of their two-person snow vehicle.

7:45 a.m. local time. The tech on duty at Himansh, one Anil Gupta, answered a radio call from the search vehicle. “This is Himansh. Go ahead, Vehicle One.”

It was a frightened Dr. Datta. “He's dead! It killed Vihaan!”

Gupta was incredulous. “What? Is that you, Pari? What's going on out there?”

“It killed Vihaan and now it's going to kill me!” She let out a guttural scream, during which the audio cut out.

Gupta fiddled with the radio. “Pari? Are you there? Hello? Pari? For god's sake, answer me!”



A two-man search party--Arun Khatri and Ramkumar Patel--found the vehicle two kilometers from the facility. It was upside down. The windshield and side windows, each about an inch thick, had been smashed in. The interior of the cab was covered in blood and entrails. The horrified men followed a path of frozen blood. Before long, they had located both Vihaan Apte and Pari Datta—or rather, what was left of them.

When they regained their presence of mind, Khatri called Himansh with the grim news. His instructions were to return to the station, that arrangements would be made to collect the dead scientists. Meanwhile, Patel had walked back to the overturned vehicle for additional inspection.
He noticed the drone in the snow. It appeared to have fallen out of the back of the vehicle when it flipped. The drone was snapped nearly in two. Khatri and Patel carried it back to their own vehicle.

As Patel climbed into the driver's side, Khatri pulled out his iPhone and snapped some pictures of the grisly scene. They included a most unusual footprint.


Not that I knew any of this when the helicopter pilot motioned to the mountain range ahead of us. “That's Himansh. We're almost there.”

I heaved a sigh of tremendous relief. “Praise the lord and pass the ammunition!”

I had no idea how fitting my utterance was.



The director of the facility, Dr. Sanjay Bangalore, was a short, slightly overweight man with a clean-shaven face and graying black hair. He met me at the helipad and drove me to the facility in a snow vehicle. He shouted over the engine noise, “You must be exhausted after your long journey. I'll show you to your quarters first thing. You can meet the staff later.”

“That's fine with me. So, what does 'Himansh' mean?”

“Quite literally, it means 'a slice of ice'.”

“Interesting. So, what kind of research are you doing?”

“We study and quantify the effects of climate change on the Himalayan glaciers. You see, the this region has the largest quantity of them anywhere outside the polar ice caps. This area feeds all of India's ten major rivers. It provides irrigation, electricity and drinking water for 700 million people.”

“Impressive! And you have 14 people working up here?”

Hesitating, Bangalore said, “Twelve. Two of them were called away. Family emergencies.”

“Oh! Sorry to hear that.”

Bangalore was silent for the rest of the drive.



The wood and brick building was sufficient for up to 20 people. The front door opened into a carpeted room with electronic equipment lining three of the four walls. Five technicians—three men and two women—manned the equipment and barely looked up as we entered. Bangalore led me through a doorway at the far wall. It opened into a lengthy corridor with many doors on either side. A bearded young man in jeans and a heavy plaid shirt came out of a room and walked toward us. He and Bangalore nodded to each other as they passed. I glanced over my shoulder and saw the young man had turned around and stood looking in our direction. When he saw me looking back, he continued on his way.

My quarters were spartan. There was a cot, a desk, two chairs and a small dresser. The room itself had windowless painted white walls with nothing hung on them. I put down my suitcase, took off my boots, gloves and snowsuit, and laid down on the cot. It wasn't long before I drifted off to sleep.



I inhaled sharply and quickly sat up as an alarm blared. I slipped into my shoes, grabbed my camera, and threw open the door. Two young Indian men ran past me toward the front room. I followed suit. Catching up to them, I asked, “What's going on?” They didn't answer.

The front room was a shambles. The east wall had a gaping hole while tables, chairs and equipment were strewn across the floor.  A scientist lay on his back, blood gushing from his abdomen. He breathed raggedly as two of his colleagues attempted to stop the bleeding.

As a staff member shut the alarm off, I approached a mortified Dr. Bangalore, who stood in front of the hole with a rifle in his hands. I placed a hand on his shoulder. Bangalore gasped and whirled around to face me.

I asked him, “What happened?”

“I've no time for questions, Mr. Kolchak. Please return to your quarters.”

“I will not! I'm a reporter, and something newsworthy is going on. Now, what happened?”

“Something tried to smash its way into the room. I scared it off with a rifle shot.”

“Did you hit it?”

“Possibly; I don't know.”

“So, what tried to break in?”

“I don't know, Mr. Kolchak. It was a wild animal of some type. It all happened so quickly, I didn't get a good look at it.”

I asked the room, “Did any of you see the animal?”

Kneeling next to his bleeding, moribund colleague, a man exclaimed, “Not now, sir! We're trying to save Satish's life.”

The other kneeling man sadly shook his head. “It's too late. He's gone.”

A heartsick Bangalore said, “Take him to the freezer.”

The men lifted the blood-covered corpse and took it from the room.

Bangalore instructed two of his staff, “Please clean up the blood.” To the others, “Let's patch this hole up.” And to me, “Please, Mr. Kolchak; it's over. There's nothing here for you to see.”

“Is there some way I can help?”

“Yes—by returning to your quarters.”

I left the room, but not before snapping some pictures. Bangalore looked at me as if to object, but returned to the matters at hand.



I went back to my quarters, but only while the two men placed their colleague's corpse in the freezer and returned to the front room. With everyone distracted, I thought it would be a good time to have a look at the facility. To my surprise, most of the doors were unlocked. The first several opened into living quarters similar to mine. One led to a small janitor's closet with nothing of note. I also a found a workshop for (presumably) fixing broken equipment, along with a supply room stocked with dozens of cardboard boxes and items I did not recognize. Then there was a lounge with a huge TV set mounted on the wall and a DVD player beneath. On either side of the TV was a pair of storage racks holding a few hundred DVDs. I also noted overflowing bookcases and a stereo with perhaps 100 compact discs on a wall shelf. After the lounge came the kitchen, which again contained nothing out of the ordinary.

Then I found the freezer.

