The Ridgeway Ripper
Angela, a hiker meets a male feminist, Outdoors Don, she's angry about how men are, and for men to do better and not be threats to women' safety so he makes a list. A serial killer learns of the list
The bootlace snapped between Angela’s fingers—again. She exhaled sharply through her nose, tossing the frayed end aside before rummaging through the kitchen’s junk drawer for another pair. Behind her, Mark leaned against the counter, cradling his third coffee that morning. “Could just buy new boots,” he said, watching her knot the replacement with quick, practised movements.
“These’ve got another six months in them,” Angela muttered, yanking the laces tight until the leather creaked. The boots were scuffed along the toes, their soles worn smooth in places, but they’d carried her up fourteen peaks already. They knew the shape of her feet better than any new pair ever would.
Mark swirled the dregs in his mug. “Could come with you today. I’ve nothing on.” His tone was light, but she caught the hopeful edge beneath it—the same one he’d used when suggesting films during her training weekends, or takeaways when she’d meal-prepped trail mixes.
She stood, testing her weight. “You’d hate it. Last time you moaned about the gradient after twenty minutes.” The memory surfaced despite herself—Mark puffing on a beginner’s trail, his designer hiking shirt drenched while she’d barely broken a sweat.
Outside, the first proper chill of autumn bit through her thin jumper. Angela turned back for her windcheater, ignoring the slight slump of Mark’s shoulders as she zipped up. The mountains weren’t for compromising. Never had been.
The car door clicked shut with finality—just long enough for Angela to register the keys still in her pocket. Mark always forgot to ask for them back. She could picture him already halfway down the access road, drumming the steering wheel to some indie playlist she’d never admit she liked.
The trailhead loomed ahead, its signpost weathered grey by years of sun. Angela adjusted her rucksack straps, the familiar weight settling like an old friend’s hand on her shoulders. Behind her, tyre sounds faded into the white noise of wind through pines. She didn’t turn. Turning was for people who needed convincing.
Her boots hit dirt with the first purposeful stride of hundreds to come. The path opened like a secret, winding past boulders still damp with morning dew. Angela’s fingers brushed one as she passed; the stone felt cold and alive beneath her touch, thrumming with some ancient energy textbooks couldn’t name. She’d tried explaining this to Mark once—how the mountains didn’t just sit there, how they *breathed*—but he’d laughed and kissed her forehead like she’d said something endearing.
By the third switchback, her thighs burned in that good way that meant her body was waking up. A jay scolded her from a Douglas fir, its blue feathers vivid against the evergreen. Angela slowed to watch it hop between branches. “Aye, aye,” she muttered, grinning when it squawked back. The solitude here wasn’t empty. It was crowded with things that didn’t demand chatter.
She was rounding a bend when the first drops hit—fat, cold splashes darkening the dust between her boots. Angela tipped her face up just as the heavens opened properly. Rain slid down her neck in icy trickles, soaking her collar before she could yank her hood up. The map in her pocket would be pulp by now. Somewhere below, Mark was probably sprawled on their sofa, dry and smug with his, “told you so” look ready.
The downpour hammered like fists on her hood, but Angela grinned into the storm. She had everything she needed—waterproof gaiters strapped tight, a bombproof tent rolled neatly in her pack, two days’ rations crammed beside her filter bottle. This was bliss. No one second-guessing her route, no half-arsed complaints about the cold—just the raw, soaking glory of the mountains reminding her why she kept returning.
A jagged fork of lightning split the sky, thunder vibrating through her ribs. Angela whooped into the wind, her voice lost instantly in the deluge. She’d been caught in worse. Last spring, a hailstorm had pelted her so hard it left bruises, and she’d still pitched camp before dark. The trail ahead blurred to a slick, muddy ribbon, but her boots held firm, gripping the earth like they’d grown roots.
By the time she reached the overlook, the rain had eased to a stubborn drizzle. Angela shrugged off her pack near lichen-crusted boulders, her fingers numb but steady as she unstrapped the tent. The clearing was empty—no footprints in the mud, no discarded cereal bar wrappers. Just how she liked it. The nylon unfurled with a snap, and within minutes, her shelter stood taut against the elements, a bright orange beacon in the gathering murk.
She crouched inside, wringing out her hair before digging for her stove. The hiss of gas was comforting, the blue flame cutting through the damp chill. As she waited for water to boil, Angela peeled off her soaked socks and draped them over a rock outside. The air smelled of wet pine and iron-rich soil, sharp enough to make her nostrils flare. Somewhere beyond the mist, a raven croaked, its call echoing off the cliffs like a challenge.
Dinner was freeze-dried vegan chilli, eaten straight from the packet with a spork she’d had since those glorious days at uni. Angela scraped the last stubborn bits from the corners, licking her fingers as the sky darkened to bruised purple. She should’ve been checking the map, replotting tomorrow’s route in case the rain had swollen the beck crossings, but instead she lay back on her sleeping mat, listening to the forest exhale around her. The tent fabric shuddered under a fresh gust, but the poles held.
Angela woke to the kind of silence that only exists before dawn—thick and humming, broken by the occasional rustle of something small moving through undergrowth. The rain had stopped, leaving the air crisp with the scent of damp earth and pine resin. She stretched inside her sleeping bag, every muscle protesting before settling into a pleasant ache. For a fleeting moment, she considered texting Mark a photo of the sunrise bleeding gold through the tent fabric, but her fingers didn’t reach for her mobile. Some things weren’t meant to be shared.
