The Cryptid Catcher

by Lija Fisher

  “No, he taught you five languages so you would know what to order in an ethnic restaurant. How should I know? He trained you; what difference does it make what he thought?” He gave Clivo a sturdy pat on the shoulder and retreated to his car. “Good luck, kid. Don’t mess it up.”

  As Douglas drove off, Clivo stood in his doorway, feeling completely adrift, his arms filled with the Diamond Card, satellite phone, case, and money, and his head swimming with the realization that he had no idea where to find a conspiracy theorist group that could locate mythological creatures.

  VII

  Clivo shut the door and laid everything Douglas had given him on the round dining room table. From the shelves in his dad’s study he retrieved Les Propheties, carefully placing it next to the photo album on the table. He wanted everything of importance in one place to help him sort through his thoughts, which were a jumbled mess.

  He had opened his laptop and was staring at the screen when he heard Aunt Pearl’s Pinto pull up in the driveway, thumping from the heavy drumbeat of her favorite music.

  Clivo jumped to his feet. He had been so caught up in everything that he had forgotten about his guardian. He grabbed the stuff on the table and let the cats out of the kitchen. They instantly sprang all over him, desperately trying to smother him with pent-up love and affection.

  With felines in pursuit, Clivo ran upstairs and found a safe spot for all the cryptid catcher supplies at the back of his closet. Just as he heard Pearl’s footsteps climbing up the stairs, he lay down in bed and pulled the sheet over his head. He pretended to be asleep, snoring a little bit and trying to avoid yelping as the cats pawed his face through the cover.

  The door squeaked open and Pearl looked in on him.

  “Aw, isn’t that the cutest thing?” she whispered. “Goodnight, sweet munchkins. Watch over my little rascal for me.”

  The door closed and Clivo flung the sheet off his head, scattering purring cats in every direction. He fetched his laptop and got to work with his web browser. In the search field on his home page, he typed mythological creatures and conspiracy. The search yielded 790,000 results. That was shocking. He’d figured there was a hearty interest in UFOs, but he hadn’t realized so many people were invested in finding the Sasquatch. Out of curiosity, Clivo looked up other conspiracy groups and found that they existed for just about everything you could think of. Of course there were the usual ones: Who really killed JFK? Was the moon landing real? Is Elvis still alive? But then there were some wacky ones: Is the moon itself even real? Are Nestlé Toll House cookies really made by elves? And Were the Founding Fathers actually zombies who now run a casino in North Dakota? (That group had over twenty thousand members.)

  Finally he stumbled across an active chat room on IMythsThePast.com that was discussing what breed of horse Pegasus was. Between heated exchanges about whether or not he was a “true white” horse or just an albino Clydesdale, Clivo joined the conversation under a screen name.

  SaveMeFromtheCats: Hi, guys. Does anyone have an idea about where I can find a cryptid? Preferably somewhere close to Colorado. It’s for a school project. Thank you.

  He felt weird asking such a question and was glad these chat rooms were anonymous.

  Monticore: Hey, dum dum, this is a mythozoology site, not a cryptozoology site. Get your creatures straight.

  SaveMeFromtheCats: Oh, sorry. What’s the difference?

  Monticore: What’s the difference? I’m done here. Isn’t anyone monitoring this thing to filter out the riffraff?

  I’mYourVenus: Calm down, Monticore. SaveMe, mythos are magical creatures, sometimes gods, that exist in a veil beyond our world.

  Monticore: And cryptids are STUPID.

  I’mYourVenus: I apologize for him. Cryptids are hidden animals that have, at some point, been seen by humans but whose existence has never been verified by science.

  Monticore: BECAUSE THEY’RE DUMB.

  SaveMeFromtheCats: Oh, okay. Sorry, guys. I guess I’m in the wrong chat room. Have a good night.

  I’mYourVenus: You too! You sound cute!

  Monticore: Flee, worthless plebeian!

  Clivo clicked out of the chat room as quickly as possible.