It was a walk-in affair with hundreds of pounds of food lining the shelves on either side, as well as the back wall. What caught my attention, however, is what I saw on the floor: three dead bodies. I had only expected one. They were similarly eviscerated, though the others were in much worse condition than the just-killed Satish. Whatever took their lives had also used the other two for food. I produced my camera and took pictures of the cadavers. Having looked in every room (except those with locked doors) and not knowing what else to do, I returned to my quarters and pondered my situation.

I needed to get through to Vincenzo, but how? There must be a means of communication from Himansh to the outside world, but what was it and how would I gain access? I had a feeling Dr. Bangalore would no more cooperate with me than did the police in Las Vegas, Seattle, Chicago, and New York.

I sat at my desk, dictating the day's events into my portable cassette deck—yes, I still use one—when there was a knock at my door. It was the bearded young man who had passed me and Dr. Bangalore in the hallway. He looked very anxious.

“Mr. Kolchak.”

“Yes, I'm Kolchak. And you are…?”

“My name is Arun Khatri. Can we talk?”

“Sure.” I stepped aside to let him in and shut the door. “What can I do for you?”

“I know who you are.”

“You do?”

“Folklore and mythology are a hobby of mine. I've seen the websites and Facebook groups about you.”

I had to chuckle. “Yes, I have a cult following. But the rest of the world thinks I'm a kook.”

“Admittedly, I liked your stories for their entertainment value, but I never took them as fact.”

“That puts you in the majority. You still haven't told me why we're having this conversation, though.”

“Mr. Kolchak, I'm a man of science. I've spent my professional life studying that which can be verified or disproved empirically. But I saw what killed Satish. It was something I never thought existed.”

I motioned to my cassette deck. “Can I record you?”

“I'd rather you didn't.”

“Never hurts to ask. OK, what did you want to tell me?”

Khatri related the events of the previous day, which explained the two other corpses in the freezer. He also showed me the pictures he took with his phone. They were grisly, to say the least. The one that intrigued me the most was a shot Arun had taken of a three-toed footprint. I asked him its size.

“About 45 centimeters,” he said.

“Centimeters?”

“Eighteen inches. Why do you Americans resist the metric system?”

I ignored that. “So, you saw what killed your colleagues. Care to tell me what it was?”

Khatri took a deep breath. “A Yeti.”

“A Yeti. And what's a Yeti?”

“You Americans call it Sasquatch or Bigfoot. It's also been called the Abominable Snowman.”

“And that's what you saw?”

“I got a good look at it, Mr. Kolchak. That creature matches every description of a Yeti that I've ever read. It also matches most of the artists' renderings I've seen.”

I took in what Khatri was telling me. “So, what does a Yeti look like?”

“It must have been nine feet tall. It had thick white fur, sharp claws, and the most frightening teeth I ever saw. They were huge and yellow; I swear, they could bite through steel! Its face was like that of a simian, but no simian I've heard of. I'm telling you, Mr. Kolchak, it was a Yeti.”

“Have you told anyone else?”

“I tried to tell Dr. Bangalore, but he was having none of it. I couldn't blame him. After all, the Yeti is assumed to be mythical. Until today, I had assumed it too.”

“Until today,” I said. “So, what do we do about this Yeti?”

Before he could answer, there was another knock on my door. I didn't open it. “Yes?”

A muffled voice said, “There's a meeting in Dr. Bangalore's office. Everyone must attend.”

“What time?”

“Now!”



Bangalore's office was one of the few locked doors I had encountered. He stood in front of his desk, looking exhausted and grim. The rest of us stood around him in a semicircle.

“First,” he said, “I wish to personally thank each and every one of you for the job you did after the attack. We patched up the wall in less than an hour. And cleaning up Satish's blood, along with moving his body to the freezer, was extremely unpleasant. But you did it with professionalism, and I very much appreciate it.”

I raised my hand. “Dr. Bangalore? Question?”

He sighed. “Yes, Mr. Kolchak?”

“I need to get in touch with my editor in New York. How can I do that?”

“That's impossible. Our one means of communication, a radio phone, was damaged in the attack. We're going to start repair work after the meeting.”

“Will you order an evacuation?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because three of your colleagues are now occupying a freezer!”

Bangalore glared at me.

“I saw them, doctor. That's quite a 'family emergency'.”

“Mr. Kolchak, do you know how many years it took for Himansh to become reality? I'm not about to order an evacuation! We have important research to conduct, and we're going to do so.” To the rest of the room, “Look, some kind of wild animal is out there. It's huge, it's strong, and it's vicious. But it's not invulnerable. I'm going to unlock the armory and issue each one of you a rifle. If you've no experience with one, I'll teach you. Mr. Kolchak, do you know how to use a rifle?”

“Yes.”

“All right, I'll give you one too. Now, until the threat is eradicated, we'll be on 24-hour guard duty.” He paused as staff members whispered to one another. “I know you're all scared, and so am I. But remember: we outnumber this animal and we have weapons that can bring it down. We will prevail.”

I asked, “After how many more of us are killed?”

“This meeting is adjourned. Mr. Kolchak, please stay behind.”

In hot water again.

Once we were alone, Bangalore said, “I'm going to need your camera.”

“What?”

“I saw you taking pictures. I can't let you print them.”

“You're not taking my camera! Ever heard of freedom of the press?”

“You're not in America now. And if you don't give me your camera, I'll report you to the Army. They'll make sure you don't leave India with those pictures you took.”

Shaking my head, “It doesn't matter where I go. You goddamned bureaucrats are all the same. Fine, I'll give you the camera. But it won't stop the Yeti from tearing this place to pieces.”

Bangalore laughed. “Yeti? I see you've been talking to Arun.”

“Well, if it's not a Yeti, what is it?”

“I don't know. But it's a not a Yeti because they're a myth.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, that myth capsized a two-ton snow vehicle, ripped a hole in your wall, and shredded three people. And I have a bad feeling the worst is yet to come!”

“I'm surprised at you, Mr. Kolchak. I thought reporters dealt in facts.”

“We do. And the fact is, we're all in grave danger. We need to get off this mountain!”

“As soon as the radio phone is fixed, I'll send for a helicopter to take you away.”

