SO EP:705 The Bigfoot Journals: Part Two

around out here? Did you see what it was? It was? It was seeing enough. I'm out here looking through the window now and I don't see anything. I don't want to go outside. Jesus quiet, you better hello, get Theboddy out here when I'm out there. I thought of a mention about ten nine. I don't know eat him out there. Yeah, I'm walking write head.

to fall asleep. For me, it was this picture of a man a history professor standing in his dead father's cabin, holding journals that were over two hundred years old, journals that described something impossible, something that would change everything he thought he knew about the world. And I thought to myself, what if I tried to write that story?

Elijah Stone, this revolutionary war veteran leading an expedition into the unknown, Marcus Stone, his descendant, discovering the family secret two centuries later. The creatures themselves ancient, watching patient in ways we can't begin to understand. Before I knew it, I had a five part series on my hands. I posted part one over here last week. If you haven't heard it yet, I'd recommend going back and starting there. But today We're continuing with part two, and let me

tell you things are about to get intense. The expedition has crossed into forbidden territory. Now they've made first contact. They've established this fragile piece through gift exchanges. But one of them is about to make a terrible mistake, a mistake born out of fear, and fear has consequences in these mountains. As we approach the holidays, I've got something special planned for you, guys. I'm rolling out several bonus episodes over the next few weeks. All five parts of

the Bigfoot Journal series will be available. Think of it as my gift to you for sticking with me all year. Now here's where I need your help. This story has grown into something I believe might make a great book, but I might be a little biased, so I would really love your feedback. What do you think about the story? Does it work? Does it pull you in? Are there

parts that drag or parts you want more of? You can email me directly at Brian at Paranormalworldproductions dot com, or even better, click the link right here in the show notes to leave me a voicemail. Tell me what you think, tell me what's working. Tell me what isn't. I may even play some of those voicemails during future episodes. I mean that I want to hear from you. Your feedback matters. All right, Enough talking, Let's get back to seventeen ninety nine, Back to the mountains, Back to Elijah

Stone and his men. They've just received forgiveness from the creatures after Jim's terrible mistake. But forgiveness doesn't mean safety, and the expedition is about to split in two. Some will turn back, some will press forward. Not all of them will survive what comes next. This is the Bigfoot Journals, Part two, April eighth to fifteenth, seventeen ninety nine. Lenapee Territory. They came out of the forest like ghosts. One moment, we were alone on the trail, the horses plodding through

morning missed. The next moment, seven lenape hunters surrounded us, their faces painted for war, their weapons raised. The horses spooked. Jim's mayor nearly threw him, and Zeke skilled reared so violently that my nephew had to grab the saddle horn with both hands to stay mounted. Only Sam seemed unsurprised, his hands raised and empty his voice, calling out in a language I didn't recognize. Henry stepped forward, adding his

own words and yet another tongue. The lead hunter, a man of perhaps thirty with scars that spoke of battles survived, responded sharply, his hand on the knife at his belt. He wants to know why we're here. Henri translated. He says, white men always bring harm, whether they mean to or not. Tell him we mean no harm to his people. I said, we seek only the macing. Henre hesitated. Captain, tell him,

Henri spoke. The effect was immediate. The hunters exchanged glances, and I saw several of them make signs against evil. The lead hunter, whose name Henri told me later, was Hunting Bear, step back, his hand moving from his knife to the medicine pouch at his chest. You are fools, Honri translated. He says, to turn back while we still can. We cannot turn back. More rapid exchange, Hunting Bear's face shifted through expressions I couldn't read anger, fear, something that

might have been respect. Finally, he lowered his weapon and spoke at length. He will take us to their village. Henry said, to speak with the elders. He says, if we are determined to die, we should at least understand what will kill us. We followed them through the forest for half a day, climbing into territory that grew wilder with every mile. The Lenape hunters moved through the trees like shadows, appearing and disappearing in ways that made me

question whether they were entirely real. The village was smaller than I expected, perhaps fifty people in all, living in long houses arranged around a central fire pit. Women and children watched us pass with expressions of curiosity and suspicion. Men sat smoking pipes, their eyes tracking our movements with the patients of those who have seen everything. Hunting Bear led us to the largest longhouse, speaking briefly with a young woman at the entrance before gesturing for us to