  He spent the next four hours researching cryptozoology websites and dropping in on various other chat rooms. The amount of information was staggering. Those who were believers were really into this stuff, especially when it came to Bigfoot. There was the Finding Bigfoot Project, the Bigfoot Search Party, the Bigger Bigfoot Search Party, and more. Most of these groups were dedicated to finding scientific proof of Bigfoot’s existence, or, better yet, Bigfoot himself, except for the Grab Your Gun Group, which sponsored military-style hunts with the goal of killing the creature. It seemed odd to Clivo that a group would want to kill something they obviously found fascinating.

  Clivo wondered for a moment why his dad had never caught Bigfoot, since there was so much information on this creature; then he shook his head at how weird it was to ask himself that.

  He researched a few other cryptids, like the shunka warak’in and the Ozark Howler, but all of the information he found was pretty general—a list of reported sightings, possible footprints, eerie mating calls heard at night. There wasn’t anything specific about how to stalk one beyond recommendations on bait, camouflage clothing, and night-vision video cameras.

  The downstairs clock chimed one A.M., and Clivo yawned and gave himself a stretch. He opened his bedroom window, hoping the cool air would wake him up. The rain had stopped, leaving behind the calming sound of water dripping off the gutters. He took a few deep breaths and realized he was going nowhere fast. If there were groups out there who really knew how to find a cryptid, he first had to find them.

  He creaked open his bedroom door and listened. After a moment he heard what sounded like an angry, huffing cow. It was Pearl’s loud snoring.

  As quietly as possible, he pulled open the attic hatch, unfolded the rickety ladder, and climbed back up. In his haste to look at the photo album he had forgotten to see if there was anything else inside the chest.

  He crossed the room and peered inside the open drawer. His heart sank when all he saw was emptiness. But on closer inspection he noticed that tucked in the back, half wedged in the corner, was what looked to be a business card. He pulled it out, being careful not to tear it.

  The Cryptid Collection

  The World’s Finest Cryptozoological Museum

  Beneath this was an address in Portland, Maine, as well as a poorly drawn Bigfoot and the hours of operation (Open seven nights a week). He flipped the card over and instantly recognized his dad’s handwriting on the back. There was just one word: cyborg.

  Clivo let out a long exhale of relief. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but it was something.

  Now what? He supposed the next step was to call them and ask if they knew the exact locations of any cryptids. It was worth a shot; it was a museum, after all.

  Clivo snuck back to his room (almost tripping on Ricky Martin, who was perched at the base of the ladder) and grabbed the secret satellite phone. He knew the museum was closed, but he just wanted to make sure the place still existed. The phone had rung once when an irritated voice picked up.

  “You better be on fire.”

  “Excuse me?” Clivo asked. The voice sounded disturbingly familiar.

  “I said you better be on fire because that’s the only reason you should be calling me at two in the morning, you nincompoop.”

  “Oh, sorry, Mr. Chancery. I wasn’t trying to call you.”

  It sounded like mariachi music was playing loudly in the background.

  “What do you mean, you weren’t trying to call me? I told you this phone only connects to me. Obviously you need remedial classes for the remedial.”

  “Sorry, I just got a lead on something and was trying to research it. And since you broke my phone I didn’t know what else to do.” Clivo tried to keep his voice at a whisper, but he knew from experience that nothing short of a bu
llhorn in Aunt Pearl’s ear would wake her up.

  Douglas spit something from between his lips and sputtered, “You were trying to call a lead? Never do anything by phone! What are you, an amateur?”

  Clivo dropped his head back and squeezed his eyes shut. “So how am I supposed to contact these people? And feel free to answer without yelling at me.”

  “I’ll give you a hint. You get on, it flies you somewhere, you get off.” Douglas yelled at someone across the room. “Señor! Mas tequila, por favor! Gracias. By the way, the Mexican food in this town stinks.”

  “Where do you live, anyway?” Clivo asked, wondering where Douglas was visiting from. Hopefully it was very far away.

  “Where I reside is none of your business,” Douglas said with a burp.

  Clivo rolled his eyes. “Fine. Anyway, you’re saying I should get on an airplane and fly to talk to these people?”

  “Exactamundo.” Douglas took a noisy drink of something and went into a raucous coughing fit. When he recovered, his voice was even raspier. “You’ve got the Diamond Card. Unless you’ve managed to lose it already.”

