For many years, we did not believe in jackals. It was said that they lived in the woods on the outskirts of our little suburb. At the heart of those woods is a great artificial pond that our ancestors dug down to the shallow bedrock. Sometimes, great birds take flight from its surface. All around it is a wall of chiropteran trees whose branches cast their spindly shadows upon the motionless water. The trees extend out for miles in each direction, so closely packed that the sun rarely shines through their obsidian canopy. The ground beneath, hidden from the light, is studded with exposed roots, sheets of moss, and dead logs infested with termites and ants. Bats roost in the distended trunks of the mottled trees. On hot summer nights, hundreds of them take flight to consume the insects that whirl in great clouds through the humid air. During the long winter, the sheet of fallen leaves is covered in half a foot of frozen snow and the bare branches are spiderwebs that shake in the slight wind below a gray sky.
When we were children, they told us tales of the jackals, but no one would say—because they did not know—precisely where their hidden lairs might be found. They must exist, said those who told the tales, because occasionally a jackal is seen as it stalks through the labyrinth of trees. We also find, from time to time, the eviscerated carcass of a rabbit or a small deer. It is rare to see the jackals in packs, they said, but it is not unknown, and those who venture into the woods must be taught how to deceive and evade the jackals. If one is encountered, we were told, we should walk slowly backward, always looking them in the eyes, and disappear into the undergrowth as quickly as possible. This is essential because the jackals are not afraid.
Never take food into the forest, they admonished us, for jackals have a formidable sense of smell. Never go camping, because it is impossible to know what might lurk in the night beyond the fire. Worse still, in sleep, one is defenseless, and jackals do not sleep. This may be why, though no one believed such stories, no one in our little suburb has ever camped in the woods.
We would ask, of course, what the jackals looked like. We cannot tell you, they replied, because even those who have seen them find them difficult to describe. The jackals are glimpsed in shadows, in bogs and pits, along the rim of the woods at night, and the infinite trees provide ample camouflage. We only call them jackals, they said, because we have no better word for them.
When we grew up, we decided that even if there were jackals, they seemed to keep to themselves. Thus, though we retained our ingrained aversion to camping, in all other ways we conducted ourselves as if there were no jackals—because there appeared to be none. Our children walked free through the woods. Men went in and out with their rifles and shotguns to hunt for deer. Pet dogs and cats would occasionally wander the woods in search of transient freedom. Teenagers did the same, exploiting the darkness of the trees to explore each other’s bodies and partake of illicit substances. Sometimes, young girls would go out on nights of the full moon and dance together around the great trunks, enacting who knows what kind of unknown and ancient ritual.
We do not know precisely what brought about our disillusionment. Perhaps the jackals grew accustomed to our presence and perceived our weakness. They understood that we were not a threat and that this made us vulnerable. Perhaps they were driven by some biological or ecological force we have yet to discover. Perhaps they simply decided they were hungry.
First, the neighborhood pets began to disappear. Cats who regularly went outdoors suddenly did not return home. Flyers were put up and searches conducted, but not a single one was ever found. This continued for several months until there were no cats left at all.
Next came the small dogs. At least, those who were left in backyards or dog houses for the night. They either disappeared without a trace or their leashes were found severed and discarded. This was the first hint that an outside force was at work. Mastiffs or pit bulls were one thing, but it was difficult to believe that a chihuahua or a teacup poodle could bite through a leather leash and make off into the night.
Then, one night, a local man driving home from a late shift at work turned a corner and saw, caught in his headlights, two animals engaged in a ferocious struggle. At first, the man was uncertain as to what was happening, so anomalous was the sight. In our little suburb, violence of any kind is almost unknown. He quickly realized that a Labrador Retriever was grappling with a large animal whose fangs gleamed in the halogen glare. Red blood ran down the flanks of both creatures and spit flew in all directions until the unknown beast broke off the attack and, on long and stunningly swift legs, disappeared into the underbrush.
The man rushed to the dog’s aid. He ascertained that, while it was still upright, it was horribly injured. He wrapped it in a blanket and, unsure what else to do, called the police. The police arrived, examined the animal, and identified it as belonging to an elderly couple who had reported their dog missing some two hours before. The couple was duly informed. The local veterinarian was awakened from a deep sleep and agreed to meet the police at his office to examine the wounded animal.