The crack of a twig made her spin round. A bloke stood twenty paces up the trail, silhouetted against the rising sun. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a knackered Tilley hat and a rucksack that looked like it had done every peak in the Rockies. Angela’s fingers found the bear spray in her pocket before he even opened his mouth.
“Alright?” he called, holding up both hands in what was probably meant to be a disarming gesture. “Didn’t mean to give you a fright.” His voice was deeper than she expected, with a tinge of an accent she couldn’t place—Scottish, maybe, but softened by years down south.
Angela loosened her grip on the spray as the man took a careful step forward, sunlight catching the scuffed metal frame of his rucksack. “I’m Outdoors Dave,” he said, grinning at her wary look. “Nothing to fear from me—unless you’re scared of shite camping tutorials. Might’ve seen my nonsense on YouTube.” His smile was lopsided, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
She exhaled, tension draining from her shoulders. “Oh Christ—yeah. The ice-climbing disaster reel.” The memory clicked: him dangling from a half-tied rope, swearing like a sailor in what she now recognised as a Scottish accent. The video had done the rounds in her hiking group for all the wrong reasons. “Pleased to meet you,” she admitted, returning his grin. “Even if your knots are shite.”
Outdoors Dave clutched his chest in mock offence. “That was one time!” He adjusted his hat, eyeing her half-packed kit. “Heading for Indian Pass, aye? Storm’s shifted the runoff. There’s a nasty washout about three klicks north—took me an extra hour to skirt round it at first light.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I’d stick to the eastern ridge if I were you.”
Angela nodded, filing the info away. Trail gossip was currency out here, and Dave’s battered gear suggested he’d earned his stripes. “Ta for the heads-up.” She hesitated. “Doing the full traverse?”
“Nah, just scouting for next month’s winter series.” He tapped his GoPro, lopsided on his shoulder strap. “Folks think they want serene nature shots till a blizzard traps me for four days with nothing but out-of-date jerky. Then suddenly it’s *content*.” His laugh was warm, self-deprecating. “Anyway, might see you further along. Watch your step near the scree—it’s like ice after that rain.”
She smiled as he gave a casual two-fingered salute and ambled off, boots squelching in the mud. For a second, she considered calling after him—asking if he fancied sharing the trail, or at least a cuppa from her flask—but the thought passed. The solitude was why she was here.
---
The man melted into the dripping ferns like a shadow with teeth. His pale face didn’t twitch—not even when a fat raindrop plopped from a branch onto his nose. He’d mastered stillness years ago, back when hiding meant survival, not sport. From his crouch, he watched the woman laugh with the YouTube fool, her fingers twitching toward her pocket every time the Scot gestured too wide. *Bear spray*, he reckoned. Or a knife. Maybe both.
Justice had no room for variables.
He exhaled silently through his nose as the woman shouldered her pack and turned toward the eastern ridge. The YouTube twat ambled off the other way, already nattering to his camera in that grating, faux-humble tone. The pale man waited until both sets of footsteps faded into the forest’s wet murmur before standing. His knees didn’t crack. They never did.
The woman’s trail was easy to follow—not just the fresh boot prints in the mud, but the way she’d brushed past ferns, leaving trembling leaves in her wake. Like most hikers, she thought solitude made her safe. The pale man’s mouth twisted. He could’ve taken her right there at the overlook, could’ve slit her throat while she breathed in that precious mountain air. But that wasn’t the way. The unworthy needed to *know*.
A raven croaked overhead, and he froze mid-step. The bird cocked its head, black eyes drilling into him. For a heartbeat, he felt seen—properly seen—in a way no human had managed in decades. Then the raven flapped off, dismissing him. The pale man’s fingers uncurled from the hilt of his hunting knife.
---
The whistle died in Angela’s throat when she spotted the first pair of hikers—two women in matching pastel rain jackets who practically dived behind a boulder as she rounded the bend. Their rucksacks stuck out like neon signs. She slowed her pace, raising both hands. “Alright?” she called. “Just passing through.”
One head popped up, then the other. The taller woman exhaled loudly. “Oh! You’re a woman.” She said it like Angela had answered a riddle correctly.
Angela glanced down at her own chest, damp jumper clinging unmistakably to curves she’d cursed on more than one steep climb. “Last I checked,” she said, hiking her pack straps higher. “Breasts n’all.”
The women exchanged a look before scrambling out from their hiding spot. The shorter one adjusted her ponytail with shaky fingers. “Sorry about that. We heard there was a bloke—” She cut herself off, biting her lip.
Angela’s stomach lurched. “What sort of bloke?”
Then Angela thought, “Oh The Ridgeway Ripper, he hasn’t been heard of in over ten years”, and said aloud, “I’m sure it’s fine, just keep a knife or some bear spray handy and you’ll be grand.”
The taller woman—Jess, as she introduced herself—knuckled sweat from her brow. “Not just *a* bloke. There’s been... whispers. Some solo female hikers reckoned they were followed last season. Nothing official, just trail gossip.” She gestured vaguely northward. “Didn’t want to chance it.”
Angela’s fingers found the bear spray again, its plastic casing reassuringly solid. “Smart.” She forced a smile. “But most predators out here walk on four legs.”
Jess didn’t return the smile. “Yeah? Tell that to the Ridgeway Ripper’s victims.”
The name landed like a stone in Angela’s gut. She’d been twenty-five when the Ripper’s last known attack made headlines—a uni student gutted near a popular camping spot, her insides arranged in neat spirals around the corpse. The case had gone cold after three similar murders. “He hasn’t struck in over a decade,” Angela said, too quickly.
