In a rundown trailer in the part of British Columbia nobody really goes to, Trap Jotensen was discussing an extermination job with a prospective client. Winter had come early to Hard Lake. It was only mid-October and snow was already piling up.

“So, Tom,” Trap said as he poured the contents of a flask into a coffee mug, topped it with a thimbleful of coffee, and sipped. He grimaced and added more from his flask before sitting on a chair that creaked under his immense frame. “You’ve lost how many so far?”

Tom Huston didn’t sit. Not that there was much of anywhere to sit in Trap’s place. Piles of books covered every sitting space – the couches, the chairs. Some with a thin layer of grime on them. Had Tom been paying attention, he would’ve noticed they had titles like Lake Monsters of North America, The Bigfoot Mythos, and The Trappers Guide to Modern Cryptid Hunting. Trap’s question pulled Tom out of his reverie, and he spoke up.

“Five so far.” Tom said, “First two were on Friday. A pair of calfs.”

Tom paused, then shook his head. “Truth be told, I didn’t see the first ones. Sam told me about em. Thought the boy was exaggerating.”

“The next ones were the same though?” Trap asked.

Tom nodded slowly, eyes gazing off to a middle distance. Trap knew the look well.

“I found it Saturday. This was one of the bulls. Had him penned up in the top field. I can’t even remember why I was out there, but there he was. Dead. Head gone.”

“Gone?” Trap asked, as he stood up and searched for a pen.

“Gone. No head. No sign of it either. Just blood on the snow.”

Trap sat back down, pen in his right hand. His only hand, to be fair. Trap was born with both, but he never really talked about what happened to his left. When asked he usually answered “an accident” which was as honest as it was vague.

Trap used the stub at the end of his left wrist to pull an old envelope over to himself to jot some notes. His handwriting was as messy as his trailer. Loopy lines that bumped into each other like drunks in an alley.

“OK. All of them then? Same way. Dead. No head?”

“It sounds crazy. I know” Tom said “It’s just… Trap, I’ve been a rancher my whole life. So was my dad. So was his. I’ve seen cougar kills. I’ve seen bear kills. This wasn’t that.”

“And you’re sure it wasn’t a person?” Trap asked.

Tom shook his head. “No, the cuts were too jagged. There were prints too… like I’ve never seen. Like a wolf, but bigger. God, I do sound crazy.”

Trap stood up and walked over to Tom. The old rancher was clearly at the end of his rope. Trap spoke to him like you would a spooked horse.

“Listen” Trap said, “I know you haven’t dealt with anything like this before, but I have. Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll head over to your place before it gets dark. If this is what I think it is, they’re going to show up again tonight.”

“They? As in there’s more than one?” Tom replied, nervously.

“You let me worry about that. I’ll call in some help.” Trap said as he eased the older gentleman toward the front door of his trailer.

“Uh. One more thing Trap, uh, and I hate to say it.” Tom muttered.

Trap sighed heartily. This is how it always went, he thought.

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“Don’t worry about payment right away Tom. I know things are hard in town.”

“Thanks Trap” Tom said, relieved as he made his way to his pickup. As soon as the rancher was up the driveway Trap pulled out his phone.

“Remy,” Trap said to the voice on the other end, “We’re working today”

About two hours later a beat-up work van pulled into Trap’s driveway. Emblazoned on the back panel was a peeling vinyl sticker proclaiming MONSTER MASH – CRYPTID RELOCATION & EXTERMINATION. Trap was out on his porch when Remy hopped out of the driver seat. Remy was dark skinned and perpetually skinny. He was tall, but not as tall as Trap. Few people were. As always, Remy was wearing a faded black band t-shirt with an illegible black metal font on it, and shorts despite the unseasonable weather.

“Took you long enough.” Trap said to him with a smile.

“You know I’m not a morning person.” Remy responded. Shutting the door with a squawk of hinges. Then slamming it again when the latch didn’t catch.