“What about everyone else?”

“That's my responsibility, not yours. Now stay out of my way and leave my staff alone. We have a job to do.”

And so did I.



Bangalore was as good as his word. He did, in fact, issue me a rifle. But since I was a guest, he did not require me to pull guard duty. That, and the man didn't trust me one bit.

I tried to look around some more, but now the doors were locked. I tried talking to staff, but they all brushed me off—except one. Later that night, Arun Khatri knocked at my door. As soon as I opened it, he said, “The Army is here.”

“What?”

“We're required to transmit a signal every three hours. If we miss one, the Army sends a helicopter. It just landed.”

“Bangalore never mentioned that to me.”

“Did you expect him to?”

“Point taken. So, what's going on? Are we evacuating?”
“Quite the opposite. Bangalore is telling them to leave us here.”

I slipped past Khatri and ran to the main room. An officer of the Indian Army stood rigidly near the front entrance. On his back, an AK-47 hung from a black leather strap. He was talking to Bangalore.

I heard the doctor say, “Really, Colonel, everything's fine up here. We just experienced a minor mishap.”

“He's lying,” I called out.

A startled Bangalore turned around. “Mr. Kolchak, return to your quarters!”

“The hell I will! Colonel, you've got to get us out of here. A Yeti attacked and killed three people.”

“A Yeti?” He turned to Bangalore. “Who is this man?”

“An American reporter. I never should have let him up here. He has been nothing but trouble.”

“I'm trouble?” I exclaimed. “I'm not the one keeping all these people in danger with my bureaucratic stubbornness.”

The colonel asked, “Dr. Bangalore, what really happened here? And please don't repeat your story about high winds.”

“Surely, you don't believe that man with his Yeti nonsense?”

“Nonsense?” I roared. “What about the three dead bodies in your freezer?”

The colonel's eyes opened into saucers. “Dead bodies?”

Bangalore shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another. “Colonel, please. You and your men don't need to be here. I've everything under control. And I'd be most grateful if you took Mr. Kolchak with you when you left.”

“I had better have a look at your freezer.”

But before the colonel could do so, a crashing noise came from outside, followed by the sound of gunfire. He threw the door open and looked outside. Four soldiers fired at something in the dark, but I couldn't see it from my vantage point.

Not six feet from the colonel, a window shattered as a solider was tossed through it. He landed on the floor with a dull thud and did not move. The colonel cocked his rifle and fired out the window. I heard a primal roar from outside. Feeling the need for a weapon more powerful than the rifle in my quarters, I crouched down next to the soldier. He wasn't breathing and the puddle of blood beneath him grew wider. Clutched in his right hand was a bazooka (or whatever they called it in this part of the world). I hadn't fired one since my military days and hoped I hadn't forgotten what I learned.

As I relieved the dead soldier of his weapon, there was another crash as the front door flew off its hinges. My mouth dropped open as the Yeti smashed his way into the room. He bled from several holes in his chest and torso where the soldiers had shot him, but was still ambulatory and very much pissed off. Two soldiers appeared in the gaping jaws of the doorway, firing their AK-47s at the Yeti's back. Snarling, the beast whirled around and swung its blood-covered claws at the soldiers. The poor bastards each gurgled as their guts poured out of them.

Dr. Bangalore yowled in horror, which caught the Yeti's attention. It swung at the man, taking his head off with its sword-like claws. A geyser of blood shot from Bangalore's neck as his body fell and his severed head rolled across the floor.

My heart pounding like a Buddy Rich solo, I ran down the corridor. Not three seconds later, the hallway door gave out as the Yeti pounded through it. Three staff members in the hallway stood motionless with fright.

“Get back in your rooms,” I shouted. They did.

I was at the end of the corridor. There was nowhere to go as the Yeti grew nearer. I hoisted the bazooka onto my shoulder and mustered every iota of discipline I had. I couldn't fire until I was reasonably certain I would hit the creature. I had but one shot. If I missed, I was Purina Yeti Chow.

The bullets it took had slowed the Yeti down, but I had no doubt it could still tear me limb from limb. The monster's slackened pace gave me a chance to aim the bazooka. When the Yeti was about six feet away, I fired. A missile blasted from the barrel and hit the monster square in the chest. The Yeti exploded, showering me with a disgusting spatter of blood, bones, fur, bodily fluids, and chunks of internal organs.

Where the Yeti had stood was now a blackened spot on the floor and a pair of feet with legs up to the knee. Several small fires burned on the floor, walls and ceiling, filling the hallway with smoke. Plus, the backburn from my bazooka had set the wall behind me ablaze. An alarm sounded, causing the staff to rush from their rooms to the main entrance. I joined them as the fires grew. Within seconds, Himansh was engulfed in flames.

Outside, the colonel stood with two soldiers. At least four dead ones lay in the snow. He ordered us to the helicopter. Not two minutes later, we were in the air, the fiery wreckage of Himansh fading into the pitch-black Himalayan night.



With the Yeti blown to pieces, so was any evidence of his existence. The official story was that Himansh was destroyed, and its scientists killed, in an avalanche.

Before he let me leave India, the colonel took me to an interrogation room. He spent several hours making sure I understood there would be serious repercussions if I said anything about a Yeti once I was back home. A strongly worded letter to our U.N. ambassador from India's backed up the colonel's threats.

The Indian M.P.s snatched Arun Khatri mere seconds after the helicopter set down. No one has seen or heard from him since. As for the other Himansh survivors, they're not talking. I can only assume they received debriefings similar to mine.

I didn't bother trying to sell Vincenzo on my Yeti story. He had never believed me before and certainly wouldn't now. Still, as the only reporter on Earth who was there when Himansh was wrecked, I wrote a first-hand account that was picked up by news agencies all over the world. For the moment, I was the golden boy of I.N.S. But I'd screw that up soon enough.

As for Howard Kirschenbaum, he's now formerly of the I.N.S. corporate office. A furious Vincenzo went over the man's head, complaining that Kirschenbaum had willfully, deliberately, and unnecessarily sent a reporter into a life-threatening situation. That wasn't strictly true, but it was nice to have Tony on my side for once. So I kept my mouth shut. Kirschenbaum was let go, but not without a severance package that dwarfed the G.D.P. of entire nations. The rich do look out for their own.

