25 Creature Stories from the Best of Dixie Cryptid

The writer of this story has been dead for several years now. At one time, back in the early thirties, he had this story written up ready to send away. Something happened and the manuscript was put into a box and forgotten. The story should be listed among the classics, for it occurred before anything was known about Bigfoot, before anyone knew anything about these things. Anyone except the natives, that is, and they have known all along, but

no one listened until the twenty first century. Thomas Bay, Alaska nineteen hundred Ring of nineteen hundred and found four men batching together in a shack at Wrangell, Alaska. All four were broke, as is usual with prospectors. As luck would have it, I was one of the four for reasons which will be quite obvious. I will just call the other three men, John Charlie

and Fred Charlie came into the shack one night in April. He was all excited and he said, fellas, I've been on the trail of an Indian for the past month, trying to get him to tell me where he picked up a piece of free gold quartz that he keeps in his camp. I never said anything about it before because I wanted to get the story from him

first, and today he spilled the beans. He told me to go up to Thomas Bay and camp on the Patterson River on the right side, then to travel upriver for about eight miles, and then turned to the high mountains, and after traveling about a mile and a half, I would find a lake shaped like a half moon. He said, there's plenty of stone like this where I found this one. Thomas Bay is known by the Native Americans

in Alaska as the Bay of Death. About one hundred and fifty years ago, a slide down one of the mountains wiped out a village, killing over five hundred of the inhabitants. Of course, a prospector is ready to stampede on a whisper of gold anywhere, and we were no exceptions to the rule. We all talked the matter over, and finally it was decided that we would run our races for the outfit and send Charlie to look the prospect over.

While he was gone, John Fred and myself would hustle up work somewhere for another grub stake and to pay the old one off. Around the first of May, Charlie loaded his outfit into his canoe. Having favorable weather, he left Wrangle for Thomas Bay, which lies northwesterly about fifty miles. He had three months worth of supplies, but was to come back at any time sooner if he found anything. But if he didn't show up at that time,

we were to put out and search for him. John and Fred took a contract to get out wood, and I got a job at the Wrangle sawmill. Things went along until the first part of June, when on a Sunday in the late afternoon, we all being at home, and in walked Charlie without a coat or hat, and looking as if he had been through hell. He didn't give us any greeting whatsoever. He just heaved a piece of quartz over into a corner of the room, and he said, get

me something to eat. I'm done for the day and I want some rest. The fellow looked at and after he had eaten, he turned in without telling us a thing about his trip. We picked up the piece of quartz, and boy, it sure was a pretty thing to look at for our prospector. It was shot through with gold specks, just like a badly freckled faced kid. Were we excited? I'll say we were just before dark.

We walked down to the beach to help Charlie bring his outfit in, as he had come up to the shack with only that piece of quartz in his hand, but there wasn't a thing in his canoe except his oars. There was not much sleep for us that night, but Charlie never stopped sawing wood. We had to work hard to get Charlie up for breakfast the next morning,

but when he did roll out, he just ate. He borrowed a coat and a hat, and he left the house without saying a word or even answering one question out of the men put to him by us, all of us being excited and feeling ourselves worth a fortune. We didn't go to work that day, but we sat around the shack and passed that blame piece of rock back and forth to each other while we talked and waited for Charlie to come back and make his report. Believe me, we were anxious to

hear it. Along. In the afternoon he came in and he said, fellas, the Ss Drigo will be in on her way south early tomorrow morning. Can you give me enough money for my ticket to Seattle? I'm through with Alaska and I never want to see it again. I'll tell you about my trip to Thomas Bay and where I found that quartz, but my advice to you is to forget about it. It will never do you any good

and it will only cause you a lot of mental and physical pain. If we were not partners, I would never open my mouth about this trip or what I found. But if you promise never to mention my name in connection with what I'm about to tell you, or mention the name of Thomas Bay to me ever again, I'll give you the straight up of my experience up there. Judge for yourself as to my saneness, because this is the most astounding thing you will ever hear, and as far as I'm concerned, it

is beyond me to reason it out. Don't ask any questions to prolong my story any longer than it takes me to tell it, as I want to leave Alaska and forget it. If I can, I will try to make the one telling plane enough, and Charlie proceeded to tell us his story. The first night after leaving Wrangell found me an ideal cove. The next night,