follow him inside. The interior was dim and smoky, lit only by a small fire burning in a pit near the center. Animal skins covered the walls, and the smell of tobacco hung heavy in the air. At the far end, seated on a raised platform covered in furs, sat the oldest human being I had ever seen, Gray Owl. They called him a man of such advanced age that his face had collapsed into a map of wrinkles, his eyes

clouded by cataracts that should have rendered him blind. But when he looked at us, when he looked at me, I felt seen in a way that defied explanation. He spoke, and on retranslated he says he knows why we've come. He has been waiting for men like us for many years. Reading I asked, hoping we would not come, knowing we would, The old man gestured for us to sit. We arranged ourselves on the packed earth floor, uncomfortable and out of place,

while Gray Owl studied each of us in turn. His gaze lingered longest on Sam, and something passed between them, recognition perhaps, or understanding. Then he began to speak. What followed was the most remarkable conversation of my life, and retranslated as best he could, though he admitted afterward that some concepts had no equivalent in English. I will record here what I understood, knowing that much was lost in

the transition from one language to another. The messing gray Owl told us were not what we thought, not spirits, not gods, not demons. They were simply old, unimaginably old. They were here before us On retranslated. They were here before the first people crossed into this land. They watched us come, they will watch us go. Are they animals, Thomas asked. Gray Owl's laugh was dry and papery, like leaves rustling in autumn wind. Are we animals? We eat, we sleep, we mate, we die. But we are more

than animals. So are they? Then? What are they? The first people? The elder brothers, they walked the forests when the forests were young. They remember when the great ice covered the land. They remember what came before I leaned forward. Have your people fought them? We've heard stories of war. The old man's expression darkened. He spoke for a long time, his voice dropping to a whisper. And I saw some of the hunters at the edges of the room make

signs against evil. There was war on retranslated slowly generations ago. My grandfather's grandfather fought in it. Many warriors went into the high places to drive out the macing. Most did not return what happened to them. Some were killed, some were taken, some came back changed. They would not speak of what they saw. They lived apart from the village, and when they died. Their bodies were burned so that whatever touched them could not spread what touched them, Josiah asked.

Gray Owl looked at the former reverend for a long moment before responding, understanding. Henry translated. They came to understand the macing, and that understanding broke them. The fire crackled in the silence that followed. Outside, I could hear children playing, women singing, the ordinary sounds of village life. But inside this smoky longhouse, nothing felt ordinary anymore. Why did they hide, I asked, If they're as powerful as you say, why

have they retreated into the deep wilderness. They have not retreated. They have allowed us to spread. There is a difference. But why Gray owl, milky eyes seem to look through me, into me, beyond me. Because they are patient, because they have seen people's rise and fall for longer than we can imagine. Because they know that this, he gestured broadly, encompassing the village, the forest, the world is temporary. We

are temporary. They are not. He reached into the firs beside him and produced something small and dark, a stone pendant carved with symbols I didn't recognize. He held it out to me. Take this on retranslated, wear it where they can see it if they find you. When they find you, show them this. It may buy you time, time for what to decide if you're worthy of continued life. I took the pendant. The stone was cool and smooth,

heavier than it should have been for its size. The symbols seem to shift in the firelight, though that might have been my imagination. What do these symbols mean? They mean that you are known to us, that you have been warned, that you have chosen to enter their territory despite the warnings. Gray Owl's lips twisted into something that wasn't quite a smile. They may respect that, or they may not. With the messing you, one never knows. I slipped the cord over my head and felt the pendant

settle against my chest. It was warm, now, warm, like a living thing. They've been watching us, I said, since we entered the mountains, the footprints, the structures, the sounds at night. Yes, what do they want to know? What you are? To decide what you will become? Gray Owl leaned forward, his ancient face, suddenly fierce. You are being tested, soldier, every step you take, every choice you make. They are watching, learning, judging,

judging what, whether you are worthy, worthy of what. The gray owl had sunk back into his furs, his eyes closing. The audience clearly over. Hunting bear appeared at my elbow, gesturing toward the exit. We left the village at dawn the next morning. The lenape watched us go with expressions I couldn't read, pity perhaps, or the grim acceptance of those who know their watching dead men walk. As we mounted our horses, gray Owl appeared at the edge of the trees. He raised one hand in a gesture that