India's Ministry of Earth Sciences put out a press release that Himansh will be rebuilt. That made me think of the Yeti. Was the beast I killed the only one up there? Were its attacks rooted in the resentment of humans intruding on its home? What if more of those things are lurking in the snows of the Himalayas? How safe will the next group of scientists be? Time will tell.

(Cover art by Karl Lundstedt)

“What goes around, comes around.” I've heard that expression as far back as I can remember. But thanks to an 83-year-old South African immigrant, it recently took on a whole new dimension.

Monday, November 13th, 7:40 p.m.  The David N. Dinkins Building at One Center Street housed the offices of Manhattan Borough President Lawrence A. Farkus. His staff had gone home for the day, but Farkus remained at his desk, where he often sat until 9:00 p.m. Managing an island of 1.75 million people was a lot of work.

Farkus was on the phone with the deputy mayor when a deafening clap of thunder boomed over the city. Farkus shouted, “Whoa,” and nearly jumped out of his chair. “Did you hear that?”

“Oh, I heard it, all right,” said the deputy mayor. “How could I not?”

As the tsunami-like rain pounded against his office window, Farkus remarked, “Looks like our dry spell is finally over.”

Those were his dying words, unless you count the scream that followed.

The deputy mayor exclaimed, “Larry? You there? What's wrong?” When there was no response, he called 911.



The Borough President was not the only New Yorker who routinely stayed late at the office. Your Humble Reporter does, too. I was working against a deadline when my rotund editor, Tony Vincenzo, approached me.

“Hey, Carl?”

“I'm revising it now, Tony. Give me about twenty minutes.”

“That can wait; Farkus is dead.”

“Really? He just aced his yearly physical. How the hell did he die?”

An exasperated Vincenzo replied, “I don't know, Carl. That's why I'm sending you to his office—to find out how the hell he died! Do I have to tell you everything?”


The hard part was finding a parking space. One Center Street looked like a dumping ground for police cruisers. Nor did the three ambulances help. But I finally parked my car (illegally) and was waved through the police checkpoint. I took the elevator to the Borough President's suite.

To my relief, the lead investigator was one of my few allies at the N.Y.P.D.  A luscious blonde of 39 who stood over six feet tall, Detective Heather Fontayne had been with me during a pair of particularly weird episodes. So she knew that my stories were not the result of untreated psychosis, to quote a police shrink.

“Hey, Kolchak!” It sounded like she was vaguely glad to see me. “How you doin'?”

“Better than Farkus, from what I'm told.” I sniffed the air. “Did he have porkchops for dinner?”

“You mean, the smell? That's Farkus.”

My eyebrows went skyward. “What happened to him?”

“Come on, I'll show you.”

She led me into the Borough President's office. The corpse had not been touched. Farkus was in his fancy leather chair, holding what had been a phone receiver. Now it was a blob of melted red plastic. Not that Farkus himself was in better shape. What smelled like pork was the charred remains of the Borough President. I also noticed a hole, about the width of my forearm, in the center of his picture window.

I turned to Fontayne. “He burned to death?”

She threw her hands up. “Your guess is as good as mine. And please don't quote me on that.”


Once the body had been shipped off to the City Morgue and the M.E. had performed an autopsy, I dropped in on my favorite morgue attendant—Gordon Spangler, affectionately nicknamed “Gordy the Ghoul.” No sooner had I walked in then he said, “Let me guess: Farkus.”

“What else would bring me out on such a lousy night?” I removed my hat to shake off the excess rainwater.

“It's really coming down out there, huh?”

“It's miserable.” I pulled out my wallet and handed Gordy his standard fee, plus a gratuity for his boss, Dr. Carol Huizenga. When he first landed in New York, Gordy was skittish about supplying me with information as doing so had gotten him fired in Chicago. However, he recently learned that Dr. Huizenga shared our taste for the mercenary. As long as she received her weekly cut, she would look the other way when Gordy, shall we say, moonlighted. This was good in that we no longer had to operate clandestinely, but not so good in that I now had to pay twice as much as before. And I was running out of clever ways to sneak those payments onto my expense account.

“I've already seen the stiff,” I said. “Just tell me what killed him.”

“Lightning.”

I did a double-take. “Lightning?”

“Mm-hmm. He was electrocuted.”

“In his 40th-floor office? How is that possible?”

“Carl, you wouldn't believe what I see on this job. Why, just last week, we had a woman who died of internal bleeding. She tried to use a wine bottle as a….”

“Never mind!”



Back at the office, I called the National Weather Service and spoke to meteorologist Janet Vogel. She told me that indoor lightning strikes were rare but known to occur. Ms. Vogel named three occasions during the last seven years when people inside a building had been struck by lightning. Like Farkus, all three were using a phone. But unlike Farkus, none of them died.

As Vincenzo read my story, he looked quizzical. “Struck by lightning?”

“I got it straight from the M.E.'s report, not to mention the meteorologist I spoke to. It's freaky, but it happens.”

“So, the lighting punched a hole in his window and got Farkus at his desk?”

“That's how it looks, Tony.”

“Well, it's weird, but at least it's believable. That's more than I can say for a lot of your stories. I'm just glad you didn't say the Loch Ness Monster was to blame.”

“I'll save it for next time.”

He handed me back the story. “All right, Carl, put this on the wire.”



Tuesday, November 14th, 8:00 p.m.  Julian McMichael, 36, was founder and president of the McMichael Group, one of New York's biggest real estate developers. The Wall Street Journal called him “The Boy Tycoon.” McMichael's specialty was buying apartment buildings and converting them to $3 million condominium units. The thousands of people he had put out of their homes never entered his mind. On the rare occasion he was questioned about it, McMichael shrugged and replied, “In this life, bloodshed is inevitable.”

He was right, of course. And on this night, Julian McMichael shed his own blood. Outside of some old college pals and a few business associates, nobody mourned him.