  “No, no, I still have it,” Clivo said, quickly checking his wallet to make sure he hadn’t dropped it. “But I have school tomorrow.”

  Douglas sighed heavily. “Kid, as we speak, some very dangerous people are searching for the immortal cryptid. Now, you can either go to school tomorrow and learn what kind of toilet paper George Washington used, or you can GET YOURSELF OUT THERE AND SAVE THE WORLD.”

  Clivo winced and held the phone away from his ear. “Okay, okay. I’ll skip school.”

  “Good. Oh, I forgot to tell you something very, very important.”

  Clivo sat down, hoping Douglas was about to give him some extremely useful information. “Okay.”

  “Make sure you fly coach.”

  Tuesday

  VIII

  Clivo got back into bed after hanging up with Douglas and instantly fell asleep. Before he knew it the sun was streaming through his window and Aunt Pearl was tapping on his door.

  “Clivo, honey, aren’t you going to be late for school?”

  “I’ll be down in a minute, Aunt Pearl,” Clivo said, bounding out of bed and grabbing his laptop.

  Clivo had to come up with a way to sneak away from Aunt Pearl for a few days. He felt terrible lying to her, but he didn’t have any other option. He could wait until winter break to search for a cryptid, but that was three months away and some bad guy could have found the immortal by then. Clivo figured there was only one way to get Aunt Pearl out of the house, so he woke his computer out of sleep mode and did an internet search, hoping he’d get lucky and find just the thing. After a few clicks, he found what he was looking for:

  Regional Salsa Dancing Competition

  Wednesday, August 23–Sunday, August 27

  Ballroom, Holiday Inn off Highway 336

  Cash prizes! Five days of festivities!

  Sheridan, Wyoming

  Using the internet phone call feature in his e-mail app, he called the Wyoming hotel and made his first use of his Diamond Card. They treated him as a prankster at first, but were happy to do whatever he requested once he mentioned the name of the credit card.

  Then he called Aunt Pearl. He heard the loud bongo ringtone on her cell phone and the clank of a pan as she placed it in the sink.

  “Hola!” Aunt Pearl’s cheery voice said as she answered the phone.

  Clivo did his best to deepen and disguise his voice. “Is this Aunt—I mean Miss Aunt Pearl Wren?”

  “I have the pleasure of being me!” she happily replied.

  Clivo cleared his throat. “Well, Miss Wren, word of your salsa skills has made it all the way up here to Wyoming. We know it’s last minute, but we’ve had a sudden cancellation by one of our star participants and would love to invite you up for five days of fun at our regional dance competition.”

  Aunt Pearl gasped and Clivo heard the scrape of a chair being pulled out as she sat down. “You’ve heard of me?”

  “We have, we hear you can cha-cha really well,” Clivo continued.

  “I can cha-cha like a champ!” Aunt Pearl said excitedly. “Except the cha-cha is not salsa dancing.”

  This was news to Clivo. “Of course! Anyway, we think you might have a chance at the first-place trophy in this year’s competition.”

  Aunt Pearl gasped again. “A trophy? I’ve always dreamed of winning my own trophy!”

  “Wonderful!” Clivo said, thrilled that his plan was working. “So, we’ll see you up here today, as quickly as possible. We have already covered your hotel and registration fees. And feel free to bring your cats. The hotel is animal friendly,” he added, having confirmed on the phone that this was true.

  Aunt Pearl let out a moan. “I can’t.”

  “Excuse me?” Clivo asked, his stomach dropping. “What could possibly be in the way of your dancing glory?”

  Aunt Pearl spoke in a hushed whisper. “I’d love to come, but I have a teenager at home. And from everything I’ve read, they should not be left alone for too long or things get set on fire or are stolen, or general mischief happens! I read it in a book on raising teens.”

  Clivo ran his hands through his hair and cursed whoever had written that book (although he thought Jerry’s parents could probably use a copy). “And how long has this teenager been a teenager?” he finally asked.

  “Um, since June. I’m sorry, since August. His thirteenth birthday was in August.”

  “Then there’s nothing to worry about, Miss Wren! It takes a while for teenagers to morph into hooligans. Your teenager should be well-behaved for at least a couple more years.”