might have been farewell or might have been warning. Then, from somewhere deep in the forest, a wood knock echoed three times, just like every night before. Gray Owl smiled. They're listening, he said, and these words needed no translation. They know what you seek. They have marked you now, for good or ill you are marked. We rode out of the village and back into the wilderness, and behind us, following at a distance we could feel, but not see,

something watched us go. Marcus set down the journal and walked to the window again. The sun was setting over the mountains, painting the sky and shades of orange and red, beautiful terrifying, the same mountains his ancestor had ridden into two hundred years ago, seeking answers to questions that haunted him, The same mountains his father had walked into again and again year after year. What had his father found out there? Marcus touched his chest, feeling for something that wasn't there.

Then he remembered the pendant, the one from the trunk. He'd set it aside when he started reading, focused on the journals themselves. He went back to the table and found it among the other artifacts. The stone was dark and smooth, carved with symbols that matched Gray Owl's description.

When he picked it up, it felt warm. He slipped the cord over his head, the pendant settled against his chest, and for just a moment, a fraction of a second, he could have sworn he heard something in the forest outside a knock three times and stay tuned for more sasquat yatta see, we'll be right back after these messages. But when he went to the window and listened, there was nothing, just wind in the trees and the last

light of day fading from the sky. He went back to his father's chair and picked up the next journal. April fifteenth to twenty eighth seventeen ninety nine, deep in the mountains. Two weeks of hell. That's the only way I can describe what followed our meeting with the Lenape. Two weeks of constant surveillance, nocturnal terrors, and psychological warfare

that shredded our nerves and tested our sanity. The forest changed around us, older trees, denser canopy, perpetual twilight even at noon, the sun a distant memory above, layers of leaves so thick that rain took hours to filter through to the ground. The silence was profound, not peaceful, but oppressive. Our own breathing seemed too loud, our own heart beats seemed like violations. And everywhere, always the feeling of being watched. Eyes in the darkness, something moving at the edge of vision.

Turn to look and find nothing there. Turn away and feel them again, pressing against the back of your skull like fingers. The men dealt with it in different ways. Jim grew more aggressive, his hand never far from his rifle, his eyes scanning the trees constantly. He snapped at small provocations and argued with Thomas over nothing. The war had trained him to respond to threats with violence, and the

formless menace surrounding us gave him no target. Thomas retreated into his scientific documentation, filling notebook after notebook with observations and measurements and theories. His earlier arrogance had given way to something like desperation, a need to categorize, to explain, to force the unknown into frameworks he could understand. His hands shook when he wrote, and his voice cracked when

he spoke. Will Harper's behavior disturbed me most. He'd always been peculiar, but now he seemed to be drifting into another world entirely. He sketched constantly, filling page after page with images he wouldn't show anyone. He stared at the forest with an expression that wasn't quite fear. It was more like hunger, like recognition. They're showing me things, he said one night, when I found him sitting apart from

the fire, his sketchbook opened on his knees. When I closed my eyes, I can see them, see what faces, places, Things that were here before his eyes when they met mine were too bright, too intense. They want me to understand, Captain, they want me to see. I didn't know what to say to that. I still don't. Josiah prayed constantly, his lips moved without sound, the words of scrip or supplication running through his mind like water through a channel. I

don't know if it brought him comfort. I don't think he knew either. Solomon carved small wooden figures, faces and shapes emerging from the wood under his skilled hands. Some were human, others were not. He wouldn't explain what he was doing, just kept working, the shavings falling around his feet like offerings. Sam watched. That's all he did. He stood at the perimeter of our camps and watched the

forest with an expression I couldn't read. Sometimes I thought I saw him nod, as if in response to something no one else could hear. And every night the terrors came. The knocking started around midnight, always midnight, as if the creatures had a sense of time. It began slow, one knock, then another, then a third, then built in frequency and intensity, until the forest rang with the sound of wood on wood, like war drums, like the heartbeat of something vast and terrible.