McMichael had died while his car sat at a red light. When I arrived at the scene, I saw Fontayne interviewing a Latino woman in her 20s. She was saying, “This lightning bolt just came outta nowhere and struck the dude through his windshield! I never saw anything like it.”

“OK, thanks.” Fontayne closed her notebook and finally took notice of me. “I assume you heard that?”

“Uh-huh. Another lightning strike.”

“Yup. And three other witnesses corroborate her story.”

I looked up at the sky. The moon shined brightly, the stars twinkled, and there wasn't a cloud to be seen.

At the office, I got back on the horn to meteorologist Vogel. She told me, “Cloud-to-ground lightning bolts are common. About 100 of them occur every second.”

“But the sky is cloudless tonight.”

“Let me check something.” She put me on hold for about 30 seconds. “I was looking to see if there were any thunderstorms in your region tonight. You see, a lightning bolt can travel up to 25 miles. But I'm not seeing anything. The entire Northeast and Mid-Atlantic regions are dry as a bone.”

“Does lightning always come from a thunderstorm?”

“No, it has other sources. You can see lightning in a volcanic eruption, a really intense forest fire, a heavy snowstorm, a hurricane, or a surface nuclear detonation.”

“None of which have occurred in New York tonight,” I pointed out. “So, where did that lightning come from?”

“Mr. Kolchak, I'm damned if I know. There are some things that science just can't explain.”

“Oh, I'm aware of that.”



Vincenzo, at his desk, looked up from my copy and gaped at me. “Another one?”

“Another one.”

“And your meteorologist friend has no explanation?”

“Nada.”

He shook his head. “What the hell is going in this town?”

I shrugged.

“Really? You haven't concocted one of your infamous theories to explain this?”

“Not yet.”

“Maybe there's hope for you after all! Here, put it on the wire.”



Wednesday, November 15th, 10:00 a.m.  In a change of pace, I was covering a protest demonstration at the courthouse on Center Street—not far from where Larry Farkus had been killed. A lawsuit was filed by the Human Rights Coalition on behalf of the tenants of Manhattanville Arms, a 90-year-old apartment building at Amsterdam Avenue and West 133rd Street. The building had been sold and was slated for renovation—or should I say, gentrification. Many of its 500+ residents were elderly and had lived there for decades. The Times had just run a feature on the Arms, which included quotes from its mainly African-American tenants. I'm not what you'd call sentimental, but some of what they said nearly had me in tears.

The rally was loud but peaceful as the elderly residents, some in wheelchairs, held signs and rhythmically chanted their dissatisfaction with being evicted. As a journalist, I need to remain objective when reporting a story, but it was hard to do; a lot of these people weren't more than a decade older than I was.

A young woman stood on the courthouse steps, holding a microphone plugged into a portable amplifier. She was about 25 with short reddish hair and black plastic glasses. She wore bluejeans and a heavy jacket. Her breath was visible as she said, “He calls himself the People's Mayor, but he supports the Manhattanville Project. Which people do you support, Mr. Mayor? Certainly not Harlem's elderly!”

The crowd cheered as I took photos. A limousine escorted by motorcycle cops pulled up in front of the courthouse. Out stepped Attorney Charles Moffett, representing the defendant. A phalanx of police cleared a path for him as a mob of reporters rushed to question the $900-an-hour lawyer, who said nothing as he walked stoically toward the courthouse steps.

Over the cacophony, I heard the discordant call of a bird. I looked up and saw something hundreds of feet in the air. It looked avian, but that was all I could make out. I pointed my camera upward and took some pictures.

It swooped down and circled the crowd, who took notice of the beast with a collective gasp. The bird was black and about the size of an adult human. I took more photos as its call became louder and more painful to endure. A number of demonstrators, along with Attorney Moffett, covered their ears. Police drew their guns and aimed at the bird, which continued to circle at a height of about 30 feet.

The next thing we knew, the bird extended its legs and shot lightning from its talons! The twin bolts merged and hit Charles Moffett squarely in the chest. Demonstrators screamed, ran away, or hit the ground as police fired at the creature. I stayed on my feet and took one picture after another.

As quickly as it began, the lightning stopped and the bird flew from sight. Attorney Moffett lay on the courthouse steps, burnt to a crisp and giving off tendrils of smoke. The Fire Department arrived moments later, along with additional cops. I left before they could take my camera.



Vincenzo groaned as he read my story. “I should have known it was too good to last. A lightning bird, Carl?”

“I saw it, Tony, and so did 100 other people! I have pictures, too.” I pulled out my digital camera and showed him.

His eyebrows knitted as he scrolled through the photos. “What kind of a bird makes lightning?”

“Not a clue.”

“You say this thing was human-sized?”

“Biggest bird I ever saw. And the scariest.”

Vincenzo expelled his breath through puffed cheeks. “Let me think about it.”

“What is this 'think about it?' That's news, for Christ's sake!”

“I said I would think about it. Now go!”

“Go,” I murmured as I left his office. “All the time, go. How about you go, Vincenzo? Straight to hell!”

At my desk, I got on-line and tried to match my pictures with existing bird types. However, that bird looked like nothing the Internet ever saw. I found a chatroom for ornithologists and asked if any birds produced lightning. The median response was “LOL.”

I looked up information on the victims. They all had one thing in common: the Manhattanville Project. Lawrence Farkus had persuaded the mayor to go to bat for it, the McMichael Group had bought the building, and Charles Moffett was the Group's lead attorney. This electric avian was taking out those looking to gentrify the Manhattanville Arms. Did that mean the mayor himself was a target?

As I pondered this, my desk phone buzzed. “Yes?”

It was Vincenzo. “Carl, I need you in my office. And bring your camera.”

“Oh, this can't be good.”

“Please, just get in here.”

As I entered Tony's office, two men were with him. One I recognized as the Police Commissioner.

“Carl, you know Commissioner Galloway.”

“Oh, I know him, all right.”

Tony motioned to the other man. “And this is Bobby Lester of the mayor's office.”

“Mr. Kolchak.” Lester offered his hand, which I reluctantly shook. His grip was weak and clammy. It made me want to recoil in disgust.

I took a deep breath. “So, what's going on?”