The shorter woman—Maya, according to her posh hydration pack—shivered. “Maybe he’s been hiking all this time. Waiting.” She glanced at the trees crowding the trail. “Our group chat’s been blowing up about weird footprints circling tents. Blokes watching from tree lines.”
Angela’s pulse kicked up a notch. She thought of the stillness between the ferns earlier, how the raven had startled so abruptly. “Right.” She adjusted her pack straps until they dug into her shoulders just so. “You’re welcome to hike with me a bit.”
Maya and Jess exchanged another loaded look before shaking their heads in unison. “We’re bailing,” Jess said, already retracing their steps toward the trailhead. “Hot showers beat hypothermia any day.”
Angela watched their pastel jackets disappear around the bend, the forest swallowing their nervous chatter whole. The sudden quiet pressed against her eardrums. She pulled out her phone—no signal, not that she’d expected any—and thumbed it absently before shoving it back into her pocket. Bollocks. The Ripper was either dead or banged up. Trail gossip always blew things out of proportion.
Yet her boots moved faster than necessary.
---
An hour later, Angela nearly walked into Outdoors Dave as he emerged from a side trail, his GoPro blinking red. “Christ!” He caught her by the elbows, steadying them both. “You look like you’ve seen the ghost of John Muir.” His smile faltered when she didn’t return it. “What’s wrong?”
She told him about Jess and Maya, their panicked whispers, the name they’d dragged from the past like a rotting carcass. Dave’s expression darkened with each word. “Bloody hell,” he muttered when she finished, scrubbing a hand over his stubble. “We have to get women out enjoying nature, not scaring them back to their cars.”
Angela leaned against a mossy boulder, suddenly knackered. “Easier said than done when—”
“When men make themselves threats,” Dave finished grimly. He yanked his phone from a waterproof pouch, scowling at the single bar of signal. “I’m posting about this. Today. This is bullshit.” His thumbs flew across the screen, typing with angry precision. “Women should be able to use these trails without—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “Without *this* hanging over them.”
The passion in his voice surprised her. Most blokes either dismissed concerns or fell over themselves with performative allyship. Dave just looked angry, the kind of anger that came from recognising a problem you couldn’t fix single handedly.
Outdoors Dave’s voice echoed through the clearing as he dictated, each word sharp with intent. Angela watched his jaw tighten when he paused mid-sentence, deleting and restarting—rewriting reality one careful phrase at a time. His fingers trembled slightly against the phone screen, not from fear but from something hotter.
“Maybe add something about trail etiquette being survival skills too,” Angela suggested, picking at a frayed thread on her pack strap. The trees seemed to lean in closer, as if eavesdropping.
Dave nodded, thumbs flying again. “Yes. Like—” His Scottish accent thickened with emphasis. “’These aren’t just politeness tips, lads. This is how we keep wilderness access open for everyone.’” He hit post with a decisive tap, then immediately cursed. “No signal yet. Bollocks.”
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of damp earth and something muskier—angrier. Angela’s head snapped up. Fifty metres up the slope, a figure melted into the tree line so smoothly it might’ve been a trick of the light. But the bracken kept trembling long after the wind had died.
On his podcast ‘Trail Talk’, Don listed practical steps men could take to help women feel safer outdoors:
1. “When approaching a solo female hiker, call out early—something like ‘Just passing through! I’m safe’ in a calm voice.”
2. “Give her space. If the path’s narrow, step aside and let her pass first.”
3. “Keep moving purposefully—no lingering or sudden stops.”
4. “Save the chitchat for the pub. Don’t ask personal questions on the trail.”
5. “Be predictable in your movements. If you need to turn back, announce it.”
Angela felt her shoulders relax for the first time since Jess and Maya’s panicked retreat last month. Here, finally, was someone who understood—not empty platitudes, but concrete actions. Outdoors Don pocketed his phone with a frustrated sigh, then surprised her by stepping completely off the path to give her clear passage. “her’s my cell number in case you need any more inspiration”, she said desperately.
Unseen by either, a gaunt figure crouched motionless in a thicket of brambles, his breathing synced to the rustling leaves. As Don’s words carried on the wind—*call out early, step aside, keep moving*—something like revelation dawned on his weathered face. So obvious. The corners of his mouth twitched. Decades of stalking, and he’d never considered how easily trust could be turned against someone.
By the time Angela reached her car at dusk, the encounter had settled in her mind—Don’s immediate actions, the way he’d moved aside without being asked. It warmed her through the long drive home past darkened fields and rain-slicked lanes. She found Mark sprawled on their sofa, gaming controller in hand, the TV’s glow painting his face an eerie blue.
“You’ll never guess what happened today,” she began, toeing off her mud-caked boots.
Mark muted the game but kept his eyes on the screen. “Go on then.”
“Outdoors Don posted actual decent advice for men today,” she said, shaking out her hair. “Proper steps to make women feel safer outdoors. The comments went mad—hundreds of women sharing their close calls.”
Mark snorted. “That patronising twat actually said something that stupid and dangerous?”
Her fingers froze mid-braid. The words came out sharper than intended. “What’s patronising and dangerous about telling men not to be creeps?”
The controller clattered onto the coffee table as Mark finally turned to face her, his smirk illuminated by the pulsing screen. “All he’s done is give predators a bloody handbook. Announce yourself? Step aside? That’s a serial killer’s wet dream.” His fingers mimed a knife thrust. “Now they know exactly how to get close.”