Then the howls. I have heard wolves, I have heard mountain lions, I have heard the screams of men dying on battlefields in ways that should not be possible. None of it prepared me for the howls that echoed through those mountains. They started low, a rumbling that seemed to come from the earth itself. Then they rose, climbing through registers that shouldn't exist, reaching into the skull and touching

something primal, something that remembered being prey. The first few nights, we built the fires high and clutched our weapons and waited for attacks that never came. By the end of the first week, we had learned to simply endure. The attacks weren't coming. The creatures didn't need to attack. They were breaking us by other means. Physical evidence of their presence accumulated around us. Rocks thrown into our camps at night, landing with enough force to shatter cooking pots, Branches torn

from trees and scattered like warnings. Equipment moved examined while we slept. Once I woke to find enormous footprints in the soft earth, not three feet from where my head had rested. Something had stood over me while I slept watching. Deciding, I touched the pennon at my chest. It was warm, the smell came next, a musk unlike anything I had encountered, wild and earthy and somehow wrong. It preceded their approaches, warning us they were near. We came to dread that smell.

Though there were nights I was almost grateful for it. At least it told us when they were close. On the fifteenth day, they killed one of our horses. The animal broke free, and the chaos of a particularly intense night, the knocking reaching a crescendo, howls coming from every direction. We heard it scream. Horses scream, you know, when they're terrified enough, when they know they're about to die. The sound is almost human. Then silence. We found what remained

in the morning. I will not describe it in detail. The nightmares are vivid enough. Without committing the images to paper, I will say only this, The destruction required strength beyond anything human, beyond anything I had thought possible. The horse had been torn apart, not eaten or not entirely eaten, torn apart, as if in anger, as if in demonstration. They're showing us what they can do, Sam said, looking

at the remains with an expression of grim recognition. They want us to understand Thomas examined the scene with trembling hands, his scientific detachment crumbling. These wounds weren't made by any animal I can classify, he said. The sheer force required this was done by hands, enormous hands, not hands, Solomon said, quietly, not like ours? Then what? Solomon didn't answer. He just looked at the small wooden figure he'd been carving, a figure with long arms and broad shoulders and a face

that was almost human but not quite. We buried what we could of the horse. It seemed disrespectful to leave it there, though I couldn't have explained who we were, showing respect to the animal, the creatures that killed it, our own sense of decency. Praying at the edges that night, the knocking was quieter, almost gentle, as if they were waiting to see how we would respond. We didn't respond. We sat around our fire and stared into the flames and tried not to think about what would happen when

the creatures decided to stop playing with us. Because that's what it was, play a cat with a mouse, a child with an insect. They could kill us anytime they wanted, They demonstrated that, but they weren't killing us why they're deciding, Sam said, as if reading my thoughts, watching to see what we'll do, what we're made of? What should we do? Nothing voice was flat certain. We keep moving. We show them we're not afraid, even though we are. We demonstrate

that we're worth the trouble of keeping alive. And if we failed that test. Sam looked at the darkness beyond our fire. Somewhere out there, something was watching us, something ancient and patient and utterly alien. Then we won't have to worry about anything anymore. Marcus closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair. His body was exhausted. He'd

been reading for how long now three days? Four? Time had lost meaning in his father's cabin, the hours bleeding together in a haze of ancient words and mounting dread. But his mind wouldn't stop, couldn't stop. The narrative had taken hold of him like a fever, filling his thoughts with images of vast forests and watching eyes and creatures

that existed at the edge of human comprehension. He thought about his own life, his comfortable career, his reasonable apartment in Chicago, his sensible routine of lectures and research, and the occasional dinner party with colleagues who discussed history like it was something dead and distant. All of that seemed

impossibly far away. Now another life, another person. Here in his father's cabin, surrounded by his ancestors' words, Marcus was becoming someone else, someone who understood why his father had spent his life watching the mountains, someone who felt the weight of inherited responsibility settling onto his shoulders. He opened his eyes and looked at the remaining journals for more, and the letters, and the portfolio of drawings and whatever was in that small carved box he hadn't opened yet.

How much worse was it going to get? He already knew the answer. He'd read enough accounts of expeditions gone wrong, the Franklin Expedition, the Donner Party, the countless disasters that littered the history of American expansion. He knew how these stories a ended with death, with horror, with knowledge that no one should have. But he kept reading because he needed to know, because his father had needed him to know, Because some burdens, once accepted, can never be set down.