“Carl, I'm going to need your camera.”

“My camera?”

Lester explained, “Mr. Kolchak, you took some pictures that we can't allow the public to see.”

“Allow? Since when does the mayor's office tell a news organization what to report?”

The commissioner replied, “Since we have the power to deny you access to the N.Y.P.D. and the mayor's office. Try reporting the news without that!”

“Now, Dicey.” The unctuously outgoing Lester called Galloway by his nickname.  Rarely had one been so fitting. “We hope it won't come to that. Don't we, Mr. Vincenzo?”

“Of course, course.” Tony turned to me and assumed a soothing tone. “Carl, I wasn't sold on your story anyway.”

But I wasn't listening. Instead, I told Lester, “Listen, that bird has killed three of the big mucky-mucks of the Manhattanville Project. It doesn't want that building gentrified.”

“Please, Mr. Kolchak,” said Lester. “We don't say 'gentrify.' We prefer to call it 'urban renewal'.”

“You're putting 500 elderly people out of their homes! How is that urban renewal? Do you even know how full of shit you are?”

“Kolchak!” said Tony. “Show some respect.”

“For this guy? He's a weasel! And the same goes for you, Galloway.”

The commissioner's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing: a first for that big-mouth.

I told Lester, “I think that bird's going to target the mayor. You better get him out of town until this thing blows over.”

Lester's jaw dropped. “Why do you think that?”

“Because the mayor supports the Manhattanville Project! I don't know why, but that bird has a grudge against it.”

Galloway spoke up. “Vincenzo, I don't want to see a word about these deaths being caused by a lightning bird. Do you understand me?”

“Of course, Commissioner, of course. There's nothing to worry about.”

“Thank you. Now before I leave: Kolchak, I want to personally witness you deleting those pictures from your camera.”

Burning with resentment, I did so.

“Good,” said Galloway. “Now, did you download those pictures anywhere?”

“No.”

“I don't believe you.” To Vincenzo, “I want to see Kolchak's computer.”

At my desk, Galloway sat in my chair and snooped around on my P.C. He found nothing.

“I told you I didn't download them.”

“All right; looks like the pictures are gone. Let's get out of here, Bobby.” Galloway looked directly at me. “I don't like the smell.”

I shot back, “Try Right Guard, you Nazi prick.”

Vincenzo said, “Kolchak, please.”

“Please, nothing! They've suppressed the goddamned news, and you let them do it!”

As he walked away, Tony asked no one in particular, “Why didn't I take early retirement?”



Needing to cool off, I drove uptown to the Manhattanville Arms. It was a 30-story brick building whose best days had predated the Johnson White House. Next to it stood an abandoned factory that looked like something out of Dresden after the Allies had bombed it. I walked through the main entrance to the Arms, a revolving door that led to a spacious (if grungy) lobby. Beyond it was a metal door opening into a cavernous dayroom. If the McMichael Group had its way, this would all soon be a Whole Foods.

A couple of dozen tenants sat on couches and around tables, playing cards, watching TV, or talking. Not one looked a day under 65. On the wall nearest me, in a poster-sized frame, was the New York Times piece on the building. I skimmed it and saw that a few people whose photos accompanied the article were currently in the dayroom. The quote that really jumped out at me was from Lubanzi Naidu, an 83-year-old immigrant from South Africa. Naidu and his parents had emigrated to New York when he was sixteen. He spent 48 years working for the City as a subway mechanic and was a 56-year tenant of the Manhattanville Arms. Understandably, he was unhappy about being gentrified out of his long-time abode.

To quote the Times piece, “Naidu gazes into the distance, his dark eyes flush with anger. 'These men care more about money than they do about people,' he says. 'The day will come when they pay for their evil deeds'.”

Someone tapped my shoulder. It was the young red-haired woman who had spoken at the rally.

“Hi,” she said. “Lillian Leach with the Human Rights Coalition. Aren't you a reporter?”

“Yes! Carl Kolchak, Independent News Service. I was looking for some information on the Manhattanville Project.”

She looked at me askance. “Pro-corporate or pro-tenant?”

“I don't want to see these people kicked out of their homes, if that's what you mean.”

Lillian smiled. “Well, you don't sound like a money-grubbing scumbag. Let's talk.”

We sat at a table in the far corner. I pulled out my digital recorder, which had replaced my old hand-held tape deck. After more years than I could recall, it finally died on me.

I asked, “Is it OK if I record you?”

“Sure.”

“Any thoughts on the death of Charles Moffett?”

“Oh, god,” Lillian exclaimed. “Did you see that yesterday?”

“I was there.”

“What the hell was that thing? Some kind of bird?”

“That's what it looked like to me.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “It just swooped out of the sky and zapped him! I'm still trying to wrap my head around it. And why wasn't there anything on the news?”

I didn't reply to that. “So, I take it your people had nothing to do with Farkus, McMichael, or Moffett dying?”

“No! We're a human-rights organization. We solve problems legally, not violently. And whoever's doing this, I hope they stop. It makes our movement look bad!”

Back in the lobby, I checked the tenants' directory and found a unit number for Lubanzi Naidu. I took the elevator to the 27th floor and rang his bell. It was some time before the door opened. Mr. Naidu was a frail-looking man with wisps of gray hair that dotted his otherwise bald pate. His forward-leaning posture suggested back problems. He wore navy blue bedroom slippers, the same color slacks, and a kelly green sweater. I introduced myself and lied that I was writing a piece on the Manhattanville Project. He smiled and invited me in. I walked patiently behind Mr. Naidu as he led me into the living room and motioned to a table. I took a seat and waited for Naidu to follow suit.

The wall dividing the living room and kitchen was only about five feet tall. Sitting on top of it were framed pictures of a younger Naidu with his wife and children, and old knickknacks that looked African. On the living room wall was a flag of red, white, blue, green, black and yellow: the flag of South Africa. Also on the wall was artwork that I presumed was by African painters. One struck me in particular: a black bird encased in lightning. The creature seemed to control it.

I pointed out the painting. “That's an intriguing work. Did you paint it?”