Angela’s pulse roared in her ears. The warmth from her drive curdled into something sour. “That’s your takeaway? That helping women feel safe is dangerous?”
Mark’s laugh was dry. “Welcome to the real world, darling.” He unmuted the TV, the gunfire punctuating his words like full stops.
The bedroom door rattled in its frame as Angela slammed it shut. Through the thin wood, she heard Mark exhale sharply, then the creak of sofa springs. She pressed her forehead against the door, fingers gripping the knob until her knuckles whitened. Three years together dissolved because he couldn’t grasp basic human decency.
At 4:17 AM, the sound of drawers being emptied in the guest room woke her—not the hesitant shuffling of someone reconsidering, but the definitive thuds of a man cutting ties. She lay still, listening to the rhythm of his packing—three seconds per drawer, five for the wardrobe. Precise. Methodical. The mattress didn’t sigh when she finally rose; it knew better.
Morning light revealed the aftermath: Mark’s walking boots gone from their spot by the door, the space where his favourite mug had lived now conspicuously empty. Angela ran her finger along the dust outline on the shelf, the shape of absence more defined than any presence. The fridge hummed in the sudden quiet. She should’ve felt something—anger, relief, loss—but all that came was the memory of Don stepping off the path without being asked.
The van was idling at the kerb when she stepped outside, its sliding door gaping like a fresh wound. Mark loaded boxes marked “Kitchen” with the efficiency of someone who’d rehearsed this moment. He didn’t pause when Angela appeared on the step, just tossed a framed photo—them atop Scafell Pike, windswept and grinning—facedown into the van.
“Can’t be with someone that naive,” Mark called over the engine’s rumble, words sharp as snapped twigs. “Three years wasted.” He revved the engine unnecessarily, exhaust puffing black like a pantomime villain’s exit. “Anyway, you’re past your prime.”
Angela turned the tears on, they came hot and sudden, scalding tracks down her wind-chapped cheeks. She hadn’t cried when she’d dislocated her shoulder climbing in Snowdonia, hadn’t whimpered when an ember burned through her sleeping bag in the Lakes. But this—this left her raw and gasping.
Mark watched with the detached interest of someone examining roadkill. “That doesn’t work on me anymore,” he said, shifting into gear. “You’ll never find anyone like me again”, she said in a rage. “That’s the whole point,” said Mark.
She lunged forward as the window closed, fingers scrabbling at the glass. “You’re nothing but a—” The van peeled away, cutting her shout in half. Gravel sprayed her shins, leaving tiny bruises she’d find later in the shower.
“Who needs men anyway?” Angela yelled at the retreating taillights, her voice cracking. The words rang hollow even as she said them. A crow cawed overhead, as if mocking her. She wiped her face with her sleeve, smearing mud and tears into a gritty paste.
The stillness of the street pressed in—curtains twitching in windows, a neighbour’s sprinkler hissing to life down the road. Angela’s breath hitched as she registered the audience she hadn’t considered. Mrs. Thompson’s ancient tabby watched from next door’s wall, tail flicking like a metronome counting down her humiliation. She squared her shoulders and turned on her heel, her slippers crunching deliberately on the gravel as she marched inside.
The fridge hummed louder in the empty house. Angela stared at the magnet holding their shared shopping list—ready meals, Mark’s protein shakes, the posh trail mix she only bought for him. She ripped it free and tore the paper lengthwise, then crosswise, until her fists were full of confetti. The pieces fluttered into the sink like snow.
Her phone buzzed. Outdoors Don’s latest post glowed up at her: *Update: Rangers report suspicious activity near Helvellyn. Solo walkers take caution.* The timestamp showed it had gone live twenty minutes ago—right around when Mark was loading his bloody smoothie maker into the van. She thumb-typed a reply before second-guessing herself: *I was there yesterday. Saw something off. Can we talk?*
Three dots appeared immediately. Don’s response was characteristically brief: *Aye. My cottage is 15 mins from your location. Bring whisky if you’ve got some.* Below it, coordinates pinged onto her map.
An hour later. The whisky bottle lay discarded on the cottage floor, its amber contents glinting in the firelight as Angela arched beneath Don, her nails scoring his shoulders. Somewhere between the third drink and his hands pushing her damp jumper up over her head, the conversation about trail safety had dissolved into this—urgent, wordless, leaving no room for ex-boyfriends or men who lurked in bracken.
Don’s teeth grazed her collarbone as he thrust deeper, his hips meeting hers with a slap that echoed off the stone walls. Angela gasped, her thighs tightening around his waist. There was no finesse here—just raw need, the kind that obliterated thought. She came with a choked cry, her body bowing off the rug as Don followed with a grunt, his weight collapsing onto her in a sweaty heap.
Don was thinking about this woman—Anna, Angela? Amanda?—as he rolled onto his back, the firelight painting sweat trails down his chest. He’d entered her contact as “Potential hole” after their first chat at the trailhead, and the label had proven accurate sooner than expected. His phone alarm was set for 57 minutes from now, programmed to mimic an incoming call. *Need to check camera batteries*, he’d say, all apologetic professionalism. Then he’d usher her out with promises to meet again that neither believed. By dawn, her contact would read “Spare” alongside the others—Emily (East District), Rachel (Peaks), that blonde from Cornwall whose name he’d replaced with a tent emoji.
