This Detective Was Searching for a Missing Woman, Found Her Living With a DOGMAN in a Cave…
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“The Hidden Life of Katherine Mley — A Detective’s Impossible Discovery”
Introduction: The Mountain’s Secret
I spent 32 years as a detective in rural Montana. I’ve seen bodies, solved murders, tracked down killers who thought they were untouchable. But in 2019, I found something that made me question everything I thought I knew about reality. I found Katherine Mley.
She’d been missing for seven years, and she was living in a cave with something that wasn’t human. This is that story.
My name is Raymond Fletcher. I’m 64 years old now, retired from the Flathead County Sheriff’s Department where I worked for three decades. For the last seven years, I’ve been carrying a secret that would destroy my credibility, my pension, and probably get me committed to a psychiatric facility. But I’m old enough now that I don’t care what people think. This needs to be told, not because I want attention or sympathy, but because Katherine Mley’s family deserves to know the truth. And because there are things in the wilderness of Montana that we need to understand exist, whether we’re comfortable with that reality or not.
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Before we get into this, quick shout-out to everyone who joined as a channel member this month. Your support means everything and helps me keep bringing you these stories. All right, let’s get into this.
The Disappearance of Katherine Mley
I need to start in 2012 because that’s when Katherine Mley first disappeared. She was 28 years old, a graduate student studying wildlife biology at the University of Montana. She’d come to the Flathead National Forest to conduct field research on elk migration patterns for her thesis. On September 14th, she left her campsite to check some trail cameras she’d set up in a remote section of the forest. She never came back.
The search was massive. We had search and rescue teams, helicopters, tracking dogs, volunteers, combing hundreds of square miles of wilderness. I was assigned as the lead detective on the case because missing persons were my specialty. I’d worked dozens of them over the years. Some we found alive, most we found dead, and some we never found at all.
Katherine’s case looked straightforward at first. Solo hiker in bear country, last seen heading into terrain that was difficult and dangerous, even for experienced outdoors people. The working theory was animal attack or accidental death. Maybe she’d fallen, broken a leg, died of exposure before we could reach her. It happened more often than people realized, but there were things that didn’t add up. Her campsite was intact, everything organized and neat. Her vehicle was locked, keys inside her tent. She’d left her satellite phone behind, which was odd for someone doing solo research in an area with no cell service.
And the trail cameras we eventually recovered showed something strange. The footage from the days before her disappearance showed normal wildlife. Elk, deer, a few bears in the distance. But on the morning she vanished, one camera caught something unusual. It was distant, partially obscured by trees, but there was a figure moving through the frame that didn’t look quite right. Too large to be human. Moving onto legs, but with proportions that seemed wrong. The image quality was poor, taken at dawn with limited light, and the figure was only visible for maybe three seconds before disappearing into heavy brush.
Most of my colleagues dismissed it as a bear standing upright, which they do occasionally. But something about the movement bothered me. It was too fluid, too purposeful. Bears lumber when they walk on hind legs. This thing moved with confidence and speed.
We searched for three weeks solid. Then the search was scaled back to periodic sweeps. Then it became a cold case. Katherine Mley was officially listed as missing, presumed dead. Her parents held a memorial service six months later. Her belongings were packed up and sent back to her family in Oregon. The case file went into storage with dozens of other unsolved disappearances.
I couldn’t let it go. Over the years, I kept coming back to that case. I’d pull the file every few months, review the evidence, study that trail camera footage until I had it memorized. Something had happened to Katherine Mley out there. And I couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t a simple accident or animal attack.
A Hunter’s Strange Sighting
In 2015, three years after Katherine disappeared, we had another incident in the same general area. An experienced hunter named Marcus Whitfield reported seeing something impossible while tracking an elk. He described a creature that stood upright like a human, maybe seven or eight feet tall, covered in dark fur with the head of a wolf or large dog. He watched it for maybe 30 seconds before it noticed him and disappeared into the forest, moving faster than anything that size should have been able to move.
Marcus was known in the community as reliable and level-headed. He wasn’t the type to make up stories or exaggerate, but when he reported what he’d seen, the response was predictable. People laughed, made jokes about him drinking too much, suggested he’d seen a bear, and his mind had filled in the rest. The official report listed it as an unconfirmed wildlife sighting, basically code for “we don’t believe you, but we’ll write it down anyway.”
