The Noble Deeply Questionable Hobby Of Monster Hunting.

I have recently taken up monster hunting, which is not something I ever expected to write outside of a medical form under “Describe the incident.” 

But here we are. According to the internet  which, as we all know, is never wrong! monster hunting is a wholesome outdoor activity that builds character, improves fitness, and occasionally results in being eaten. It’s basically hiking, but with more screaming.

My journey began when I stumbled across an article titled “Ten Monsters Living in Your Area Right Now.” This was alarming, because I had assumed the most dangerous creature in my area was the neighbour’s cat, who looks at me like he’s planning a coup. But apparently there are cryptids everywhere: swamp beasts, shadow goblins, something called a “moss lurker,” which sounds like a man who’s been in a hedge too long.

Naturally, I decided I should hunt them. I don’t know why. Perhaps it was a midlife crisis. Some men buy sports cars; I bought a torch, a notebook, and a guide titled So You Think You’ve Seen a Monster? which features a helpful checklist including “Does it have glowing eyes?” and “Is it trying to eat you?” I feel these questions could be combined.

The first rule of monster hunting is that you must go out at night, because monsters are apparently unionised and only work after sunset. So there I was, creeping through the woods with my torch, trying to look brave while simultaneously tripping over every root in the United Kingdom. The woods at night are very atmospheric, by which I mean terrifying. Every sound becomes sinister. A twig snaps and suddenly you’re convinced you’re being stalked by a twelve‑foot fanged horror, when in fact it’s a squirrel with self‑esteem issues.

I had been out there for about twenty minutes when I heard a low growl. My heart stopped. My blood froze. My legs prepared to run in twelve different directions. I slowly turned my torch toward the sound… and discovered it was my stomach. Monster hunting, it turns out, burns calories.

But then! I saw something. Two glowing eyes staring at me from the darkness. I froze. The creature froze. We stared at each other in a tense standoff that would later be described in my notes as “OH NO OH NO OH NO.” I raised my torch. The creature stepped forward. It was… a fox. A slightly annoyed fox, who looked at me like I’d interrupted his evening plans. He trotted off, presumably to tell his fox friends about the idiot in the woods.

Still, I pressed on. Monster hunters do not give up easily. Mostly because they can’t find their way back in the dark.

Eventually, I reached a clearing where, according to my guidebook, sightings of the “Moss Lurker” had been reported. The Moss Lurker is described as a hulking, moss‑covered beast with glowing green eyes and a tendency to lurk, presumably in moss. I waited. I listened. I tried to look heroic, which is difficult when you’re swatting midges and muttering about damp socks.

And then  I swear this is true something moved. A large, shadowy shape rose from the undergrowth. My breath caught. My torch flickered. The shape loomed closer. I braced myself for battle, or at least for a dignified faint.

It was a deer.

A very confused deer, who stared at me with the expression of someone who has walked in on the wrong Zoom meeting. Then it bounded away, leaving me alone with my torch, my notebook, and the crushing realisation that I am not cut out for this.

But here’s the thing: monster hunting is still brilliant. Not because you find monsters  you won’t  but because for a few hours, you get to believe in them. You get to feel like the world is bigger, stranger, and more exciting than your inbox. You get to stand in the dark, listening to the wind, and think, “Maybe. Just maybe.” And honestly, that’s enough.