This feminist outdoorsman persona was proving alarmingly effective. Outdoors Don smirked at the ceiling beams as Angela’s breathing evened into sleep beside him. The firelight caught the platinum band on his left hand—still snug despite three pregnancies—and he absently twisted it back into place. Anna would be waiting up, pretending to read in bed while their daughters slept down the hall. She’d ask about his “trail maintenance” with that quiet disappointment that made his dick soft. He’d kiss her forehead, whisper something about bear safety seminars, then shower thoroughly before sliding between sheets that still smelled of lavender fabric softener.
His wife Anna’s bloated pregnant belly protruded like a grotesque moon beneath her silk nightgown, the fabric stretched taut over skin veined with purple tributaries. Outdoors Don—christ, even his stage name tasted like bile now—watched her waddle across their marble foyer, one hand braced against the small of her back as if her spine might snap under the weight of his progeny. The obstetrician had called it a “geriatric pregnancy,” though Anna was only thirty seven; privately, Don thought it more akin to watching a show pony bred past its prime.
In the morning, he’d upload another video—*Why Fear is the Real Predator*—while Angela drove home to an empty house. The algorithm would push it to outdoorsy women across the West . Some would comment about feeling safer. Others would DM him trail recommendations. A few might even meet him at remote car parks, their shoulders relaxing when they recognised his pink jumper—the one Anna had knitted him last Christmas, now permanently scented with lavender.
Outdoors Don closed his eyes, listening to the fire crackle. Tomorrow’s hike would be productive. He’d already scouted a perfect spot near Hatchet trail—secluded, with soft earth for digging. The new folding shovel from his Amazon wishlist had arrived yesterday. He smiled as Angela stirred beside him, her hand brushing his chest in half-sleep. So trusting. So easy.
He entered Angela again, his thrusts met by the hungry arch of her body—forty-seven minutes left before he could feign emergency and eject her into the night. She cried out as an orgasm hit, the sound swallowed by the cabin’s thick timber walls. Thirty-five, maybe? Old enough to know better, young enough to still blush when he called her “love” between gritted teeth. He imagined her future: some paunchy IT guy ring-shopping at a mall kiosk, or a divorced salesman with golf tan lines and a receding hairline. The thought made him thrust harder, as if he could imprint himself between her ribs.
Angela’s fingers dug into his back, her breath coming in sharp little gasps that vibrated against his neck. Too eager. Too trusting. Women like her were why the term “spinster” existed—desperate enough to mistake fucking for intimacy, lonely enough to believe a man’s performative rage made him safe. He timed his groans to coincide with her movements, a cheap symphony of fake reciprocity.
The fire spat embers onto the hearth. Don used the distraction to check his watch over her shoulder—forty-two minutes. Christ, she was clenching around him now, her hips bucking with a vigour that bordered on embarrassing. He let his mind wander to the edits waiting on his laptop: footage of yesterday’s trail encounter, Angela’s wary smile when he’d mentioned the Ridgeway Ripper. Good stuff. Authentic fear always tested well with the male demo.
Her nails raked down his spine. “Don’t stop,” she panted, her voice slurry with whisky and oxytocin.
As if he would. The clock was ticking.
When his phone alarm blared, Don pulled out of Angela with such abruptness she gasped. He snatched the buzzing device off the floorboards, already mid-sentence—”I’m sorry but this will be a long call”—as he stepped over her discarded underwear. The cabin door clicked shut behind him before Angela heard the rest: “I’ll phone you tomorrow.”
Naked except for his socks, Don paced the pine-needle-strewn porch while delivering an impassioned monologue to dead air. “Of course I have male privilege,” he boomed, squinting at the moonlit lake through the trees. “We need systemic change, not just performative allyship.” His bare ass gleamed in the cold as he punctuated each point with a chopping motion. Inside, Angela’s footsteps creaked toward the door. Don raised his volume accordingly: “Yes, absolutely—the outdoor industry’s bro culture is toxic as fuck!”
The door hinges whined. Don pivoted just in time to see Angela’s shadow retreat, her hurried footsteps followed by the definitive slam of the front door. He waited five full breaths before chuckling, tossing his phone onto the rocking chair. Through the warped windowpanes, he watched Angela stride to her Subaru with that ridiculous post-coital bounce women always had—as if good dick rewired their nervous systems. She paused beside the driver’s door, actually smiling up at the cabin like some romance novel cover, before disappearing inside.
The moment Angela’s taillights disappeared down the gravel drive, Don’s performative earnestness evaporated like sweat in winter air. He tossed the phone onto the bearskin rug—still buzzing with his staged “call”—and poured himself another finger of whiskey. The amber liquid caught firelight as he swirled it, watching how the light fractured through the glass. Like truth through bullshit, he mused.
Outside, an owl called from the pines. Don smirked into his drink. Predators always recognised each other. He’d clocked Angela’s type immediately—the kind of woman who mistook cynicism for wisdom, who thought her trail-hardened skepticism made her immune to manipulation. Yet here she was, driving off with his semen trickling down her thighs, already composing their next meetup in her head.
His laptop glowed on the side table, the screen divided between his YouTube analytics and a folder cryptically labelled “Trail Encounters.” The latest video—*Wilderness Safety: How Men Can Be Allies*—had already racked up 150K views since this afternoon. Comments scrolled in real time: *So refreshing to hear a man speak truth!* and *Where were you when I needed this after my assault?* Don’s thumb hovered over the heart icon, then tapped it with mechanical precision. Engagement boosted the algorithm.
