At the age of 11, I embarked on a school excursion to Dartmoor with a few close friends. We pitched our tents on the periphery of a mostly deserted campsite.
On the first morning of our trip, our tent was the first to awaken, even before the teachers. We quietly slipped out to discover another group of boys already gathered on the damp grass, standing together in the early morning light. The sun was just beginning to rise, and the remnants of the night fog were lifting.
In our attempts to remain discreet, we exchanged jokes typical of boys our age, pulling exaggerated expressions and making silly gestures, when suddenly someone pointed out a figure in the distance. Approximately 15 meters away, lurking just beyond a wire fence, was a dark silhouette emerging from the mist. It moved smoothly from right to left across our line of sight—the unmistakable form of a large cat, significantly larger than a domestic feline, comparable to that of a sizeable dog or perhaps even bigger.
The creature exhibited a distinct, confident gait, characterized by rolling shoulders. Its head appeared broader, while its tail was long and thick, tapering in a unique fashion. We stood there, captivated and speechless, with a vivid memory of its dark fur contrasting against the pale mist. The animal seemed unhurried, and our shock left us unsure of how to react—caught between fear, disbelief, and fascination. None of us had ever encountered anything like this before.
Eventually, one of the boys dashed back to the tent to grab a camera, but by the time he returned, the creature had vanished into the underbrush.
When we recounted our experience to the teachers, they dismissed our claims, assuming we were joking or attempting to prank them. Their reactions ranged from annoyance to skepticism, ultimately leading to frustration. By the end of the weekend, many of the boys who had witnessed the big cat were swayed by the teachers’ arguments.
Nonetheless, I couldn’t shake the memory of that morning. On one hand, I had witnessed something extraordinary that defied logic, akin to glimpsing into an alternate reality. On the other hand, I felt the weight of adult authority insisting what we had seen was impossible. At that age, we tend to accept adult opinions as truth—after all, they are the knowledgeable ones. Yet, I was certain I had seen a large cat, and every time I was told otherwise, my conviction only grew stronger.
This belief transformed into an obsession. Throughout that year, I dedicated my lunch breaks to the school library, searching for information. I discovered numerous accounts of big cat sightings on the moors. The prevailing theory suggested that big cats—such as pumas, cougars, and even panthers—might have been released into the wild after the Dangerous Wild Animals Act was enacted in 1976. Some speculate that individuals acquire these exotic animals as pets, only to abandon them when they become too large to manage. However, there remains no definitive proof of a breeding population of big cats on the moors, with scientists asserting that such a scenario is unlikely.
My curiosity led me to delve deeper into the world of “cryptids,” creatures whose existence is debated or unverified by science. I consumed stories about supposed populations of thylacines, or Tasmanian tigers, sightings of Mokele-mbembe—a mythical creature in the Congo basin—and audio recordings of Bigfoot’s calls in the United States. Each time I encountered something that challenged my belief, my initial skepticism was eclipsed by a willingness to understand the human experiences behind these tales.
Of course, many sightings can be explained rationally. Memory can be deceptive, and the sizes of certain animals can be misleading. Some domestic cats can grow unexpectedly large, while sightings of cryptids like Mothman, often linked to Point Pleasant, West Virginia, may arise from misinterpretations of owls seen in the dark. With their impressive wingspans and large eyes reflecting light, an owl swooping towards you at night can indeed appear otherworldly.
Today, I approach supernatural claims with a more discerning perspective. However, when friends or acquaintances share their experiences of ghosts or eerie sensations in a room, I allow myself to entertain the possibility, even if just for a fleeting moment—I let myself believe.
No Ghosts by Max Lury is set to be released by Peninsula Press on April 16, priced at £12.99. To support the Guardian, you can order your copy at guardianbookshop.com, though delivery charges may apply.