I reached Muddy River in time to make camp once again. Night I hit Ruth Island in Thomas Bay. I spent the next day looking up the Patterson River for a suitable place to camp, which I found a quarter mile up from the tidewater on the right hand side looking up the river. I broke camp on Ruth Island the next day and I moved up to a place I picked out the day before. I put up my tent, packed up

my outfit, and left the canoe on the river bank. The next day I spent cooking beans, cutting wood, and making things comfortable for a long stay, and then it started raining. I wanted to get things fixed up so I could keep dry. It started to rain that night and kept raining for days. I lost track of time as each day was just like the

one before. I had nothing to read, I was all alone. I couldn't do anything without getting soaked, and the roar of the river and the whin through the timber just about drove me crazy, so I put in most of my time sleeping. Finally the weather broke and I got out. I spent several days in trying to find the old Indians half moon late, but I couldn't get it spotted. I did find about two miles from camp up the river, and about a mile from it a lake shape like the letter

S on the creek coming out from the lower end. I panned some pretty good colors, but as I figured, not enough to get excited about yet an indication of gold in the country. There doesn't seem to be any life in there at all. You might spend all day in the timber without seeing even a squirrel. I was getting sort of tired of beans, rice and bacon, so I made up my mind that I would go over to a ridge about eight miles east of s Lake and get a few grouse. I

left the next morning, which was a fine sunny day. I took only the rifle with me, and when I came to the ridge, sure enough there were a few grouse hooting. I shot too, and had gotten them when I bagged another one, which fell down the ridge about one hundred yards before it got hung up. While on my way down to pick it up, I found the piece of quartz. Up until that time, I had paid very little attention to what the country I was in looked like, as

it was so heavily timbered and brushy. The formation didn't show up, and I had no tools with me to uncover it. The top of an old snag had broken off and fallen, scraping the top moss and loose dirt for a space of about eight feet wide and eighteen to twenty feet long, uncovering this quartz ledge, which is where I found this piece. The ledge was

worked smooth by a glacier. At one time. I couldn't find anything to break a piece off with, so I used the butt of my gun to get that piece, and so doing I broke the stock of my gun, thus ruining it for further use. This didn't worry me any, as I knew there was not any game in this country larger than a grouse, and there were damn few of them. My first thought was of the richness of the quartz, and a you fellas, and getting back to town to round

you all up so we could get busy on the clean. After resting a minute and enjoying the feeling of knowing I had made a rich find, I covered the ledge up again with moss, limbs and a rotten chunk. Finishing that job, I thought I would climb the ridge directly over the ledge and get my landmarks so I could come back to it again, or tell you where it was if anything should happen to me. This I did, climbing straight up over the ledge on the ridge until I reached the top, which

was about six hundred feet above where I had found the ledge. I looked down below me and picked out a big tree with a bushy top taller than the rest, about fifty feet to the right of the ledge. Looking over the top of this tree, from where I stood, I could see out on Frederick's Sound the point of Vanderputt Spit, and turning a little to the left, I could see Sukhoy Island from the mouth of the Wrangle Narrows.

Satisfied with that, I turned half around to get a backsighte on some mountain peaks, and laying below me on the other side of the ridge from the ledge was the half Moon Lake the Indian had told me about. Right there, Fellows is when I got the scare of my life, and I hope to God I never see or go through the likes of it again. Swarming up the ridge towards me from the lake were the most hideous creatures. I couldn't call them anything but devils, because they were neither men nor monkeys,

yet they looked like both. They were entirely sexless, their bodies covered with long, coarse hair except where the scabs and running swords had replaced it. Each one seemed to be reaching out for me and striving to be the first to get me. The air was full of their cries, and the stench from their sores and bodies made me faint. I forgot my broken gun, and I tried to use it on the first ones, and then I threw it at them and turned and I ran. God, how did I run?

I could feel their hot breath on my back, their long clawlike fingers scraped my back. The smell from their steaming, stinking bodies was making me sick, while the noises they made, yelling and screaming and breathing, drove me mad. All the reason left me. And how I reached the canoe, or how I hung on to that piece of quartz, is a mystery

to me. The rest of that episode is a blank to me. When I came to it was night, and I was lying in the bottom of my canoe, drifting between Thomas Bay and Sukhoy Island, cold, hungry and crazy for a drink of water, but only to satisfy the latter urge I started for Wrangele and here I am. You no doubt think that I'm either crazy or lying. All I can say is there is the quartz. Never let me hear the name of Thomas Bay again, and for God's sake,

help me get away tomorrow on that boat. And so passed out Charlie from our lives. We put his story down as fantasy caused by loneliness or morbid thoughts. But the question that has haunted me since this writing is what if the story it is true? Hey y'all, how's it going? This is Cam Buckner with the Dixie Cryptid Podcast. I know over the Thanksgiving holiday people are going to be traveling, people are going to be laying around on their

couch after eating a bunch of turkey. And for those of you who really don't care about all the football games and stuff, I just thought I'd put together a really long podcast, a best of podcasts with some of the best stories I've ever done, for you guys to enjoy. And the last thing I want to say is during this Thanksgiving season, I'm thankful that you all have been so good to be I really appreciate you. This podcast is going

to go on. I know I'm busy right now and I'm not able to do as many, but I'm thankful that over the last five years, you guys have been so nice to me, and I appreciate you. And that's all I wanted to say. I don't know how long this podcast is going to be. I hope you enjoy it all. Right, here we go. The title is A Ghost in my Grandparent's Kitchen, and here's what the

woman writes. It was a summer of two thousand and one when my family moved into my grandparents' house, nestled in the heart of North Georgia's Blue Ridge Mountains, after retiring from her coastguard career. My mom wanted to help my grandmother care for her grandfather, who was in the final throes of Parkinson's disease.

