J Moncrieff - Return to Dyatlov Pass

In February 1959, nine experienced Russian skiers set off on an expedition in the Ural Mountains. When an expected telegram didn’t arrive from group leader Igor Dyatlov on February 12, and there was still no word from the skiers by the twentieth, searchers left on a rescue mission.

Once they reached the campsite on Dead Mountain, they witnessed a scene horrific enough to give them nightmares for the rest of their lives.

Something had panicked Dyatlov and his friends, who fled their tent by slashing it open with knives. Some of the group was in their underwear and socks, while others had bare feet. The temperature was estimated to have been -13°F when they ran into the snow.

A few of the bodies were recovered right away, while others took months to find. All of the Dyatlov group had suffered extreme trauma, and four of the bodies were crushed so badly that doctors compared the extent of their injuries to those sustained from being hit by a car.

Russian authorities eventually ruled that a “compelling natural force” had caused the deaths. To this day, the tragedy remains a mystery. It is known as the Dyatlov Pass Incident.

This book is dedicated in memory to the nine skiers who died on what is now known as the Dyatlov Pass: Igor Alekseievich Dyatlov, Yuri Nikolaievich Doroshenko, Lyudmila Alexandrovna Dubinina, Yuri (Georgiy) Alexeyevich Krivonischenko, Alexander Sergeievich Kolevatov, Zinaida Alekseevna Kolmogorova, Rustem Vladimirovich Slobodin, Nicolai Vladimirovich Thibeaux-Brignolles, and Semyon (Alexander) Alekseevich Zolotaryov.

May they rest in peace.

Ural Mountains, Soviet Union

March 1959

The moment before she died, Lyudmila wondered how it had gone so terribly wrong. Concealed within a makeshift snow cave for warmth and protection, she huddled close to Nicolai, though her friend’s body had long grown cold and stiff.

“Remember, Mila,” he’d counseled her. “Whatever you do, do not scream. However frightened you get, whatever happens, you must stay quiet. You will be the one to survive, to tell our families what befell us.”

Her tears had frozen on her cheeks long ago. The air was so frigid it would not allow her to grieve properly. Whatever loneliness and pain she felt at losing her last remaining friend, the man who had given up everything to protect her, must stay locked away. When she’d made it safely home, she would mourn him. But not yet. For now, her focus had to be on survival.

Lyudmila had spent most winters exploring these mountains on skis. She was well versed in the symptoms of hypothermia and frostbite. If she didn’t find a way to raise her body temperature soon, she wouldn’t draw breath much longer. Ignoring the tingling in her weary arms, she pushed herself away from Nicolai, crawling on her stomach through the snow to the crumpled heap that was Alexander. Of the little group in the cave, Alexander had been the first to die. She averted her eyes from his frozen face as she undid the laces on his boots and tugged. The boots were too big for her, but they were warmer than her own. With the wool socks she’d collected from Semyon, she could make them fit.

She forced several more socks and a boot onto her stiffening foot, flexing her toes while she bit on her lip to keep from crying out. The burning in her extremities, however torturous, was welcome. It meant her feet weren’t frostbitten—yet.

A crack from the surrounding forest startled her, making her pause with her hands on Alexander’s second boot. Another crack , followed by a series of rustles and the pattering of cedar branches falling on snow. Lyudmila whimpered before clapping both hands over her mouth, pressing hard enough that her front teeth broke through the skin on her upper lip, flooding her mouth with the metallic tang of her own blood.

“No,” she moaned under her breath. “No.” She looked at Nicolai, who lay on the other side of their shelter. He was so far away, too far for her to make it in time. She should never have left him. When the others had occasionally mocked her, dismissing her as the youngest in the group, only he had believed in her. He’d called her brave. Though her corneas felt glazed with ice, Lyudmila’s eyes welled with tears once more. She dared not let them fall. Her tormentors were attuned to the slightest sound, like foxes poised to hear their dinner scurrying under the snow. She would not scurry, but she would slide back to Nicolai’s side. Even in death, he would protect her.

Ignoring her shrieking nerve endings, Lyudmila began the slow, agonizing crawl to her friend. She was a dozen feet away when she heard the worst sound of all, the one they’d come to dread more than any other.

The sound of meat being torn from bone.

Biting her lip again, she focused on Nicky to keep from screaming. Her upper thighs, strong from years of skiing, propelled her forward along the snowpack. Swish, swish. Swish, swish. She timed her movements to match the horrible chewing, careful that the slightest rustle of her snow pants was concealed beneath the other sound, but she’d forgotten.

Forgotten the siren call of fresh blood.

In spite of the frigid temperatures, sweat beaded her forehead and trickled down her nose from her efforts. Swish, swish. Swish, swish. Dearest Nicky. Soon he would be close enough to touch. The last remaining warmth from his body would renew her courage. At his side, she would survive this night, and in the morning, with his good coat protecting her from the elements, she would attempt to make her way down the mountain to safety.

Lyudmila was inches away from Nicolai’s body when a flash of white broke through the snow in front of her, seizing her friend’s skull and popping it like an overripe grape. As the deep crimson of Nicky’s blood painted their sanctuary the color of death, she forgot her last promise to him.

She screamed.

She was still screaming when her tongue was torn out, along with the inside of her mouth.

Nat longed for the days when trolls were grotesque creatures who lurked under bridges in Norway. Sadly, trolls lurked in one’s inbox now, and there was no getting rid of them until they grew bored and moved on. If she could have sent this particular one to the fjords, she would have in a heartbeat.

“Another death threat?”

“Huh?” Nat tore her attention away from her screen long enough to see Andrew grin at her.

“I’ve worked with you long enough to know that sigh. What was it this time? Death threat? Sexual harassment? Some good old-fashioned stalking?”

“None of the above. Good old-fashioned baiting.”

As the host of Nat’s Mysterious World, the US’s most popular podcast dealing with the supernatural and unsolved mysteries, Nat was used to hearing from whackos. But this guy was different. He’d been writing her for the past three weeks, the tone of his emails just shy of incendiary. Worst of all, he’d been hitting her where it hurt. She should delete his messages unread and block him before he stole another minute of her precious time, but he was like a car accident she couldn’t look away from.

This troll wasn’t like other trolls. The guy knew his stuff.

“Cliff again?”

“Yeah,” she admitted, bracing herself for a lecture. The road was a well-traveled one.

“I don’t understand why you haven’t blocked him yet. Why are you wasting your time on that asshole?”

“I should; you’re right.” Nat ran her fingers through her platinum crop, tugging at the roots. No matter what, she couldn’t take her bad mood out on Andrew, who was her producer, as well as the closest thing she had to a friend. “I guess I haven’t been willing to give him the satisfaction. I’m sure that’s exactly what he wants, proof that he’s gotten to me.”