The vet was shocked by what he discovered. The animal was in a terrible state. There were at least two dozen lacerations, six of them serious. One of its ears had been completely bitten off and its right front leg was almost severed just below the knee. However, judging by the shards of flesh found between its teeth, the other creature could well have gotten the worst of it. In any event, the vet pronounced, the animal would recover.
The dog’s wounds were treated and he was made comfortable via various anesthetics. The police and the veterinarian then adjourned into an adjacent room. The vet told them that whatever had attacked the dog was almost certainly not a domestic animal. The witness had said that it was large and this was beyond question, judging by the width of the Labrador’s bite wounds. The attacker’s claws must have been extremely sharp to cause the deepest lacerations. Its bite force was undoubtedly considerable given the state of the Labrador’s front leg.
Asked what species might be the culprit, the vet said that he could not say with any certainty. It was certainly an apex predator, he stated, and thus a potential danger to other animals and possibly humans. This was especially the case given that it was certainly aggressive and now quite grievously injured. The public would have to be informed and measures taken to hunt down and kill the animal before it could attack again, whether out of hunger or pain. In any case, the vet said, he would send the material found in the dog’s teeth for DNA analysis, which would might help identify the species in question.
The next night, a local farmer heard his pigs shrieking. Toting a shotgun, he rushed to the barn. There, he found three pigs dead and two more horribly mauled. The floor of the barn had become a sea of blood and discarded flesh. He rushed out in hopes of catching the predator and saw a large shape disappearing into the nearby trees. He fired both barrels and heard what he thought was a strangely metallic cry. When he approached the area with a flashlight, however, he found nothing.
The next three nights passed without incident. On the morning of the fourth day, two fishermen making their way to the pond came upon a decaying carcass of remarkable size and shape. Scavengers, insects, and worms had done their work and the odor of the remains was horrendous, but the carcass was recognizable as a large predator of some kind. Well aware of recent events, the fishermen informed the forest service and the police. The former, wearing face masks and rubber gloves, placed the carcass in a plastic bag, transported it to their local headquarters, and placed it in a large freezer.
The next day, packed in dry ice, the carcass was transferred to the university ten miles from our little suburb. An expert from the zoology department subjected the carcass to an hours-long examination. At first, he was somewhat reluctant to report his perplexity, but ultimately conveyed his findings—or lack thereof—to the forest service.
The carcass, he said, was badly decayed, making identification difficult. Nonetheless, the skeleton was relatively intact, as well as a substantial portion of the hide and most of the internal organs. Sadly, none of them were much help. As far as he could tell, the remains corresponded to no known animal. While it had characteristics familiar to science and reminiscent of familiar species, particularly canines, he was at a loss as to this specific variation. The closest analogue, he felt, was the African jackal, but this species was obviously alien to the region. The only possibility he could think of was that an exotic pet owner had kept a bizarre hybrid of the species illegally. It had eventually escaped or been deliberately released.
All of this was frustratingly inconclusive. Nonetheless, it marked an important shift. For the first time, someone had spoken the word “jackal.”
The zoologist was careful to emphasize, however, that this theory did not explain the bizarre variations present in the specimen. These variations touched on all its characteristics: The hide, the skull, the pelvis, the circulatory system, the liver and spleen, and the ocular nerves. Particularly disturbing were the limbs, which were strangely articulated, to say the least. They could be described only as both unnervingly similar and unnervingly dissimilar to those of various known species. He strongly recommended that the relevant samples undergo an immediate DNA test.
The authorities had already requested DNA tests on the remains found in the Labrador’s mouth. They were confident that a solution as to the creature’s identity would be forthcoming. In this, they were disillusioned. The results came a week later and were no more revelatory than the physical examination. Nonetheless, there were a few consistent findings. For example, the genetic material displayed similarities to the canine, feline, and even ursine genomes. Nonetheless, no definitive conclusions could be reached. The geneticists theorized that the species could be a previously unknown hybrid. Wild predators were known to interbreed with domestic pets. Sometimes, the resulting hybrid had no fear of humans, increasing its tendencies toward aggression. The zoologist’s theory that the animal was an escaped exotic pet also could not be discounted. Nonetheless, it was unlikely that the species would not be on record somewhere. Beyond that, the geneticists could be of no further assistance.