  “But the book says…” Aunt Pearl replied, her voice sounding uncertain.

  “I did mention the first-place cash prize, didn’t I, and the promise of dancing glory?” Clivo asked insistently. “I assure you, your teenager will be just fine for a few days. If not, we will happily pay for anything that is burned down while you’re away.”

  Aunt Pearl was quiet for a few moments, her breathing heavy against the receiver. “You promise my little rascal will be okay?”

  Clivo once again felt a pang of guilt for lying. He wished he could just tell her the truth about the immortal, but Douglas had warned him not to. And his dad must have had a good reason for not telling her about cryptid catching, so it was probably best that he didn’t, either. “Your little rascal will be just fine. Now, please hurry, Miss Wren, the competitions are beginning tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” Aunt Pearl said with resolve, “but you better hold on to your shoes, because my Cuban-style cross step is going to blow your socks off!”

  Clivo gave Aunt Pearl all the information he could find on the website, then threw on some clothes, brushed his teeth, and headed downstairs, doing his best to look innocent. He entered the kitchen, where the smell of pancakes mixed with the sound of cats wailing beside their empty food bowls.

  Aunt Pearl looked up from the stove with a sheepish expression. “Hi, sleepyhead, here’s some pancakes and fresh maple syrup.” She slid him a plate of pancakes that had dabs of butter on them in the shapes of smiley faces.

  “Thanks, Aunt Pearl.” Clivo fed the cats, then took a seat on a barstool and stuffed some food in his mouth, doing his best not to look at her. He tried to remember that even though he had lied, a five-day getaway spent dancing was probably Aunt Pearl’s idea of heaven.

  Aunt Pearl slowly wiped the counter with a sponge, her face worried. “So, um, I just got a phone call this morning and I’ve been invited to a very special retreat this week in Wyoming. Would you be okay if I left you alone for a few days?”

  Clivo let out a dramatic sigh. “I’ll be okay, Aunt Pearl. I know how important church is to you. And you just bought plenty of mac and cheese, so I’ll be fine.”

  Aunt Pearl pouted her lip. “And you promise not to set anything on fire?”

  Clivo laughed. “Yes, Aunt Pearl, I promise not to set anything on fire.”
>
  “Or cause mischief?”

  “No mischief,” Clivo promised, unsure if getting on an airplane to search for legendary creatures was considered mischief.

  Aunt Pearl relaxed her shoulders and pinched his cheeks. “You’re my little rascal, you know that?” And with that, Aunt Pearl wrestled the cats into their travel carriers, then tore upstairs, threw some clothes into a suitcase, and ran back down within minutes, her salsa-dancing heels clicking on the wooden stairs as the cats meowed loudly. “Okay, sweetheart, I’ll be back Monday. Be a good boy, and please don’t steal any cars while I’m away.”

  “No guarantees, but I’ll do my best,” Clivo joked.

  As soon as Aunt Pearl had peeled her Pinto out of the driveway, Clivo grabbed his satellite phone and made a call. He winced as a groggy voice picked up.

  “You are literally killing me,” Douglas mumbled at the other end.

  “Sorry, Mr. Chancery, but can you call a taxi to take me to the airport?”

  “You can order it yourself from the internet, you cretin.”

  Clivo spoke the next part as quickly as possible. “Well, could you at least call my school and disguise your voice as Aunt Pearl and tell them I’ll be out sick for the rest of the week?”

  Douglas agreed, but muttered something so filthy that if Aunt Pearl heard it she would have stuck a bar of soap in his mouth.

  * * *

  Clivo arrived at the Denver airport forty minutes later and handed the driver the fare and a tip from his stack of cash, making sure to get a receipt. Carrying an overstuffed backpack, he walked into the shiny-floored terminal, and unpleasant memories flooded his head. Clivo had never flown in an airplane, as far as he could remember, at least, but he had spent plenty of time at the airport with Aunt Pearl, either dropping off or picking up his dad from his supposed archaeological digs. Clivo remembered all the sad goodbyes, Russell’s promises to return as soon as he could—and the smell of airplane soap on Russell’s hands when he finally did. Once again Clivo was awash in confusion as to why his dad had kept so many things a mystery.