Naidu laughed. “Oh, no. My father brought it from Cape Town when we came to America. I inherited the painting when he died some 30 years ago.”

“Does the bird signify something?”

“That is the Impundulu.”

“The Impo…. What's that again?”

“Impundulu,” he repeated, enunciating each syllable. “The Lightning Bird—a magical creature the Sangomas of my tribe pass down from father to son.”

“I'm sorry. Sangomas?”

“You'd know them as witch doctors. The Impundulu carries out the wishes of the one who owns it.”

“You?”

He laughed again. “I wish! It's a mythical being, Mr. Kolchak.”

“Well, I'd really like to know how Larry Farkus, Julian McMichael, and Charles Moffett all died of lightning strikes?”

His eyes narrowed. “Why are you really here?”

“I told you, I'm writing a piece on the Manhattanville Project. I wanted to get a tenant's point of view.”

“And you came to the 27th floor with plenty of people in the dayroom? Why would you do that?”

“Well,” I said, thinking quickly, “I saw the Times piece and remembered your quote, that the day would come when they'd pay for their evil deeds. You intrigued me, so I sought you out.”

Pausing, Naidu said, “It's time for my nap. You'd better leave.”



Something told me to stake the building out. So I sat in my car and kept a close watch on the Manhattanville Arms. Sure enough, not twenty minutes later, Lubanzi Naidu exited the building. He only walked as far as the abandoned factory next door. I got out of the Yellow Submarine and followed him in.

The place was every bit as decrepit as you'd expect. There was dust everywhere, but that allowed me to to follow Naidu's footprints to the basement. I could see him at the far end of the long hallway, opening a door and walking through. I gave Naidu a minute before cautiously opening the door myself.

It was a boiler room, about twenty by twenty feet. Naidu was in front of the boiler, setting up what looked like an altar. He was dressed in what I later learned was the traditional garb of a Sangoma. This included white make-up that covered the old man's face. I hid behind a stanchion and watched as he lit a fire in a large metal bowl and added ingredients to the flames. He chanted in Xhosa, clicking his consonants. The only word I understood was “Impundulu.”

Naidu picked up an 18th-century styled quill, which he dipped in an inkwell. He scrawled something onto parchment that looked as old and brittle as a 78 RPM. Naidu held it in both hands above his head, which allowed me to see what he had written: “CARL KOLCHAK.”

I suppressed a gasp. Lubanzi Naidu was sending his lightning bird after me! That's what I get for asking too many questions.

He dropped the parchment into the flames. As it burned, the boiler came to life. It shook violently, followed by a cacophonous bird call. As Naidu's chanting increased in ferocity, the boiler's door opened and out flew the Impundulu. It circled the room twice, cawing ferociously, and disappeared up the chimney flue. I exited the boiler room and ran for the stairs before Naidu could see me.

In a panic, I hopped onto the Henry Hudson, which I took to I-95 Northbound out of the city. In Connecticut, I turned onto the Merritt Parkway and followed it until the expressway ended. It was now called the Berlin Turnpike. Exhausted, I got a room at the Days Inn and hoped the Lightning Bird wouldn't find me.

No sooner had I slipped off my shoes and socks then my cell phone rang. Naturally, it was Vincenzo.

“Carl, where the hell are you?”

“Berlin, Connecticut—two hours from the city.”

“What are you doing up there?”

“Trying to stay alive.” I relayed the events of earlier.

“But if this Lightning Bird kills people involved with the Manhattanville Project, why did this witch doctor send it after you?”

“I was asking questions that made him uncomfortable.”

Vincenzo assumed his fatherly voice. “Carl, come back to the city. We'll work this out together.”

“No, thank you!”

Using my phone, I got on-line and looked up “Impundulu.” I read several pieces, all of which agreed that the Lightning Bird had but one weakness: fire. Ironically, I would have to burn it to death. All I needed was a source of fire, one that didn't require me to be close to the Impundulu.



“Do I know where you can get a flamethrower?”

“Yes, a flamethrower.”

Detective Fontayne exhaled into her phone. “Should I ask why you need one?”

I explained about the Lightning Bird.

“Good Christ, Carl! How do you get into these situations?”

“If I ever find out, I'll let you know. So, how about it? Can you steer me in the right direction?”

Pausing, Fontayne replied, “I'll look into it.”

I decided to take a nap. My phone woke me up 90 minutes later. It was Fontayne.

“You're in luck,” she said. “A uni who owes me favor happens to own a flamethrower.” (“Uni” was cop talk for a uniformed officer.)

“He owns one? But aren't they illegal?”

“Not in New York. And before you ask: I don't know why he has one, and I don't want to know. But he's going to loan it to me. We're meeting at his house at nine o'clock.”

I set my phone's alarm for 6:00 p.m. That would give me plenty of time to return to the city. Now to get back to sleep….



8:30 p.m. I crossed the city line into the Bronx and nervously searched the sky for the Lightning Bird. So far, so good.

9:30 p.m. Fontayne met me at the I.N.S. office and gave me the flamethrower. I hadn't seen one since my Army days and was surprised at how lightweight and compact it was. I had assumed I'd be strapping an olive drab tank onto my back, but no. This wonder of modern technology was the size and shape of a rifle. And for some reason, it was colored white.

Fontayne said, “Where do you plan to look for this Lightning Bird?”

“I'd say the factory is a good place to start.”

“I'm coming with you.”

“That's not necessary! It's my battle.”

“And it's my murder case!”

“If I need you, I'll call your cell.”

Reluctantly, Fontayne agreed.

At the factory, I held the flamethrower in one hand and a flashlight in the other. I took the basement stairs to the boiler room. It was dark and empty. I shined the light around and saw nothing but the altar in front of the boiler. Tendrils of smoke rose from the silver bowl. Clearly, Lubanzi Naidu had used the altar again—after he sent his bird to kill me.

Sweating profusely, I opened the door to the boiler; it was empty. Naidu had indeed dispatched the Impundulu. But who was the target?

I noticed a fragment of burned parchment in the silver bowl. A partial name was legible: the mayor's. My guess had been right. I pulled out my phone to call Fontayne, but there was no cell service in that damned basement. I hauled ass up the stairs and tried again. This time, I got through. Frantically, I told her that the Lightning Bird was coming for the mayor.