I interviewed Marcus myself. Sat with him for over two hours while he described in detail what he’d seen. The way it moved, the intelligence in its eyes when it looked at him, the sense he had that this wasn’t just an animal, but something more, something aware and thinking. I didn’t laugh at him like others had because I’d seen that trail camera footage from Katherine’s case. And while I couldn’t prove anything, I couldn’t dismiss the possibility that what Marcus had seen was real.
Mapping the Incidents: A Pattern Emerges
Over the next few years, there were other reports. A couple camping in the national forest heard strange vocalizations at night. Sounds that weren’t quite howls, but weren’t quite human speech, either. A forestry worker found massive footprints near a logging road. Prints that were too large for any known animal in the area and showed evidence of bipedal movement. A wildlife photographer claimed something had stolen food from his campsite while he slept, taking it without making a sound despite being large enough to leave tracks that suggested it weighed several hundred pounds.
Each incident was documented, filed, and largely ignored because acknowledging what these reports suggested would mean accepting that something unknown was living in those forests. Something large, intelligent, and capable of avoiding detection despite increased human activity in the area. Most of my colleagues weren’t willing to make that leap. It was easier to dismiss the reports as misidentifications, hoaxes, or the overactive imaginations of people who’d spent too long alone in the wilderness.
But I started mapping the incidents. Every report confirmed or not, every strange occurrence, every piece of evidence that didn’t fit normal patterns. And what I found was interesting. The reports clustered in a specific area, roughly 30 square miles of particularly remote and rugged terrain in the northern section of Flathead National Forest. The area was accessible but difficult to reach. Lots of steep valleys, dense forest cover, rocky outcrops that created natural caves and shelters. It was the kind of place where something could hide if it wanted to. The kind of place that most hikers avoided because the terrain was too challenging.
Katherine Mley had been doing her research on the edge of this area. That trail camera that caught the strange figure was positioned right at the boundary, and every subsequent report over the years had come from within or near this zone.
My Search for Proof
I started going out there on my days off. Not official investigations, just personal hikes, exploring the area, looking for anything unusual. I told my wife I was getting exercise and enjoying nature, which was true, but it wasn’t the whole truth. I was looking for evidence, looking for proof that something was out there.
For years, I found nothing conclusive. Tracks that could have been bears. Scat that could have come from any large predator. Places where vegetation had been disturbed in ways that suggested something large had passed through, but nothing that couldn’t be explained by normal wildlife. I was starting to think I was wasting my time, chasing shadows, and letting an unsolved case consume me in unhealthy ways.
Then came August of 2019. I was 57 years old, planning to retire in a few years. I’d been a detective for almost three decades. I’d seen everything law enforcement could throw at a person, or so I thought. I was out in the forest on what I had planned as my last exploratory hike before accepting that I’d never solved the Katherine Mley case.
It was late afternoon as the sun started to sink toward the western mountains, and I was about 4 miles into rough terrain when I found the cave. It wasn’t marked on any maps, hidden behind a thick growth of brush and accessible only through a narrow gap between two large rock formations. I almost missed it entirely, but something made me stop. Maybe it was instinct developed over years of investigation. Maybe it was luck. But I pushed through the brush and found the entrance.
The Cave and The Encounter
The cave opening was maybe 4 feet high and 3 feet wide. Natural formation worn smooth by water over countless years. I could see it extended back into darkness, but I couldn’t tell how far. I had a flashlight with me, standard equipment for hiking in the forest. I called out, “Basic safety protocol for entering any cave or confined space. Wanted to make sure I wasn’t about to stumble into a bear den.”
No response, just the echo of my own voice and the sound of water dripping somewhere deep inside the cave. I should have left. Should have come back with proper equipment and backup. But something drew me forward. That same instinct that told me this was important.
I crouched down and entered the cave, moving carefully, flashlight sweeping the space ahead of me. The passage was tight for about 10 feet, then opened into a larger chamber, and that’s when I saw it. Evidence of habitation. Someone or something had been using this cave as shelter. There were items arranged along one wall: a camping blanket, worn and dirty, but clearly manufactured. Some cooking utensils, a metal pot, and a few bent forks. A collection of smooth stones arranged in a pattern that suggested decoration rather than random placement, and books.
Three paperback books, their covers water damaged and faded, but still recognizable as human objects. My heart was racing. This wasn’t bear sign. This was a campsite. Someone was living here, or had been recently.