The whisky burned going down. He toggled to another tab—a spreadsheet tracking names, dates, locations. Angela’s entry joined seventeen others, her details logged beside checkboxes for *Vulnerable*, *Gullible*, and *Follow-Up Potential*. Don’s cursor hovered over the last column before checking *One-Time Only*. She’d served her purpose.
Outside, the first flakes of snow began dusting the fells. By dawn, they’d cover everything—footprints, disturbed earth, the shallow depression where last month’s hiker still slept beneath the bracken. Don exhaled slowly, syncing his breath to Angela’s. The cottage creaked like old bones settling. Somewhere in the valley, a crow called—once, twice—then fell silent.
The pale man adjusted the pink cashmere jumper—lifted from a launderette drying rack—and studied his reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror of the coach station. The furry boots had been a proper stroke of luck, abandoned near a skip behind a ski hire shop. He ran his fingers through his freshly trimmed hair, the dark strands now brushing his jaw rather than his shoulders. The barber’s remark had been amusing. Laughter rose in his chest, and he let it out—first a staccato giggle, then a proper belly laugh that sounded almost human.
A cleaner mopping the corridor paused, listening. The pale man shut his mouth instantly, pressing his forehead against the cool glass. The jumper smelled of fabric conditioner and someone else’s perfume. He inhaled deeply, committing the scent to memory.
His hand found the knife tucked in his waistband, fingers curling round the worn handle with familiar ease. In one swift motion, he drew it—the blade catching the dim bathroom light—and sliced the air. He stepped back instinctively, shoulders tensing as if avoiding arterial spray. Imaginary blood misted across the pink cashmere, the droplets blooming like tiny roses against the knit.
The pale man exhaled through his nose, studying his reflection. His pupils were wide and black, swallowing the blue of his irises almost completely. He tilted his head, watching how the jumper strained across his shoulders—wrong in a way that thrilled him. Too small, too soft. A disguise. The cleaner’s mop bucket clattered outside the cubicle, and he froze, knife vanishing back under his waistband in one fluid movement.
He left the bathroom humming, the furry boots silent on the lino. The coach station smelled of diesel and stale popcorn, the vending machines buzzing like angry wasps. A teenage girl in walking boots glanced up from her phone as he passed, her fingers pausing mid-text. He smiled—she smiled back.
It worked. Now he was going hunting to bring justice to the women.
The pale man’s breath fogged in the predawn air as he tied the stolen walking boots—too tight, but that hardly mattered. The pink cashmere jumper itched against his skin, a constant reminder of the role he’d chosen. Or perhaps it had chosen him. He adjusted the bobble hat over his ears, the wool damp with melted snowflakes. Perfect. Harmless.
The pink cashmere jumper clung damply to his shoulders as he emerged from the treeline, the knit trapping both sweat and the faint metallic scent of what was to come. The path stretched before him—an artery pulsing with potential. He adjusted the borrowed boots, feeling the blisters forming beneath his socks like tiny mouths opening in protest. Pain was irrelevant. Hunger was everything.
Two male hikers passed him without a glance, their eyes sliding over his ridiculous outfit with the polite disinterest men reserve for things they deem unthreatening. Their indifference tasted like victory. He waited until their voices faded round the bend before stepping off the path, his boots sinking silently into the soft earth. The forest welcomed him, its shadows stitching seams across his borrowed skin.
The oblivious male hiker who came across Susie didn’t expect a young woman to be giving him such a look of hatred. Her eyes burned into him, pupils contracted to pinpricks, lips peeled back from whitened teeth—the expression you’d give a rapist, not some middle-aged accountant on a weekend ramble. He actually checked over his shoulder, certain she must be staring at someone else, but the trail stretched empty behind him.
“Morning,” he tried, lifting his walking pole in awkward greeting.
Susie’s glare intensified. Her fingers twitched toward the bulge at her hip—later, the coroner would note the unused pepper spray still clipped to her belt when they found her. The hiker shuffled sideways, suddenly conscious of his height, his broad shoulders, the way his shadow engulfed her petite frame. He’d never considered how much space he occupied until this slip of a woman made him feel like a looming monstrosity.
The pale man watched from the treeline just out of sight.
It worked. Announce your presence and their guard will drop.
Now he was going hunting to bring justice to the women.
He reached the trail two hours later, pink cashmere damp with morning mist, boots squeaking with each deliberate step. The male hikers passed in pairs—their eyes sliding over his ridiculous outfit like water off a duck’s back—while he kept his gaze fixed on the ground like a proper demure woman would. Their indifference was delicious. One even muttered “Morning, love” without breaking stride, walking poles clicking against stone.
Susie’s fingers had lingered on the pistol grip beneath her windcheater as the first man approached—some beefy outdoorsy idiot with the gall to say “hello” like they were at a bloody brunch spot instead of an isolated stretch of the Ridgeway Path. She’d glared until his smile faltered, until his broad shoulders hunched defensively. Good. Let him feel it for once—that prickle between the shoulder blades, the animal awareness of being sized up by something stronger.
She’d just reread Outdoors Dave’s latest post on her phone, the one about men needing to announce their presence from a distance. This tosser hadn’t even cleared his throat before appearing around the bend. When he scurried past, she muttered “Fucking typical” loud enough for him to hear, savouring the way his neck flushed red above his breathable collar.
The second man was different. She heard his footsteps first—deliberately loud, crunching pine cones under boots that squeaked with each step. “Just passing through,” called a reedy voice before she even saw him. Susie’s thumb relaxed its death grip on the pistol.
