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 ,2025



ISBN978-5-0068-4204-5

     Ridero







The rain tapped arestless rhythm on Theos windshield as he steered his beat-up Jeep down the winding roads ofthe Scottish Highlands.

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It was past midnight, the kind ofhour where the world felt like it belonged tosomething other than humans.

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Theo, afreelance journalist with aknack for chasing the bizarre, had heard the call from apub inInverness: afisherman claiming hed seen the Kelpie, the shape-shifting water horse oflegend, rearing from Loch Ness with eyes like molten gold.

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Theo didnt buy into Nessie hype too touristy but the old mans voice had cracked with fear, describing amane that dripped like seaweed and hooves that clattered on the shore.

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Armed with acamera and athermos ofcoffee, Theo parked near the lochs edge, the water ablack mirror under the storms edge.

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The wind carried astrange whinny, low and haunting, and as lightning split the sky, he glimpsed it asleek head breaking the surface, mane shimmering, then gone.

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His camera clicked too late, but the image burned inhis mind, ariddle he couldnt shake as he drove back, rain blurring the lines between myth and memory.

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Inthe dense jungles ofthe Congo Basin, Amina Okoro moved with the grace ofashadow, her machete slicing through vines as thick as her wrist.

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She was abotanist bytrade, but the Mokele-Mbembe adinosaur-like creature whispered about bythe Baka people had drawn her into the wild.

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The locals spoke ofagray, sauropod-shaped beast guarding the rivers, its neck arcing like acrane, its roar shaking the canopy.

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Amina had laughed it off until ahunter showed her afootprint: three feet wide, three-toed, pressed into the mud like afossil come tolife.

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That night, camped bythe Sangha River, she heard it adeep, resonant bellow that silenced the cicadas.

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Her flashlight caught aglimpse: amassive tail slicing the water, scales glinting like wet slate.

Ÿ   :    ,  ,   .



Amina froze, heart pounding, as it submerged, leaving ripples that lapped at her boots.

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She sketched it byfirelight, the lines trembling, knowing shed stumbled into astory older than the forest itself.

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Across the Pacific, inthe rugged mountains ofHokkaido, Kenji Sato adjusted his binoculars, scanning the snow-dusted peaks.

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The Kappa, aturtle-like imp ofJapanese folklore, was his quarry not the cute cartoon version, but the real thing: ahumanoid figure with webbed hands, abeak-like mouth, and ahollow skull said tohold water.

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Kenji, afolklorist with askeptical streak, had dismissed it until afarmer showed him avideo grainy, shaky ofacreature dragging afish from astream, its eyes glowing green inthe dusk.

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Now, perched on aridge, he waited as mist rolled in, the air sharp with pine.

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Asplash below drew his gaze: there, half-submerged, afigure crouched, scooping water with clawed hands.

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It turned, locking eyes with him, and Kenjis breath hitched those eyes held intelligence, not instinct.

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It vanished into the fog, leaving wet prints that melted into the snow, and Kenji sat there, camera forgotten, wondering if the Kappa watched him back.

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Inthe arid plains ofcentral Australia, Layla Carter tracked the Yowie, the Aboriginal hairy man ofthe outback.

       蠖    .



Apark ranger with alove for the land, shed grown up on Dreamtime stories ofagiant, ape-like figure roaming the bush, its howls echoing under the stars.

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Skeptics called it akangaroo misidentified, but Layla had seen the signs: broken branches ten feet high, scat too large for any known animal.

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One dusk, patrolling near Uluru, she heard it alow, mournful wail that raised the hairs on her neck.

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Her torch beam swept the red dirt, landing on afigure: tall, shaggy, its silhouette against the rock like aliving shadow.

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It turned, eyes reflecting the light, then loped away, leaving atrail ofcrushed spinifex.

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Layla followed, pulse racing, the chase pulling her deeper into the night, the Yowies presence apulse inthe land she couldnt ignore.

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Halfway across the globe, inthe misty valleys ofPeru, Carlos Mendoza hiked the Andes, chasing the Chullachaqui ashape-shifting forest spirit said tolure travelers astray with asingle mismatched foot.

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Carlos, an ethnographer, had collected tales from Quechua elders: afigure inaponcho, one leg human, the other cloven, its face shifting tomimic loved ones.

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Hed laughed it off until aguide vanished last month, leaving only asandal with ahoof-like imprint.

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Now, deep inthe cloud forest, the air thick with orchids, Carlos felt watched.

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Arustle there, byaceiba tree, afigure stood, one leg twisted, face ablur ofhis mothers features.

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It beckoned, voice asoft echo ofher call.

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Carlos stumbled back, heart slamming, as it melted into the foliage, leaving him disoriented, the trail gone.

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He marked the spot, the encounter athread inatapestry he couldnt unravel.

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Inthe swamps ofFlorida, Riley Jackson poled his airboat through the Everglades, hunting the Skunk Ape abipedal, foul-smelling primate locals swore roamed the mangroves.

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Riley, awildlife photographer, had scoffed until atourists phone video showed ahulking figure lumbering through the sawgrass, stench wafting even through the screen.

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That night, engine off, he drifted, camera rolling.

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The air grew thick with amusky reek, and there it was seven feet tall, fur matted with mud, eyes glinting inhis spotlight.

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It snarled, asound like tearing roots, then bolted, leaving awake oftrampled reeds.

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Rileys footage was shaky, but the stench lingered on his clothes, proof ofapresence the swamp guarded jealously.

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Back inScotland, Theo met Amina, Kenji, Layla, Carlos, and Riley at acryptid symposium inGlasgow, the room buzzing with whisky and wild stories.

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Theo projected his Kelpie blur; Amina shared her Mokele-Mbembe sketch; Kenji played the Kappa video; Layla traced Yowie tracks; Carlos described the Chullachaquis face; Riley aired the Skunk Ape snarl.

    ; ࠖ   -; 蠖  ; ࠖ  ;    ; 蠖   .



Laughter mingled with gasps as they traded maps and theories, the walls plastered with pins connecting sightings worldwide.

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Outside, rain lashed the windows, and alow hum rose half wind, half song drawing their eyes tothe dark.

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Theo swore he saw ashadow move, mane dripping, and the others nodded, each carrying their own glimpse ofthe unseen, ashared thread binding them tothe creatures that lurked just beyond the light.

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The air hung heavy with the scent ofpine and damp earth as Mara Jensen pedaled her bike along the backroads ofnorthern Wisconsin.

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It was late October, the kind ofcrisp evening where the leaves blazed red and gold, and the woods seemed topulse with secrets.

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