Lorna McSorley stepped out of the Ghost Mountain Inn reception just after 3pm on a sweltering September afternoon, map in hand, ready for a gentle three-mile loop to the nearby lake. The 71-year-old former British Army officer from Devon had been in South Africa for only five days, part of a carefully planned Tui package holiday with her partner of thirty years, Leon Probert. The couple had already enjoyed Kruger National Park, and this short walk—marked clearly on the A4 sheet she carried—seemed harmless. Wildlife spotting, fresh air, a bit of adventure before dinner. What happened next has become one of the most chilling unsolved mysteries in modern South African tourism, a case that four months later still divides investigators between crocodile attack, random violence, and the dark whisper of muti ritual murder.

McSorley waved goodbye to Leon, who turned back early because of the heat. She continued alone along the dirt track that wound past farmland toward the lake. Around 3.15pm local farmer Koos Prinsloo spotted her at his fence line. She wore a black bum bag, size-two trainers, and appeared relaxed and cheerful. When he offered a lift back to the hotel she politely declined, saying she was enjoying the walk. That was the last confirmed sighting of Lorna McSorley alive.

By evening Leon was frantic. Hotel staff raised the alarm. Within hours a full-scale search began: police, park rangers, private security teams, tracker dogs, drones, helicopters, fixed-wing aircraft, boats on the lake. Six days of intensive effort covered every inch of bush, riverbank, and surrounding farmland. Not a scrap of clothing. Not a single belonging. Her bank cards were never used. Her mobile phone went silent after 4.45pm. The search yielded only one tantalising clue: a crumpled paper map found exactly where phone “dump” data later revealed three separate devices converged for fifteen minutes before dispersing—one speeding away by car, the other two moving on foot, one from the direction of the mountain, one from town.\

Detectives initially treated the disappearance as possible misadventure. Crocodiles inhabit the lake; the area is remote, the terrain unforgiving. But no signs of struggle, no blood, no drag marks. As weeks stretched into months, frustration grew. In February 2026, with McSorley still missing after 137 days, senior investigators quietly admitted the case had shifted toward foul play. And the theory that now dominates private briefings is the one locals have feared from the beginning: muti.

Muti, from the Zulu word umuthi meaning “tree” or “medicine,” is traditional African healing practiced across southern Africa. Most muti is herbal, drawn from plants, roots, animal parts, and spiritual rituals performed by respected sangomas or inyangas. But a shadowy subset—known as “muti murders”—involves harvesting human body parts while the victim is still alive. The belief, held by a minority, is that the terror and life force of the victim make the medicine more powerful: eyes for clairvoyance, tongues for persuasion, genitals for virility, hands for dexterity, hearts for courage. These parts are ground into potions or worn as talismans to bring wealth, protection, or success in business or politics.

Northern KwaZulu-Natal, where Ghost Mountain Inn sits, is considered a hotspot. The province has seen documented muti killings for decades, often targeting vulnerable people: children, albinos, or outsiders. White victims are sometimes prized because folklore claims their body parts carry unusual potency. In 2023 British couple Tony and Gillian Dinnis were allegedly abducted, murdered, and dismembered nearby; their remains were never recovered, but parts were rumoured to have been sold to a witch doctor. Locals speak in hushed tones of other disappearances—dozens in recent years, including children—never solved. One labourer near Mkuze told investigators he knew of at least twelve people who had simply vanished in the past three years. “The bush swallows them,” he said.

Jacob Sabelo Ntshangase, a Zulu cultural expert, told The Times it would not be a stretch to imagine McSorley’s fate. “She was alone in the bush for over two hours. In that time anything can happen. If muti practitioners needed specific parts, a white woman of her age might have been seen as powerful medicine.” Farmers and officials in the area echo the fear. One senior local figure admitted privately: “The biggest danger here is muti. People are scared of it. They don’t talk.”

The phone data adds weight to the theory. Three devices meeting in the wilderness for exactly fifteen minutes suggests coordination. The car that sped away afterward implies transport—perhaps to move a body or parts quickly. Private detectives hired by the family discovered these digital breadcrumbs in October but were initially told by police that no such data existed. The crumpled map found at the convergence point is now seen as possible evidence of a lure or ambush.

McSorley’s family is devastated. Leon Probert, 81, carries crushing guilt for turning back that afternoon. “I should have stayed with her,” he said. “I had no idea about muti. I thought this was a safe place.” Her brother Geoff Sheward described the ritual-killing scenario as “the worst one I’ve heard. The poor girl must have been frightened to death.” The family has flown to South Africa repeatedly, met police, offered rewards, and appealed publicly. They remain in daily contact with the UK’s Foreign, Commonwealth and Development Office, which describes the case as “complex and ongoing.”

South Africa’s official Traditional Healers Association and the South African Traditional Healers Association have both condemned the use of human body parts in the strongest terms. “Muti is about healing, not harming,” a spokesman said. “Anyone using human remains is a criminal, not a healer.” Yet the practice persists in secret. Police estimate only a fraction of muti murders are ever reported, let alone solved. Fear of sangomas, combined with poverty and superstition, silences witnesses. In remote areas like Mkuze, where Ghost Mountain looms over the landscape, the boundary between legend and reality blurs.

Ghost Mountain itself carries its own dark reputation. Named for the restless spirits said to haunt its slopes, the area has long been associated with ancestral beliefs and ritual sites. The inn markets the walk as a safe, scenic activity—“commonly enjoyed by guests”—and insists safety is its highest priority. Yet the trail passes through unfenced farmland, thick bush, and within sight of the lake where crocodiles bask. No one at the hotel warned McSorley of muti risks; few tourists are ever told.

As the investigation drags on, frustration mounts. Police insist they are pursuing all avenues but have released no new leads. No suspects have been named. No arrests made. The lack of a body complicates everything: without remains, prosecutors cannot charge murder. Private investigators continue to chase digital trails—phone records, financial movements, local informants—while the family waits in agony.

McSorley was no ordinary tourist. A former military policewoman, she had served in the British Army, travelled the world, and embraced adventure. Friends describe her as tough, independent, always the one to explore alone. That spirit led her onto the path that day. Now her disappearance exposes uncomfortable truths about South Africa’s tourism industry: the gap between glossy brochures and the hidden dangers of rural KwaZulu-Natal; the persistence of beliefs that clash with modern law; the vulnerability of outsiders in places where fear still trumps justice.

Four months on, Lorna McSorley’s room at the Ghost Mountain Inn remains untouched. Her suitcase, her clothes, her toiletries—all exactly as she left them. Leon cannot bring himself to pack them away. The lake where she planned to walk still shimmers under the African sun, crocodiles still glide through its waters, and the mountain still casts its long shadow. Somewhere in the bush, or in a secret ritual site, the truth may lie buried. Until it surfaces—if it ever does—her family, and the world, are left with a single, horrifying question: was Lorna McSorley simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, or was she deliberately chosen for the most macabre purpose imaginable?

The silence around Ghost Mountain has never felt louder.