“You know some bosses wouldn’t take kindly to lazy, backtalking employees.” Trap said, as Remy walked toward him.

“Well. Most bosses would pay more than 15 bucks an hour with no benefits for the skilled labor you’re getting here.”

“No benefits! You take Samantha home every night!”

“Trap, don’t act like you're doing me a favor by letting me drive a van that’s more Bondo than metal. Now what’s the job?”

Trap tsked. “All business huh? Well, come on inside.”

Inside the trailer Remy searched the cupboards for a clean glass to no avail. Of the many things his employer was: smart, strong, horrifyingly scary in a fight, -- clean was not an adjective anybody would use. Remy settled on a green glass flower vase. He let the tap run for exactly five seconds to let the water go from brown to merely murky. Trap sat in his usual spot, while Remy sat himself on the kitchen countertop.

“Pop quiz.” Trap said, “What do you know about waheelas?”

“Waheela? Bear-dog. Not my people’s legend but I’ve heard it.” Remy said.

“OK then. Tell me what you remember.”

Remy finished his vase of water and looked to the ceiling, trying to shake the knowledge out. “Well.” He finally said, “If I remember right there’s a few different animals called waheela. There’s the one from Michigan they all get their name from -- kinda like how we use Bigfoot and Sasquatch interchangeably. That one’s smaller and coyote-like. Stands a little taller than a timber wolf. Then there’s the one up in the North. That’s the scary one. White fur. Stands about five feet at the shoulder.”

Trap nodded. “That’s the one I’m thinking of. What do you know about where they come from?”

“Nahanni Valley up in the Territories. That’s the area they call the Headless Valley.” Remy replied.

“Exactly.” Trap said, “That area is known for bodies being found with missing heads. Tom Huston says the exact same thing happened to his cows. We’re headed over to Huston Ranch tonight to look, so make sure the goggles are charged.”

Remy shook his head at his boss. “I don’t buy it. A waheela makes its way down all the way here? Their range doesn’t go that far. Their Dehcho Field stops it”

“You know those things need maintenance to stay up. You remember how we met?”

There are a few problems with being a relocation specialist for cryptids. The first, which is probably the biggest hurdle, is you need to convince people that cryptids exist. People don’t want to believe in creatures unknown to modern science. The fact that cryptids are usually magical in nature makes this an even harder pill to swallow. It’s for this reason Monster Mash doesn’t get as many phone calls as your standard exterminator. People understand fumigating a house for roaches, but don’t really get sage-ing a house for goblins.

The second problem is one of logistics. Mainly, you’ve managed to capture the creature: now what? You can’t just catch a hodag and relocate it to a random forest. It’s just going to get back out and eat another lumberjack. That’s where boundary fields come into play.

A boundary field is erected on a ley line – points of spiritual power that crisscross the globe. Its job, simply stated, is to keep something contained. Cryptids, being made of the same spiritual stuff as the ley lines are unable to cross over. However, over time, the barrier seals on the field can breakdown and they need maintenance. It was at one of these maintenance jobs that Trap met Remington Wasa.

“Yeah, I remember,” said Remy, “You sounded like an idiot trying to chant those things back to life. Your accent was atrocious.”

“Good thing you were starting your shaman training then. Hey how’s that going still?” Trap replied with a half grin.

“It’s going. I just… uh… Shut up Trap.” Remy responded, flustered.

Trap chuckled softly at his protégé.

“Alright,” Remy said, “How much are we making on this one, anyway?”

The silence told Remy everything.

“Come on Trap, again?” Remy said

“I know, I know.”

“How are you going to pay for anything if you don’t get paid?”

“We’ll figure something out. Old Tom will pay me eventually.”

“He’d better,” said Remy, sliding down off the counter. “One thing I don’t get though. A waheela slips the field and marches all the way down here? For what?”

“That’s the part I still haven’t figured out.” Trap admitted, “But I think I’ve figured out one key thing.”

“What’s that?”

“How it is we’re going to catch it.”