The forest service and the police took stock of the situation and decided that it was prudent to close the case. Whatever the creature was, it was dead. Given that it was obviously exotic, the chances that there were others of its kind in the area were extremely low. The chances of a sustainable breeding population were all but non-existent. Naturally, the relevant authorities would keep their eyes open, but in all likelihood, there was nothing to worry about.
As if to confirm their theories, for some time things were quiet in our little suburb. We returned to whatever it is we call normal and the strange incidents of recent days were forgotten. We woke up, went to work, came home, tended to our families if we had them, slept, and repeated the ritual the next day and the next, and so on. We walked the streets without fear, let our pets out at night, and allowed our children to go here and there unaccompanied. The quiet and quotidian worries of the middle class again took hold of our attention. We thought no more of jackals.
As a result, we were shocked a month and a half later when the first child was attacked. Nine-year-old Ellie Dickinson was walking along the edge of the woods in the early evening just as the sun was giving way to the strange twilight of vivid colors and no shadows. What she could later describe only as a black shape, about the size of a mastiff, leaped from the trees and sunk its teeth into her right leg. As she screamed, the thing began to drag her toward the woods. Though she struggled and punched at it with remarkable strength for a child her age, the creature was far too large and powerful to dislodge.
What might have transpired had a passing driver not seen what was happening, jumped out, and run at the creature with a tire iron in his hand is terrible to contemplate. The driver struck the creature somewhere near its left eye. With a squealing howl, it released the girl and disappeared into the trees.
Ellie’s leg was a mass of blood and pulp, so the driver took her at top speed to the hospital on Route 14. The lacerations were examined and stitched. Ellie’s frantic mother was told that, except for a few permanent scars, her daughter would make a full recovery. However, an attentive physician, recalling recent events, took detailed photographs and measurements of Ellie’s wounds. He then called animal control, the police, and the Forest Service.
The evidence was examined by the experts and their conclusion was unequivocal: Whatever had attacked Ellie Dickinson, it was of the same species as the creature killed a month and a half before, albeit of slightly smaller size and build. This strongly indicated that the attacker was either a female or a juvenile. This, in turn, implied not only the presence of further such creatures but also a breeding population.
The authorities once again took stock of the situation. They reluctantly concluded that they were dealing with a dangerous and aggressive species. It had very likely established itself in the area. It would only grow more numerous as time went on. They began to consider the measures that might be taken in response. The consensus was that the existence of a breeding population had to be confirmed, Then, if it was confirmed, aggressive efforts to extirpate the creatures had to be taken.
The first priority, however, was to inform the local community. Reluctantly, as they knew the hysteria that might result, the authorities concluded that secrecy would be not only futile but derelict. The danger had to be minimized to the greatest extent possible. The creatures had to be dealt with, but it was also imperative for the residents of our little suburb to take preventative measures.
A town meeting was called for the next evening. By that time, everyone knew about the attack on Ellie Dickinson. Most of us recalled the previous incidents. Those who did not were informed of them very quickly by local gossip. This resulted in considerable anxiety. Pets were kept indoors. Children were told not to go out without an adult present. Doors and windows were locked. Those who owned livestock secured them as best they could. There was a rush on shotguns at the local package store.
Naturally, rumors flew as to the identity of the creatures themselves. Unsurprisingly, in light of local lore and legendaria, the creatures quickly came to be universally referred to as “jackals.” It was the best anyone could do.
As a result of all this, it was unsurprising that attendance was high at the town meeting. In fact, “standing room only” does not quite apply. The crowd not only took up every available square inch of the room but spilled out into the hallway outside. Several dozen milled around outside in the cool wind, listening to regular reports of the proceedings conveyed by concerned attendees.
The police chief spoke first in the strange, stentorian dialect of English employed by officials of all institutions. He described the incidents in question and the authorities’ assessment of them in considerable detail. He mentioned certain measures that the authorities were already taking. He gave detailed advice on precautions the citizenry could take to protect themselves. Most of them had already been taken.