He looked ridiculous emerging from the mist: a gangly figure in an oversized pink jumper and what appeared to be women’s walking boots, the cuffs rolled down to accommodate his bony ankles. His smile showed too many teeth, but at least he’d followed protocol. “Cheers for the warning,” Susie said, stepping aside. The jumper smelled faintly of lavender fabric conditioner.
His hand moved faster than she could blink. One moment he was nodding; the next, his palm clamped over her mouth with practised precision. One hand grabbed her pistol hand, then cold steel kissed her throat—a sensation so sharp she initially mistook it for the mountain air. Then warmth bloomed beneath her chin, thick and metallic.
“Shhh,” he whispered, jerking her head back to expose the wound. Blood arced across the forest floor in a perfect crimson parabola. Susie’s knees buckled, but he caught her under the arms like a lover mid-dip. Her vision tunnelled to the pink fibres of his jumper, each knit loop expanding as her consciousness unravelled.
“This is too easy,” the man mused to no one. He hoisted her effortlessly over his shoulder, her walking boots dangling at his chest. A final spurt of arterial blood pattered against the pine needles like rain. He adjusted his grip, humming as he stepped further off-path past the ferns.
Two hours later, the pale man adjusted the pink cashmere sleeves and stepped back onto the path, his stolen boots pressing damp earth into perfect prints. The scent of pine resin clung to him—or perhaps that was Susie’s blood, already cooling in the shallow depression beneath the ferns where he’d arranged her limbs in a parody of sleep. He’d left her rucksack propped against a tree like a grim trail marker, her water bottle still half-full.
The next woman appeared round the bend before he’d wiped his knife clean—early twenties, alone, her technical walking trousers swishing with each nervous step. He saw the exact moment she registered him: shoulders relaxing at the sight of pink wool, lips parting in reflexive relief at encountering another woman in the wild. “It’s alright, I’m safe,” he called, pitching his voice higher, letting it crack on the last syllable like an afterthought. “I’ll just walk past you.”
Her smile was the last unbroken thing about her.
They wouldn’t find her body for two weeks, by which time the beetles would have polished her finger bones to ivory. He moved systematically after that—five more over the next month, each kill site meticulously staged. One posed cross-legged beside her own gutted tent like a camper reviewing supplies. Another draped over a trail sign with her arms outstretched in mock welcome. The bodies became his manifesto, laid bare for park rangers to discover with trembling radios.
A year later in Yellowstone, frost glittering on his borrowed jacket, he paused to admire his thirtieth tableau. The couple—Midwestern dentists on their anniversary hike—lay arranged back-to-back in their matching Patagonia puffers, their heads tilted toward each other as if sharing a private joke. Their hands were interlaced with deliberate tenderness, fingers laced through each other’s wedding bands. He’d learned so much from Outdoors Dave’s posts—not just the performative allyship that made women lower their guards, but the practical advice too. *Always announce your presence from a distance*, Dave had written. *It’s not just courtesy—it’s survival.*
The pink cashmere itched worse than ever as he spotted her—early twenties, hiking solo, her ponytail bouncing with each cautious step. His fingers twitched toward the knife handle tucked against his lower back. Justice would be swift today. He cleared his throat theatrically. “Morning!” he called in that reedy, harmless voice that made shoulders relax. The woman smiled automatically, already lowering her guard as she opened her mouth to reply—
A thunderclap of snapping branches erupted beside him. The grizzly stood so close he could count the flies orbiting its matted flanks. Its breath hit him first—hot and rotting, like a meat locker left in the sun. The knife was halfway out of his waistband when the paw connected. It didn’t feel like pain at first—just sudden lightness as his hand emptied, fingers spasming around nothing as the blade pinwheeled into the undergrowth.
The woman screamed. The bear roared. He found himself airborne, the world tilting violently as claws raked down his ribcage. The pink jumper tore like tissue paper. He landed on all fours, instinct screaming at him to play dead even as some detached part of his mind noted the irony—his victims’ final pose, now his only hope.
The grizzly flipped him onto his back with casual brutality. He glimpsed the woman scrambling up a pine tree, her boots kicking bark loose as she climbed. Then the jaws closed around his thigh. The crunch sounded distant, muffled, like someone cracking walnuts in another room. Warmth flooded his jeans.
She watched from the trembling branches—this man who’d seemed so harmless seconds ago, now shrieking as the bear shook him like a terrier with a rat. His screams hit a pitch that rattled her fillings. The bear sat back on its haunches, paws pinning the flailing figure, and began feeding with the unhurried precision of a diner tackling a lobster.
His left arm was next. The bear chewed on it. Blood jetted rhythmically onto the pine needles, each pulse weaker than the last. He was still conscious when the creature started on his abdomen, its claws unzipping him with effortless precision. The woman in the tree vomited silently, her stomach heaving as the bear’s muzzle disappeared inside the cavity.
By the time park rangers arrived—summoned by her garbled 999 call—the bear had retreated into the tree line, its muzzle glossy with viscera. The remains weren’t immediately identifiable as human. One officer stepped on something soft and looked down to find a severed tongue adhering to his boot sole.
They airlifted the woman out strapped to a stretcher, her pupils still blown wide with shock. She kept repeating the same phrase: “He smiled at me first.” The rangers exchanged glances. Later, when they found the knife and pieced together the shredded pink jumper, they’d understand.