“I'm on it,” Fontayne said and quickly hung up.

Since it was late at night, I took a guess that His Honor was at home. I floored the Yellow Submarine and headed to Gracie Mansion. The four-mile drive to Yorktown seemed to take forever. By the time I got there, the cops had already arrived. I heard the cawing of a bird and saw the Impundulu circling the spacious front lawn as a dozen or more cops fired on it.

“That won't do any good,” I tried to tell them, but between the birdcalls and the gunfire, no one heard me. Not that they would have listened anyway.

The bird extended its legs and shot lightning at the cops. The twin bolts nearly took out two officers, causing Fontayne to scream, “Retreat!” I fired up the flamethrower and aimed at the Impundulu. The bird turned its head in my direction and seemed to recognize me as the target that got away. As it flew toward me, I pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened. I yelped and jumped out of the path of an oncoming lightning bolt. It hit the grass not four feet away from me.

Fontayne yelled, “Dammit, Carl, use the flamethrower!”

“I'm trying!” I gave the trigger another pull. This time it worked.

The bird flew up to the mansion's roof, emitting its ear-splitting call. I aimed the flamethrower straight up and fired, hoping to get its attention. “Come and get me, you son of a bitch!” It flapped its wings and came at me kamikaze-style. Before the bird had a second chance to zap me with its payload, I fired. The flames hit the Impundulu's mid-section, causing it to shriek in agony. It hit the ground and slid several feet.

The police advanced on it. I shouted, “No! Keep away,” but it was too late. The Impundulu was injured but still powerful. It shot lightning from a talon, just missing a uni. The other cops shot at the bird, but their bullets couldn't harm it. I bombarded the creature with fire, causing it to flail about with an earth-shattering scream. I kept my aim steady, continuing the fiery onslaught until the Impundulu stirred no more.

While the patrolmen cautiously approached the dead bird, Fontayne walked up to me. She gave me a hug and kissed my cheek. “Nice job, Carl.”



Once the threat was neutralized, Fontayne escorted me into Gracie Mansion to meet the mayor. He sat in the living room wearing pajamas and a bathrobe. A bodyguard stood behind the couch while the obsequious Bobby Lester sat with him.

The mayor stood up and vigorously shook my hand. “Mr. Kolchak, I can't thank you enough! You put yourself at risk to save my life. How can I possibly repay you?”

“You can let me print my story.”

Before His Honor could respond, Lester intervened. “We can't do that, Mr. Kolchak! If the public found out that monsters really exist….”

I cut him off.  “…they might be prepared if a monster attacked them. God forbid! I should have known better than to even ask.”

The mayor looked ashamed. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

I thought for a moment. “Actually, yes.”



After the fracas at Gracie Mansion, Fontayne drove uptown to question Lubanzi Naidu. However, he did not answer his bell. When the superintendent let the detective in, she found Mr. Naidu dead on the floor. Oddly enough, his painting of the Impundulu had disintegrated. A pile of dust lay beneath the now-empty frame.

To my surprise, the mayor honored my alternate wish—the Manhattanville Project was canceled. Those old people no longer have to dread being evicted from their homes.

My story on the Lightning Bird never made the news, but a related story did. Due to facts I dug up, the McMichael Group is now under investigation by the Manhattan D.A.'s office. It seems their business practices were something short of ethical. If you'll pardon the expression, what a shock.

The Encyclopedia of American Loons is a real blog (http://americanloons.blogspot.com/). Just for laughs, I wrote a satiric entry about Carl:

At one time, Karel “Carl” Kolchak was a rising star in the now-moribund field of print journalism. He routinely exposed political and corporate corruption, though his highly abrasive personality kept him from reaching the big time.

Kolchak's descent into lunacy began in Las Vegas, where he was a reporter for a second-rate paper that no longer exists. While covering an admittedly bizarre series of murders (in which the victims were drained of their blood), Kolchak somehow convinced himself that the killer, Janos Skorzeny, was a vampire. He doggedly insisted that police arm themselves with crosses, mallets and wooden stakes, and that they drive a stake through Skorzeny's heart. When police killed Skorzeny in a shootout, Kolchak screamed “cover-up” and lost his job.

A year later, he turned up in Seattle, where his old editor from Las Vegas, Tony Vincenzo, inexplicably rehired him. This time, the clearly delusional Kolchak tried (and failed) to convince police that a serial killer stalking Pioneer Square was Dr. Richard Malcolm, a Civil War-era physician who had developed an elixir that unnaturally prolonged his life. However (per Kolchak), the elixir was only good for 21 years, at which point Malcolm needed to make another batch. The primary ingredient (of course) was the blood of freshly killed women. Unsurprisingly, his second descent into paranoia got Kolchak booted from the newspaper.

He next turned up in Chicago, working again for Tony Vincenzo (who must have had a severe masochistic streak), this time at a shoestring operation called the Independent News Service. During his time in the Windy City, Kolchak suffered from one psychotic episode after another. Among the beings he claimed to encounter: a second vampire, a werewolf, a zombie, invisible space aliens, a shape-shifting Native American medicine man, a politician who had literally sold his soul to the Devil, a homicidal android, a prehistoric ape man, a giant erect-walking lizard, a Louisiana swamp monster, and even Helen of Troy. Kolchak's reign of error frequently incurred the wrath of the Chicago P.D., who regarded the so-called reporter (and rightly so) as a demented pain in the ass.

After I.N.S. wisely fired him, Kolchak flew under the radar for some years, but resurfaced with the rise of the Internet and its embrace of pseudo-scientific bullshit. The ex-reporter has a substantial on-line following that has led to magazine and TV interviews regarding his ostensible experiences with the paranormal. At this writing, there is even a book deal in the works.

DIAGNOSIS: Dangerously unhinged and determined to convince people that his claims are not merely the result of untreated psychosis. At one time, we could have written Kolchak off as a harmless kook. But he is now a social media sensation who was recently named one of the 50 Most Influential People on the Internet. That makes him a serious threat to logic, reason, and just plain sanity.