The chief was followed by an official from the forest service. The official gave a vague description of the animal and the dangers it appeared to present. He then elaborated on preventative measures, most of which, again, were irrelevant, as they were already being observed. He added that the forest service would soon commence a thorough search of the woods, possibly as early as the following day. Their mission was to determine the species in question, their location, and the size of their population. It was hoped that this would help ameliorate the threat.
When the floor was opened to public discussion, the authorities’ concerns proved justified. All hell broke loose. Several attendees berated the authorities for their failure to immediately take protective measures after the first incident. Had this been done, they insisted, the injuries to Ellie Dickinson could have been prevented. Others called for the jackals to be immediately extirpated once discovered, citing the health and safety of the community and especially its children. There were those, on the other hand, who more or less took the side of the jackals. The community, they asserted, had to learn to coexist with the creatures. We had, after all, encroached on their habitat. No human present could lay claim to the woods or the animals in it, which belonged to nature. Some applauded and others jeered. The presiding officials sought to calm the crowd, with only partial success. Certainly, emotions remained high and not always unexpressed.
The meeting was quickly brought to a close. The crowd spilled out into the surrounding streets, locked in ferocious arguments. It appeared that the people of our little suburb were already irrevocably split irrevocably into “coexistence” and “extirpation” factions—soon to be dubbed simply “pro-jackal” and “anti-jackal.” It was not until midnight that the last disputants gave up. Still seething, they wandered home through the cool evening with its golden streetlights and the smell of night-blooming flowers.
The forest service’s search party set out at dawn the next morning. They carried nets, tranquilizer darts, scientific instruments, and a single shotgun. Trudging slowly through the woods, they kept their eyes down, examining the forest floor for any sign of a creature of comparable size and shape to the jackals. As the day lengthened and the sun’s rays pierced the thick canopy above, the search became increasingly tense. No evidence whatsoever had yet met their eyes. There were signs of deer, at least one moose, and even hints of a bear. But they were not looking for deer, moose, or bear. Other than the bear, there were no signs of a large predator. To their surprise, even the wolves which were not uncommon at this time of year appeared to be absent.
The hunters regrouped in the early evening. They were disappointed but not despairing. They knew how elusive woodland creatures can be and the woods were large. They had searched at best a small corner of it. It was all but impossible for them to have found anything in a single day. It was decided to set out again the next morning in a different direction. They all went home exhausted but undaunted.
They set out the next morning as planned and found nothing. They did so again the next day. The day after that, they did a complete circuit of the wood’s perimeter. The following day, they ventured as far as they could into the heart of the woods and reached the bank of the dark pond. For over a week, they kept going back and kept finding nothing.
After 10 days, the hunters took stock of the situation. They decided there were only two possibilities: a) The jackals did not exist, or b) they were very adept at camouflage and likely nocturnal.
The hunters knew that (a) was false. There was more than enough forensic and eyewitness evidence to be certain of this. Only (b) was left. So, they decided on a night search. Since they all needed a rest and the community’s preventative measures seemed to be working, the hunters decided the nocturnal excursion would take place a week later.
This was a mistake. As the week went by, relations between the residents of our little suburb became strained, even acrimonious. The dispute between the pro- and anti-jackal factions grew increasingly bitter. Longtime friends and happy acquaintances stopped talking to each other. Businesses were boycotted depending on which side the owner had chosen. There were even rumors of considerable dissension between family members. On two occasions, arguments nearly came to blows.
Then the war of bumper stickers began. The anti-jackal faction was represented by a symbol consisting of the black silhouette of what was presumably a jackal, over which a red “X” was painted. The pro-jackal factions used an image of a stylized jackal in blue surrounded by a peace sign.
Even to those of us who had chosen to remain aloof from the controversy, all of this was beginning to wear on us. So, we lived in the hope that the night search would settle the matter.
It did not. Toting night-vision goggles, ultraviolet flashlights, and other strange technologies, the hunters entered the obsidian and silent woods. They listened and watched. They sniffed the air in search of the unfamiliar odor of an unseen animal. There was nothing. Not even a brief glimpse of a menacing shadow, nor the flutter of leaves as a creature fled into the gloom.