Back at the ranger station, a junior officer Googled the Ridgeway Ripper while his superior drafted the incident report. The sketch on the FBI’s most wanted page bore an uncanny resemblance to the dental records they’d just requested. The senior ranger poured himself a triple whisky and toasted the bear.
Outdoors Dave’s latest video thumbnail showed him grinning beside a grizzly sow, his palm hovering inches from her muzzle as if they were old friends catching up. *Bears: Misunderstood Guardians of the Wild* had trended for three days before the first body was found—a university sophomore posed mid-picnic near Old Faithful, her thermos still steaming beside the ruin of her throat. By the time they discovered the second victim curled like a sleeping child in a hollowed-out cedar, Dave’s comment sections had turned into battlegrounds.
“Told you bears aren’t cuddly,” posted a former fan, attaching photos of the mauled campsite where her niece had vanished last summer. Dave blocked her within minutes, but the screenshot spread faster than wildfire through hiking forums. His wife Anna found it while scrolling through her DMs—a cascade of them, really—women sending timestamps and hotel receipts, screenshots of Dave’s post-coital texts (”You’re different from the others”) appearing verbatim in five different threads.
The Guardian broke the story with a photo spread: wildlife experts dissecting Dave’s “dangerously naive” bear safety tips alongside grainy trail cam footage of a predator dragging something pink and twitching into the undergrowth. By noon, outdoor shops had pulled his sponsored content. By dusk, his Patreon had flatlined.
The notification chimed as Outdoors Dave uploaded his newest AI video—*Bear Whispering: Why Fear is the Real Predator*. His thumbnail showed him crouched mere feet from a grizzly sow, his hand outstretched in what looked like communion. The comments section exploded before he’d even finished his opening spiel about “interspecies trust-building.”
*”Tell that to the family of the girl found in Glacier Park last week,”* read the top comment, accompanied by a news link about hiker remains discovered inside a bear den. Dave deleted it with practised ease, his finger hovering over the block button as three more identical comments popped up beneath it. His wife Anna’s footsteps paused outside his office door, then retreated down the hall. The sound of her suitcase zipping carried through the thin walls.
Onscreen, Dave adjusted his beanie with one hand while scrolling through his DMs with the other. The messages stacked up like indictments—screenshots of hotel receipts, timestamps from trailhead car parks, a selfie of him shirtless in Angela’s Subaru with the caption *”Guess I’m different from the others?”* forwarded by five separate women. His sponsorship dashboard flashed red: outdoor brands, even his local gear shop had severed ties overnight.
The Guardian article dropped at 3:17 PM. Dave watched his laptop screen refresh automatically, the headline loading pixel by pixel: *”Influencer’s Bear Safety Tips Coincide With Multiple Predator Attacks.”* The subhead mentioned “disturbing parallels” between his content and the Ridgeway Ripper case. His tea went cold as he scanned the text—some junior reporter had connected his “Always Announce Your Presence” video to the killer’s modus operandi. The comments under the article were worse:
*”This guy taught a whole generation of women to let their guard down.”*
*”My sister watched his videos before her last hike.”*
*”Maybe the Ridgeway Ripper had a partner”*
Prologue
Three years after Mark left her, Angela was nursing yet another failed relationship—her tenth, not counting the string of meaningless hookups or the four abortions that still haunted her. She’d just left her therapist’s office, where the woman had nodded sympathetically and murmured something about systemic oppression. “Men don’t understand the weight of what they do,” the therapist had said, adjusting her glasses. Angela noted, not for the first time, that there were framed pictures of her numerous cats and no family photos on the desk.
The park was unusually bright for autumn. Sunlight caught the gold in the leaves, and for a moment, it almost felt peaceful—until she saw *him*. Mark lounged on a bench, phone in hand, busy, texting someone, at the other end of the bench close to a woman who couldn’t have been older than twenty. Two toddlers—*two*—played at her feet, their laughter sharp as glass. Angela’s stomach clenched.
She forced herself forward. “Hello, Mark.”
His head snapped up. “Angela? Wow. Small world.”
The woman—girl, really—leaned into him possessively. “Who’s this, babe?” Her voice was honeyed, amused.
Mark’s smile was effortless. “This is Angela. An old friend. Angela, meet Monique—my wife.” He gestured to the children. “And these are ours.”
*Wife.* The word punched through her. Monique was radiant, all smooth skin and glossy hair, her nails perfectly manicured. The kind of woman who’d never had to claw her way through life.
Angela’s jaw tightened. “How… lovely.”
Monique tilted her head, eyes flickering over Angela with polite curiosity. “You look familiar. Do you work in healthcare?”
“Not quite.” Angela forced a smile. “And you? College student? Or is ‘wife’ your full-time job now?”
Monique laughed, unbothered. “Finished my master’s last year. But yeah, staying home with the kids for now.” She ruffled one toddler’s hair. “Mark’s doing well enough for all of us.” Her grin turned sly. “Especially after *someone* convinced him to ditch that dead-end job and try modelling.”
Angela’s nails dug into her palms.
“Anyway,” Monique chirped, gathering the children, “we’re making lamb shanks tonight. Mark’s favourite.” She shot Angela a look that was all teeth. “His *last* girlfriend was vegan. Can you imagine? Poor guy had to sneak burgers like a teenager.” She leaned into Mark, whispering something that made him laugh.
As they walked away, one of the kids giggled. “Daddy, why was that lady so red?”
Monique’s laughter trailed behind them, light and effortless, until Angela was left standing alone in the brittle autumn light.
The end