Monster hunting - Leo Lyubavitch

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of human footprints, a symbol of the unnatural, a sign that made the blood run cold.

      Sometimes, under the cover of twilight, the Gulyabani would appear to people. Its voice, unexpectedly human, would shatter the silence, issuing a challenge to wrestle. This was not merely a contest of strength; it was a trial, a test of the spirit. The elders whispered that to accept the Gulyabani’s challenge was to defy fate itself. To defeat it was nearly impossible, its strength inhuman, and the loser was doomed to wander the desolate mountains for eternity, in the company of shadows and winds.

      Yet, there were those who dared to accept the challenge. Legends tell of brave souls who, armed not only with physical strength but also with cunning, courage, and faith in their ancestors, managed to outwit the Gulyabani, avoiding the contest or even forcing it to flee. These stories, passed down through generations, became symbols of hope, proof that even in the face of the most terrifying horror, the human spirit could find a way.

      Thus, woven into the fabric of Pamir folklore, the image of the Gulyabani became not just an embodiment of fear, but also a reminder of the strength of the human spirit, of the ability to resist darkness, of the eternal struggle between humanity and the wild. And as the wind whispers its tales, the legend of the Gulyabani lives on, terrifying and inspiring in equal measure.

      *****

      The Pamirs. Mountain ridges, like skeletal fingers of giants, clawed at the sky. The air, thin and icy, burned my lungs. A silence, deep and ominous, pressed against my eardrums. I walked, haunted by the specter of Gulyabani, that nightmarish reflection of humanity, the creature whose name is whispered in hushed tones by the locals. The smell. That cursed smell pursued me, clinging to my clothes, my hair, my very skin. A heavy, nauseating stench of wild animal mingled with something sweet and putrid. The smell of Gulyabani.

      Every step was a struggle. The bone-chilling wind howled through the ravines like a madman. But I pressed on, driven by the obsessive need to find this creature. To find it and prove to the world that nightmares can be real.

      And then… on the rocky ground, amidst the sparse vegetation, I saw them. Tracks. Unmistakable. The backward-facing feet, a twisted mockery of human anatomy. A symbol of the unnatural, the mark of Gulyabani. My blood ran cold. My heart hammered against my ribs. Fear, and a strange, inexplicable excitement, washed over me.

      I followed the tracks, my eyes glued to the ground. They led me upwards, along a steep slope, towards the edge of a precipice. The wind intensified, trying to tear me from the mountainside. The smell of Gulyabani became overpowering, making me gag. And then… the tracks stopped. Simply vanished at the very edge of the abyss. I approached cautiously, peering over the edge. My head swam. Before me was a sheer drop, plunging into an immeasurable darkness. No tracks, no sound. Only the wind and that damned smell, which now seemed to emanate from the chasm itself.

      What happened to Gulyabani? Did it jump? Fly? Dissolve into thin air? Questions swarmed in my mind, but there were no answers. Only emptiness and a viscous, primal dread crawling down my spine like icy fingers. I stumbled back from the edge, my knees trembling uncontrollably. Gulyabani was gone, but its presence lingered, hanging in the air, on the very edge of reality, on the precipice of madness.

      Sukijavrey Chupche

      The wind, a relentless sculptor of ice and snow, carries whispers across the tundra. Whispers of a creature both feared and fascinating, a being woven into the very fabric of the harsh northern landscape: the Sukijavrey Chupche. Not only the Yukaghir, children of the tundra, but even the northern Yakut, whose lives are intertwined with the icy breath of the Arctic, believe in its existence.

      They speak of a wild figure, cloaked in thick, coarse hair, blending seamlessly with the muted browns and greys of the frozen plains. Its speed is legendary, a blur against the endless white expanse, its passage marked only by a haunting, high-pitched whistle that cuts through the howling wind. This whistle, a chilling serenade, is said to precede the disappearance of food stores and, more ominously, the vanishing of women. The Sukijavrey Chupche is a thief, not of material possessions, but of the very essence of survival – sustenance and progeny.

      The stories paint a picture of a creature both bestial and cunning. Its motivations remain shrouded in mystery, fueling speculation and fear. Some believe it to be a malevolent spirit, a personification of the tundra’s harsh realities. Others whisper of a more tangible explanation, a hypothesis as bold as the icy landscape itself. They speak of sea hunters from the far Northeast, adrift on fractured ice floes, carried by capricious currents far to the west, to the mouths of the Kolyma and even the Indigirka. Lost and desperate, these castaways, transformed by hardship and isolation, become something other, something more primal. Their once-human forms adapt to the unforgiving environment, their skills honed for survival, their appearance altered by the relentless wind and cold.

      This hypothesis adds a layer of tragedy to the legend of the Sukijavrey Chupche. Are they monsters, or merely men, driven to extremes by the cruel hand of fate? The question hangs in the frozen air, unanswered, echoing the loneliness of the vast tundra. The whistling wind becomes a lament, a mournful cry for those lost in the icy wilderness, a reminder of the fragility of human existence in the face of nature’s overwhelming power. The legend of the Sukijavrey Chupche serves not only as a cautionary tale but also as a testament to the enduring human spirit, capable of both great resilience and profound desperation in the face of unimaginable hardship.

      *****

      The wind, laced with needles of ice, sliced at my face. The endless white expanse of the tundra stretched to the horizon, bleak and lifeless. I had come to the far north, drawn by unsettling rumors of missing women. The locals whispered of the Sukijävri Chupacabra – a hairy demon, swift as the wind, whose prey was not only women but also food stores, dooming entire families to starvation.

      Tracks in the snow – strange, unlike those of any known creature – led me deeper into the icy wasteland. They appeared abruptly, vanished just as suddenly, as if the creature moved in leaps and bounds, defying the laws of physics. The frost seeped into my bones, but I was warmed by the feverish thought of an imminent encounter with the unknown.

      And then, through the howl of the wind, I heard it. A piercing, whistling sound that made my blood run cold. The same whistle the hunters spoke of, the whistle that presaged disaster. It was close, very close. My heart hammered in my chest. I ran, stumbling over the uneven frozen ground, my eyes fixed on the tracks, which were now very near.

      The whistle grew louder, more piercing, it practically tore at my eardrums. I saw it! A dark, blurred silhouette racing across the snow with incredible speed. The Sukijävri Chupacabra! I was so close!

      Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through my head. I fell, collapsing into darkness. The last thing I remember is that piercing whistle, as if it were drilling into my brain.

      I awoke in a chum, surrounded by the worried faces of hunters. They had found me unconscious in the tundra. They said I was lucky to be alive. They didn’t know what had attacked me. But the whistle… that damned whistle still rings in my ears, a reminder of an encounter with something incomprehensible, something terrifying, lurking in the icy wasteland.

      Girona Gnome

      The whispers started in the autumn of ’89, carried on the crisp Tramuntana wind that swept down from the Pyrenees. They spoke of something strange, something unsettling, found in the woods near Girona, a creature that defied explanation and ignited the fires of imagination. They called it the Girona Gnome.

      September’s

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