He picked up the next journal and turned to the first page. April twenty eighth, through May tenth, seventeen ninety nine, Shawnee Territory. We descended from the high mountains into the Ohio Valley, and the world changed around us. The oppressive forest gave way to rolling hills and river bottoms. The air grew warmer, heavier, thick with the smell of spring growth.

Birds sang again, cardinals and thrushes and mocking birds. Sounds so normal they seemed almost alien after weeks of terrible silence. But we knew better than to relax. The creatures were still out there. We could feel them watching, even in this gentler country. They'd followed us down from the mountains, or perhaps they'd been here all along and we simply hadn't noticed them before. Henry navigated us into Shawnee Territory, his knowledge of the region proving invaluable. The Shawnee had

no love for Americans. Treaties had been broken, promises betrayed, land stolen in ways that bred legitimate grievance. I did not expect a warm welcome. I received worse than I expected. The warriors who found us were young and angry, their faces painted in patterns I didn't recognize. They surrounded us without warning, appearing from the underbrush like the hunters they were.

Their weapons were a mix of traditional and modern tomahawks and muskets, bows and rifles, but their intent was unmistakable. We were trespassers, and trespassers in Shawnee country often didn't leave. Henry spoke quickly, his hands raised, his voice carrying tones of respect and urgency. The warriors listened without lowering their weapons. One of them, a man with scars running down the left side of his face, stepped forward and spoke in

rapid Shawnee. He wants to know who sent us on, retranslated, and why we travel with the dead. The dead, that's what he said. He says, we smell like the dead. I didn't know how to respond to that, but before I could speak, Sam urged his horse forward. Tell him we seek the old enemies, he said. Tell him we know what lurks in the high places. Tell him we've been marked on. Rehesitated, then translated. The effect was immediate.

The scarred warrior's face went pale beneath his paint. He stepped back, making a gesture I'd seen before among the lenape, a sign against evil. Then he spoke rapidly to his companions, and suddenly their weapons were lowering, their postures, shifting from threat to something more complex fear. They were afraid of us or of what we carried with us. They'll take us to their chief, Henri said to Cornstalk's son. I

knew that name. Cornstalk had been a great Shawnee leader, murdered by American soldiers while under a flag of truce. His son, who had taken his father's name and honor, was said to be even more formidable and far more hostile to Americans. We followed the warriors through the valley for three days. They didn't speak to us, They barely looked at us, but I noticed them watching the forest

around us with expressions of barely suppressed terror. They knew what followed us, and they wanted nothing to do with it. Cornstalk's son received us in his village, a substantial settlement on the banks of a river. I didn't recognize. He was younger than I expected, perhaps forty, with the bearing of a warrior and the eyes of a man who had seen too much. He looked at each of us in turn, his gaze lingering on the pendant around my neck.

Then he spoke, you are fools. Henre translated. He says that entering the territory of the old enemies is not bravery but suicide. We have no choice, I replied, We must understand what they are. Cornstalk's son laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. You think you can understand them. My grandfather's grandfathers fought a war with the wild people. Generations of warriors went into the mountains to drive them out. Most did not return. What happened to them. Some were

killed in ways that warriors should never be killed. Some were taken. We do not know where or why. Some came back, but they were no longer warriors. They were broken things that wore the shapes of men. He rose from his seat and walked to the edge of the fire. The war lasted longer than anyone can remember. Both sides bled, both sides learned, and in the end we made an agreement, not peace. They do not know peace as we understand it. They stay in the high places. We stay in the valleys.

Neither crosses into the other the's territory, and stay tuned for more Sasquatch ot to see. We'll be right back after these messages. But We've already crossed, I said, yes, and they have noticed. He turned to face us, his expression grim. When you cross that boundary, you invited consequences, not just for yourselves, but for all humans. The Old Enemies do not distinguish between tribes. A human is a human to them, pray or competition or curiosity. But never

can we mean them no harm. That does not matter. You have entered their home. You have seen what should not be seen. They will decide what to do with you, and their decisions are not our decisions. I thought about the horse, the way it had been torn apart, the demonstration of power that served no purpose except intimidation. They've been testing us, I said, watching, evaluating. Yes, what are they looking for? Cornstalk's sun was silent for a long moment.