I moved deeper into the cave, the chamber extending back further than my flashlight could fully illuminate. The ceiling was high enough that I could stand upright. The floor was mostly dry despite evidence of water seepage along the walls. It was actually a decent shelter, protected from weather, hidden from view, maintaining a relatively constant temperature. Then I heard it — a sound from deeper in the cave. Movement. The scrape of something against stone.
I froze, hand instinctively moving to the service weapon I always carried, even when off duty. My flashlight beam probed the darkness ahead. And then I saw a woman sitting against the far wall of the cave, partially hidden in shadow. She was thin, almost gaunt, with long, dark hair that looked like it hadn’t been properly washed in years. She wore clothes that were mostly rags at this point, torn and patched together with strips of fabric and what looked like animal hide. Her feet were bare, the soles thick with calluses.
She held herself perfectly still, watching me with eyes that reflected the flashlight beam like an animal’s eyes do. I’d found hundreds of missing persons over my career. I knew the look of someone who’d been lost in the wilderness, the haunted exhaustion, the relief when they saw rescuers. This woman had none of that. She didn’t look relieved or scared. She looked wary, cautious, like she was evaluating whether I was a threat.
“Catherine,” I said, keeping my voice calm and non-threatening. “Catherine Marley?”
The woman’s eyes widened slightly. She hadn’t heard her own name in a long time. I could tell her lips moved, forming words that came out raspy and unused to speech. “How do you know my name?”
It was her. After seven years, I’d found Catherine Marley alive.
The Revelation: Catherine’s Story
My detective brain kicked in immediately, processing the scene, looking for signs of injury or duress, trying to understand how she’d survived alone in a cave for seven years. But before I could respond, I heard another sound. This one from behind me, near the cave entrance I’d just come through.
I turned, bringing my flashlight around, and there, blocking the exit, stood something that made every rational thought in my brain shut down. It was massive, had to be close to 8 feet tall, maybe more. Its body was humanoid in structure, standing upright on two powerful legs with arms that hung down past where human arms would end. It was covered in thick fur, dark brown or black in the dim light. The head was the most striking feature. Elongated snout filled with teeth that caught the light when it pulled back its lips. Pointed ears that swiveled forward, tracking me. And eyes, amber-colored eyes that held an intelligence that was unmistakable and terrifying.
This was what people had been reporting for years. What Marcus Whitfield had seen. What had appeared on Catherine’s trail camera seven years ago. A dogman, real, standing 15 feet away from me in a cave where I had nowhere to run.
Every instinct screamed at me to draw my weapon. But something stopped me. Maybe it was the fact that the creature wasn’t attacking despite clearly having the ability to do so. Maybe it was Catherine’s presence, sitting calmly behind me without showing fear. Or maybe it was the way the creature held itself, alert and ready, but not aggressive.
This wasn’t predatory behavior. This was protective behavior.
The Choice: A Dilemma
“Don’t,” Catherine said from behind me. “Please don’t hurt him. He saved my life.”
I stood there, flashlight in one hand, other hand near my weapon, but not drawing it, trying to process what was happening. The creature made a sound low and rumbling that seemed directed at Catherine rather than me. She responded, not with words, but with a similar vocalization. They were communicating. This woman and this impossible creature were actually communicating with each other.
“My name is Detective Raymond Fletcher,” I said, forcing my voice to stay steady. “I’ve been searching for you for seven years, Catherine. Your family has been searching for you. Everyone thought you were dead.”
Family games
Catherine stood up slowly, moving toward me with careful steps. In the flashlight beam, I could see she was healthier than I’d initially thought. Thin, yes, but not starving. Her skin was weathered, but not showing signs of severe malnutrition or disease. She’d been surviving out here. More than surviving, living.
“I can’t go back,” she said quietly. “I know that’s not what you want to hear. I know my parents must be devastated, but I can’t go back to that life. Not anymore.”
The creature made another sound, softer this time. It moved slightly, settling into a sitting position near the cave entrance, but still blocking the exit. Close up, I could see details I’d never be able to capture in a description. The way its fur lay in patterns that suggested both canine and something else. The structure of its hands, because they were hands, not paws, with elongated fingers tipped with thick claws. The musculature visible beneath the fur, suggesting strength that would be beyond any human.
The Truth: A Connection Beyond Species
“This is Kota,” Catherine said, gesturing toward the creature. “He’s been protecting me for seven years, taking care of me, teaching me.”
