15/96 Day 1: Agent 6523

Location: San Ysidro

Weather: Dry heat in the afternoon, cooler winds after dusk. Clear skies.

The hunt begins. Reports have grown frequent—goats and chickens drained overnight, their owners swearing no plasma was spilled on the ground. Locals are restless, muttering about “el chupacabra.” Some dismiss it as coyotes or feral dogs, but the wounds are too precise, the bodies too untouched.

I arrived before sunset to set up base. Chose an abandoned barn on the edge of the scrubland—quiet enough to listen, close enough to the pens where livestock are kept. Brought motion-activated cameras, an infrared scope, and field traps (not that I expect such a creature to be caught so easily).

By nightfall, the silence felt wrong. The desert usually sings with insects, owls, the yips of coyotes. Tonight, it is subdued. A goat bleated once, sharp and paNicked, then hushed. My flashlight beam swept across the yard, catching nothing but dust motes. Still, I felt it—eyes on me. Watching.

Before midnight, I found the first sign. Tracks, faint but strange—three-toed impressions pressed deep into the earth, larger than any raccoon or opossum. Something heavy passed through here. The trail vanished near the mesquite brush as though the creature had lifted off or leapt beyond my range of light.

The night ended without a sighting, but the evidence is unsettling. Whatever stalks these lands moves with purpose. The livestock are uneasy, and so am I.

Tomorrow, I will set closer traps and remain in the field through the darkest hours. The hunt has only begun.