When he spoke again, his voice was softer, almost regretful. My grandmother told me a story. Once a warrior from our village went into the mountains long ago, seeking the old Enemies. He wanted to prove his courage to earn glory by facing the unfaceable. He was gone for a full turn of the moon. When he returned, he was changed. His hair had gone white, and his eyes were different, older, deeper, as if he had seen ages pass in those weeks.

He said, the old enemies had shown him things, the world before humans, the world after humans, the world as it truly is beneath the skin of what we see. He said they had judged him worthy of that knowledge, and that knowledge had nearly destroyed him. What happened to him He lived another forty years, never took a wife, never joined another war party, never left the village. He spent his days sitting by the fire, staring at nothing. When he died, his last words were, they are still watching.

They will always be watching. The fire crackled between us. Outside. I could hear the sounds of village life, children playing, women, cooking, dogs barking, normal sounds, human sounds, but underneath them, barely audible. I could hear something else, wood knocking three times, far away but unmistakable. Cornstalk's son heard it too. His face tightened. They followed you here, he said. They're at the edge of my territory watching. I'm sorry, don't be sorry. Be careful,

he stood abruptly. I'll give you a guide, swift hawk. He'll take you to the boundary of their lands beyond that you're on your own. Why help us Americans your enemies, you're not my enemies, your fools walking into death. There's a difference, he almost smiled. Besides, if you die in their territory, it's not my concern. If you die in mind, it becomes a political problem. We left the village at dawn, with swift Hawk as our guide. He was young, perhaps

twenty five, and terrified. He wrote at the front of our column, with his shoulders hunched and his eyes constantly moving, scanning the forest for threats he couldn't see, but knew we're there. We traveled for five days through increasingly wild country. The Ohio River fell behind us, and the mountains rose again, different from the alleghenies, older, somehow, more worn down by time. And all the while the creatures followed us. We didn't

see them. We didn't need to. The signs were everywhere, footprints in the mud, structures in the trees, the smell of musk on the wind, and all wa always the knocking in the night. Swift Hawk grew more agitated with every mile. He barely slept, he barely ate. His conversations with anri grew shorter and more clipped until finally he stopped speaking entirely. On the fifth day, he halted his horse at the edge of a ravine and refused to go further. This is the boundary on retranslated. Beyond this

point is death. The ravine stretched across our path, a natural barrier, perhaps fifty feet deep and twice that wide. On the far side, the forest seemed different, darker, older, somehow more alive. They're waiting on the other side, swift Hawk said through nri I can feel them, so could I. De pendent at My chest was warm, almost hot, and the air seemed thick with watching eyes. Thank you, I said to swift Hawk. Till Cornstalk's son were grateful for

his help. Swift Hawk looked at me with something like pity. May your deaths be quick on retranslated. Then he wheeled his horse and rode away without looking back. We watched until he disappeared into the forest, his hoof beats fading into silence. We were alone, well, Thomas said, his voice brittle with forced cheerfulness. I suppose there's nothing for it

but to press on. Sam was already urging his horse toward the ravine, looking for a way down there's a path here, he called, looks like it's been used recently by what. He didn't say. He didn't need to. One by one we began the descent into the unknown. Marcus woke with a start. He'd fallen asleep in the chair again. The journal opened on his chest. The fire burned down to cold ashes. His neck ached and his back protested as he straightened, trying to remember where he was. The cabin,

his father's cabin, the journals, the creatures. He stood and stretched, his joints popping outside. The sky was gray with pre dawn light. How many days had he been here?

two deaths at least, maybe more, But which ones? Jim with his battle hardened skills and fierce loyalty, Thomas, with his crumbling certainties and trembling hands, will Harper, drifting into madness, his own nephew Zeke, too young and too eager for what lay ahead. Or maybe Sam, the one who'd been waiting twenty years for this, the one who'd already been marked, already been examined, already been allowed to live. Maybe he'd finally learn why Marcus made coffee and forced himself to

eat some of the dried fruit from the pantry. Then he went back to the chair, picked up the journal, and continued reading.