She paused, seeming to struggle with how to explain. “He’s not an animal, Detective Fletcher. He’s intelligent. He has language, culture, understanding. He’s more human than most humans I’ve known.”
I needed to sit down. My legs felt weak. My mind struggled to reconcile what I was seeing with everything I thought I knew about the world. I lowered myself carefully to the cave floor, keeping my movements slow and non-threatening. Catherine sat beside me. The creature—Kota—watched from his position near the entrance.
“Tell me what happened,” I said. “Tell me everything.” And she did.
Catherine’s Survival: A Choice and a Bond
Over the next several hours, as the sun set outside and darkness filled the forest, Katherine Marley told me her story. It was impossible. It was insane. And I believed every word. She’d gotten separated from her planned route that September day in 2012, had been following a trail of elk sign deeper into rough terrain than she’d intended to go. By the time she realized she was lost, it was late afternoon and she was miles from her campsite without proper supplies for an overnight stay.
She’d tried to retrace her steps, but had taken a wrong turn in an area where the terrain all looked similar. As night fell, she’d found a sheltered spot under some rocks and had tried to stay warm. That’s when she’d heard them. Multiple creatures moving through the forest around her position. She’d thought they were wolves at first. But the sounds weren’t quite right. Too varied, too complex, almost like speech, but not in any language she recognized.
Then one head appeared in her line of sight. She’d been terrified, had scrambled back against the rocks, certain she was about to be killed, but the creature hadn’t attacked. It had approached slowly, making soft vocalizations that seemed designed to calm her. It had brought her food, a rabbit it had caught and cleaned, had gestured for her to eat.
That was Kota.
At the time, Catherine hadn’t known his name or anything about him, just that he was something that shouldn’t exist but was undeniably real. And instead of hurting her, he was helping her. She’d tried to leave the next morning, had attempted to find her way back to civilization, but she’d been deeper in the wilderness than she thought, and she was injured. Had twisted her ankle badly during her panicked night in the darkness. Kota had followed her, watching from a distance. When she’d collapsed from pain and exhaustion, he’d approached again. This time he brought others, two more of his kind, both female, slightly smaller than Kota, but still imposing.
They communicated among themselves in their strange language. Then they picked Catherine up as gently as giants could handle a fragile human and had carried her to this cave. They tended her injury, used plants she’d never seen before, applied them to her ankle in a way that reduced the swelling and pain. They brought her food and water, kept her warm, protected her from other predators in the forest.
They saved her life when she would have died out there alone.
Catherine’s Choice: A Life in Hiding
But why didn’t you leave once you’d recovered? I asked. Why not try to find your way back?
Catherine was quiet for a moment. Looked around the cave that had been her home for seven years. Looked at Kota, standing patient and protective nearby, looked down at her hands, weathered and calloused from years of living outside normal society.
“I’m alive,” she said. “I’m learning things that no other human has ever learned. I’m part of something that transcends what I thought was possible. Am I happy? I don’t know if that’s the right word, but I’m where I’m supposed to be, doing what I’m supposed to do, and yes, that brings me peace.”
I nodded. That was enough.
I moved toward the cave entrance, Kota stepping further aside to let me pass. As I reached the opening, Catherine called out, “Detective Fletcher, will you tell them anything? My parents?”
I turned back. In the dim light from my flashlight, she looked small and fragile, but I knew she wasn’t. She’d survived seven years in conditions that would kill most people. She’d learned to communicate with a species that shouldn’t exist. She’d made choices that required more strength than I could imagine.
“I’ll tell them the truth,” I said. “That I followed up on the case one more time before retiring. That I searched the area where you disappeared and that I found no evidence you’d survived. That after seven years, they should accept that you’re gone and try to find peace. It’s not the closure they want, but it’s the closure they need.”
Catherine nodded, tears running down her face. “Thank you for understanding, for protecting us.”
The Final Decision: Leaving the Secret Behind
I left the cave as the last light faded from the sky. Hiked the four miles back to my truck in darkness. Using my flashlight to navigate terrain that seemed different now, changed because I was different. What I’d seen in that cave had fundamentally altered my understanding of reality. I drove home in a daze. My wife asked how the hike had been. I told her it was good, that I needed the exercise and solitude.
She accepted this without question. We’d been married for 36 years. She knew I sometimes needed space to process things related to work. That night, I lay awake trying to decide what to do. I’d told Catherine I would do nothing, but my conscience struggled with that decision. Her parents deserved to know she was alive, deserved the chance to see her, to understand her choices, even if they didn’t agree with them.
