The Beast of Blankly Woods

 (Filed under: Field Reports — Cryptids, Deception, and Inadequate Lighting)

If you ever find yourself driving through Lincolnshire after midnight, and your satnav says “recalculating” even though you’re on the only road for miles turn around.

Unless, of course, you’re me.

Then you put the flask in one pocket, the crucifix in the other, and drive straight into the fog like an idiot with a PhD.

That’s how I ended up in Blankly Woods.

The Reports

For months, locals had been whispering about something in the forest. Tall. Hunched. Covered in fur that glowed faintly blue when the moon was right. One farmer described it as “a werewolf that’d been through HR training.”

The Ministry labelled it a Category 3: Unverified Zoanthropic Manifestation, which is bureaucratese for “probably a badger, but send Daark anyway.”

So I went.

The Scene

Blankly Woods sits on the edge of nowhere, which is impressive because nowhere’s been full for decades. Trees as thick as secrets, paths that lead themselves in circles. The kind of silence that waits for you to notice it.

I found claw marks on a tree. Deep ones. Too deliberate to be natural. Too theatrical to be real.

Then I found footprints enormous, humanoid, barefoot.

Oddly enough, they smelled of aftershave.

That was my first clue.

The second was the discarded Greggs wrapper nearby.

I recorded my thoughts:

 

“Possible cryptid. Possibly a cryptid with a sausage roll.”

Then came the sound.

A howl.

Long, low, and frankly overacted.

I followed it.

The Encounter

The fog thickened around me, swirling in that annoyingly dramatic way fog always does when it knows you’re recording.

Out from the mist stumbled something enormous seven feet tall, covered in matted fur and regret. Glowing eyes. Long claws. A snout that seemed to have been attached by someone who’d only seen wolves in children’s books.

“Stay back!” I shouted, brandishing my torch.

It froze.

Then it sneezed.

The head tilted at an odd angle and fell clean off.

Underneath was a middle-aged man in a tracksuit, blinking like someone who’d just been interrupted halfway through a bad idea.

“Alan?” I said, because of course I recognised him.

Alan Merton local groundskeeper, part-time conspiracy blogger, and full-time nuisance.

He sighed, wiping sweat from his face. “You weren’t supposed to find me until the papers got here.”

The Explanation

Turns out Alan had been “creating sightings” for months faking photographs, howling from the treetops, even scratching trees with gardening shears.

“Why?” I asked, already regretting it.

He looked hurt. “To boost tourism, obviously. Blankly’s been dead since the bypass opened.”

The claws were made of salad tongs. The fur, an old carpet. The glowing eyes? Bicycle reflectors from the parish fete.

Still, the plan had worked — dozens of visitors, increased business at the local pub, and three separate paranormal YouTubers who’d livestreamed themselves screaming into ferns.

Alan was positively proud.

I made a note:

“Haunting downgraded from cryptid to economic initiative.”

Then I heard it.

A growl.

Deep. Wet. Not Alan.

From behind us, something moved through the underbrush slower, heavier, real.

We both turned.

Two yellow eyes blinked from the dark.

Alan whispered, “Is that part of my costume?”

“No, Alan,” I said quietly. “That’s the bit you summoned.”

The thing stepped forward — something half-seen, half-invented. The forest exhaled, the air smelling faintly of old iron and worse decisions.

We didn’t stick around.

Epilogue

Alan’s fine. Mostly. He’s agreed never to promote tourism again.

As for Blankly Woods the Ministry has sealed the area and listed it as “Ecologically Sensitive,” which is code for “don’t ask.”

My final recording caught one last sound after I left — claws on bark.

Real ones, this time.

If anyone reading this hears a howl near Blankly Woods, ignore it.

Or better yet check if it smells like aftershave.

Filed under: False Alarms, True Monsters, and the Perils of Small Business.

— S. Daark

(Filed: Thursday, which is really just Tuesday in disguise.)