The hunters left the woods in the early morning. They were not only frustrated. In a way that they could explain neither to themselves nor others, they were now genuinely frightened.
Three days later, the first child was killed. No one witnessed the event, but it was ascertained that Tom McPherson, aged seven, had gone playing with his friends at the dark pond. They threw rocks at lily pads and hoped to glimpse a bobcat. On the way home, the boys walked single file along a narrow trail. Tom tarried briefly to relieve himself. It was only when they emerged from the woods that the boys realized he had never rejoined them.
Tom’s parents did not wait for nightfall to panic. The fear that hung over our little suburb precluded any assumptions but the worst. They immediately called the police. The police called the forest service. A large group of searchers, armed as even the hunters had not been armed, invaded the woods, tracing the narrow trail back to where Tom McPherson had last been seen.
They found nothing at first. Then a keen-eyed ranger noticed a slight but unnatural disturbance in the leaves. He followed it some 200 feet off the trail. There, in a narrow gap between two oaks, they found Tom McPherson. The body was horribly mangled and the wounds do not bear description. Suffice it to say that, while the throat was destroyed, the face was intact, so there could be no question as to the identity of the victim.
The body was left in situ and the area immediately declared a crime scene. The chief of police was informed. He made the awful journey to the McPherson home, where he broke the news to the distraught parents. Neither of them, as is not unusual in such cases, would believe it. Forensic scientists and a zoologist were summoned and the arduous work of investigation began.
The next night, an emergency town meeting was held. The chief of police announced that there was no question whatsoever that Tom McPherson had been killed not just by a jackal, but by a pack of at least three jackals and perhaps more. A pall of silence fell over the crowd, followed by a few muffled gasps. The police chief assured the assembled that every effort was being made to ensure the safety of local residents. Then he handed the floor over to Dr. Frederick Peterson, a forest service zoologist.
Peterson was forthright and succinct: The community was now dealing with a group of predators who appeared to lack any fear of humans and had acquired a taste for human flash. That is, a pack of maneaters was on the loose. The precise nature and species of the animals were uncertain, but they were powerful, stealthy, and probably intelligent. Like most ambush predators, they targeted the smallest and the youngest prey. They appeared to be crepuscular in their feeding habits, meaning they were most active at dawn and dusk. Given that they had yet to be sighted during the day, their life cycle was probably nocturnal.
Nothing beyond that was certain, but if the jackals behaved as such predators usually behave, it was very unlikely they would depart of their own accord. They had discovered a hunting ground, established themselves, and would stay so long as prey was available. The residents of our suburb could avoid the woods entirely, but the jackals had almost certainly been responsible for the disappearances of neighborhood pets, which meant they had no fear of entering the town proper in search of food. It was also likely that they could survive by hunting other animals until human prey became available again.
At this, Bradley Hawkins, an outspoken member of the anti-jackal faction, stood up and nearly shouted, “What are you going to do about it?”
Several pro-jackal residents attempted to shout him down, but the head selectman silenced them. Peterson, momentarily flustered, struggled to reply. Then he took a deep breath and said, quietly but firmly, that extermination was the recommended option.
At this, pandemonium erupted. Half the audience applauded and cheered. The other half jeered, booed, and threw small objects. Some even began to sing. Soon the altercations began, which quickly escalated into a full-scale melee. Several attendees had to be carried out bruised and bleeding. Shouts to clear the hall were ineffective and the police chief ordered his officers to clear the room. This only pushed the brawl out into the surrounding streets, where it continued for another 20 minutes. Three people were injured badly enough to require hospitalization. At least a dozen windows were broken. There was no doubt that it could have been worse.
A pall hung over our little suburb the next day. People spoke quietly if they spoke at all. Often, we only nodded to each other. Sometimes we averted our eyes altogether. Those of one faction or another would sometimes exchange knowing smiles with their allies. Those on opposing sides ignored each other completely. When we would walk past the town hall and see the workers sweeping up the shattered glass, we acted as if nothing unusual had happened.
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