The professional part of me, the detective who’d spent decades bringing answers to grieving families, felt like I was failing them. But the rational part of me knew Catherine was right. Revealing the truth would destroy everything. It would expose Kota’s family to a world that wasn’t ready for them. Would turn Catherine into a spectacle, a curiosity, someone who’d be studied and questioned, and never allowed to return to the life she’d chosen. And it would probably end my career in disgrace, because who would believe my story without proof?
Family games
So, I did what I said I would do, nothing. I filed a final report on the Catherine Mley case, stating that I’d conducted one last search of the area before my retirement and had found no new evidence. I recommended the case remain listed as missing, presumed dead. I told her parents gently that after seven years, the chances of finding her alive were essentially zero, that they should hold on to their memories of who she’d been and try to find peace.
They grieved. I watched them grieve knowing I could end their suffering with the truth. But I didn’t because sometimes the truth causes more harm than the lie.
The Burden of Silence
I retired from the sheriff’s department in 2021, two years after finding Catherine. My colleagues threw me a party, thanked me for my service, gave me a plaque commemorating my years of dedication. I accepted it all with a smile, knowing I was carrying the biggest secret of my career.
But I couldn’t completely let it go. Over the next few years, I made periodic trips back to that area of the forest. Not to the cave itself. I’d promised I wouldn’t reveal its location. And I kept that promise, but to the general region, hiking trails I’d come to know well, observing the forest and its hidden inhabitants from a respectful distance.
I never saw Kota again, but I saw signs. Tracks that were too large for known animals. Trees marked with scratches at heights no bear could reach. Localizations in the night that didn’t match any wildlife I’d learned to identify over decades in Montana. The dogmen were there maintaining their territories, living their hidden lives. And occasionally, very occasionally, I’d find small signs that told me Catherine was still there, too. A stone arrangement near a trail that looked deliberate rather than natural. A patch of disturbed earth where someone had dug for roots or tubers in a way that suggested human knowledge applied to wilderness survival. Once I found a piece of fabric tied to a tree branch, faded and weathered, but clearly manufactured messages.
Maybe Catherine letting me know she was alive and well without showing herself directly.
Conclusion: The Burden of Knowledge
In 2023, something happened that brought the whole situation back to the forefront of my mind. A hiking group reported finding what they claimed was evidence of a large unknown creature in the exact area where I’d found Catherine. They discovered the remnants of a campsite, they said, with items that suggested long-term habitation. They’d found tracks and hair samples. They were organizing an expedition to investigate further, maybe set up cameras to document whatever was living out there.
I couldn’t let that happen. Not just for Catherine and Kota, but for the entire population of dogmen that had managed to remain hidden despite increasing human intrusion into their territory. So, I did something I’m not proud of. I used my contacts in the sheriff’s department, people who still respected my years of service. I suggested that the area in question was actually dangerous, prone to rock slides and flash flooding, that inexperienced hikers shouldn’t be allowed to organize expeditions there without proper permits and safety protocols.
I made the bureaucratic process difficult enough that the hiking group eventually gave up and moved on to other interests. I interfered with people’s right to explore public land. I possibly prevented legitimate scientific discovery, but I protected something that needed protection. Whether that makes me a hero or a villain, I honestly don’t know. I just know it felt like the right thing to do.
The Question of Humanity’s Role in Nature
Now, it’s 2026. I’m 64 years old. I’ve been retired for five years and I spend most of my time reading, working on my cabin, and taking long walks through forests that hold secrets most people will never know about. My wife sometimes asks why I’m so drawn to the wilderness, why I spend so much time hiking alone at an age when most men are content to stay home. I tell her it brings me peace, which is true, even if it’s not the complete truth.
I think about Catherine often. Wonder how she’s doing. Whether she’s learned everything she wanted to learn about Kota and his kind, whether she ever regrets her choice to stay, to give up her human life for something most people would consider insane. I think she doesn’t regret it. I think she found something out there that was more valuable to her than anything civilization could offer. Purpose, understanding, a connection that transcended species boundaries.
I also think about the burden of knowledge, about knowing something that could change humanity’s understanding of the natural world, but being unable to share it. It’s isolating in a way that’s hard to explain. I have information that biologists would kill for. Proof that an unknown species exists, intelligent and complex, living hidden in North American forests. And I can’t tell anyone, can’t publish it, can’t share it, can’t use it to advance scientific understanding because doing so would destroy the very thing that makes the knowledge valuable.
The dogmen survive through secrecy, through remaining hidden, unknown. The moment humanity confirms their existence is the moment their way of life ends. They’d be hunted, captured, studied, controlled. Their territories would be invaded. Their culture would be disrupted or destroyed. All in the name of science and progress and humanity’s insatiable need to categorize and control everything we encounter.
Catherine understood this. She’d given up her life to protect them. And I’ve honored that choice. But I sometimes wonder if it’s the right choice in the long term. Will Dogman survive another century if nothing changes? Will they be able to adapt to continued human expansion and environmental change? Or are they already on a path to extinction that my secrecy is just prolonging rather than preventing?
I don’t have answers to these questions. I’m just an old detective who stumbled into something bigger than I could have imagined. I’m not a scientist or a conservationist or a philosopher. I’m just someone trying to do the right thing with incomplete information and competing moral imperatives. And the best I can do is tell this story and let others think about what it means.
The Conclusion
There’s one more thing I need to address. The question of whether I should have intervened differently, whether I should have tried to convince Catherine to come back to civilization, whether I failed in my duty as a law enforcement officer by not bringing her home regardless of her wishes. I’ve wrestled with this question for seven years. The legal answer is clear. I should have reported finding her, should have convinced her to return, or failing that, should have brought authorities to the cave to extract her. She was a missing person, possibly suffering from some kind of Stockholm syndrome or psychological break that made her unable to make rational decisions about her own welfare. But the human answer is more complex. Catherine wasn’t a prisoner. She wasn’t being held against her will. She’d made a conscious choice to stay, understanding fully what she was giving up. She was an adult capable of making her own decisions even if others wouldn’t agree with those decisions. Who was I to override her autonomy? To decide that my judgment about what was best for her life trumped her own judgment?
And there was another consideration. If I’d forced her to come back, would she have stayed? Or would she have found a way to return to the forest, to Kota, to the life she’d chosen? Would forcing her into civilization have helped her or just made her miserable? Would it have satisfied her family’s need for closure or just created new conflicts and heartbreak when they realized their daughter wasn’t the person she’d been before she disappeared?
Family games
I think Catherine had fundamentally changed during those seven years. The woman I met in that cave wasn’t the graduate student who disappeared in 2012. She’d evolved, adapted, become something between human and whatever Kota was. She’d learned a different way of thinking, communicating, understanding the world. Bringing her back would have been like trying to put a butterfly back in its cocoon. Impossible and cruel.
So, I made the choice to respect her autonomy, to accept that she had the right to live her life as she chose, even if that choice was unconventional and painful for the people who loved her.
Was it the right choice? I honestly don’t know. I just know it was the choice that felt most humane at the time. Let me tell you about the last time I saw any sign of Catherine. It was in the fall of 2024, about five years after I’d found her in the cave. I was hiking in the general area, not looking for her specifically, but not avoiding the possibility either. It was early October, the aspen trees turning gold, the air crisp with the promise of coming winter. I found her arrangement of stones near a small creek. They were stacked in a pattern that was clearly deliberate, creating a small structure that served no practical purpose. It was art, expression, a message. Beside the stones was a piece of birch bark with marks scratched into it, not writing exactly, but symbols. I studied them for a long time, trying to decipher their meaning. What I eventually understood was a kind of gratitude. The symbol seemed to convey thanks, appreciation for being left alone, recognition that someone was protecting them by maintaining their secret. It was a message from Catherine, left in a place where she knew I might eventually find it. A way of communicating without direct contact, a way of saying she was okay and that my choice to keep her secret was the right one.
I took a photograph of the stones and the symbols. I didn’t disturb them or take anything, just documented that they existed. Then I hiked back out of the forest carrying a sense of peace I hadn’t felt in years. Catherine was alive. She was okay. And she wanted me to know that.
That stone arrangement is still there as far as I know. A monument to an impossible friendship between species. A marker of a choice that changed multiple lives. And a reminder that sometimes the right thing to do is nothing at all.
This is the story of Raymond Fletcher’s discovery of Katherine Mley, her life with Kota, and the overwhelming moral dilemma he faced in protecting them both from the outside world. It’s a story of hidden species, strange bonds, and a choice to honor autonomy over the law, encapsulating the complexity of ethics in the face of the unknown.