I was eleven years old at the time, and my nine year old sister, Nicki and I spent our idle summer mornings pushing one another in the tire swing swung up from the weeping willow tree in my grandparents' front yard. In the afternoons, we raced Granny's golf cart around our grandparents' property until our mother called us inside for dinner. It was an idyllic and carefree existence. My sister and I shared a bedroom which was positioned in the back of our

grandparents' ranch style home. Our room connected to the kitchen through a laundry room, and it was a short walk through the kitchen down the hall to our evening sworeway with Granny's bedroom. Our grandmother had insomnia, so she was usually awake long after the rest of the family had gone to bed. Each night since we moved in, Nicki and I snuck out of our bedroom to hang

out with Granny in her room. She would make up funny stories and all three of us would life the night away, and we loved spending our evenings with her. Nicki and I lay completely still in our shared full sized bed, eyes closed tight and slowly exhaling and inhaling. We were determined to convince our parents that we were fast asleep, and we didn't dare move until the crescendo of our stepfather's snores and our mother's labored breathing reverberated through the wall adjacent

to our bedroom. Our nightly charade was about to commence. Sounds like they're finally asleep, I whispered through the clenched teeth. Yeah, I think so, too, agreed Nicky. I'll crack open the door and check if the coast is clear, and then we'll go hang out with Granny. I tossed aside the hand made quilt we were tucked in, and I rose out of bed and gingerly crept toward our bedroom door. I pushed the door ajar, careful not to let the creaking hinges give us away. The second door,

which separated the laundry room from the kitchen, was also closed. The absence of light gleaming through the crack at the bottom was a good sign no one was in the kitchen. I think we're good to go. Let's go, I instructed Nicky. I cracked open the laundry room door, while my sister untangled herself from the quilt and tiptoed across the room to join me. I took the lead as we pushed open the kitchen door, ready to take the

brunt of the punishment if we were to get caught. As the two of us prepared to slink through the kitchen, we were stopped dead in our tracks, standing at the stove in our grandparents' kitchen was an elderly woman dressed in a white, sleeveless nightgown. The overhead lights were turned off, so she was illuminated only by the light above the stove. Granny I called out to

the strange woman. The old woman wrenched her head around to look at my sister and I, and it was in this moment that we realized the woman was transparent. I searched her face for any trace of familiarity, but was startled to find an empty space where her face should have been. My heart began to pound against my chest, and I could feel the prickle of goosebumps, making the hair on my arms and neck stand up. Fight or flight

set in as I squeezed my sister's arm and anxiously whispered run. We both had passed the translucent old woman and dashed down the hall toward Grannie's room. The hallway seemed endless as we sped toward her closed bedroom door. Please don't let her be in there, I thought, as I threw the door open. I desperately wanted to believe that was our grandmother standing in the front of

the stove in the kitchen and maybe we had just not recognized her. With the lights out, we burst through Grannie's bedroom door, and, much to my dismay, there was our grandmother laying in her bed, nestled up with a bowl of pretzels, reading the latest edition of the National Inquirer. Grannie, there's a woman in the kitchen, Nikki and I squawked in unison. She barely glanced away from her magazine as she responded, oh, you girls

saw her. Well, yeah, that's miss Oglethorpe. She used to live here and she died in the sun room, and then she promptly returned to reading her magazine while our jaws hit the floor. You've seen her before, I asked in astonishment. NICKI and I were frozen in place, unable to wrap our minds around what we had just experienced our grandmother, so casually confirming

our encounter with this ghost did little to ease our minds. Grannie informed us that she had seen missus Oglethorpe a few times in the kitchen, and had also spotted her relaxing on the sofa in the sun room where she had passed away. The fact that we had been unknowingly living in a haunted house did not sit well with my sister and I. Neither of us were in the mood to hang out after our run in with Missus Oglethorpe. We were instructed

to put the sighting out of our minds. NICKI and I were too shaken to sneak out of our room for any more evening get togethers with Grannie after that night. Several decades have passed since our unexpected run in with Missus Oglethorpe, and I have never been able to put her out of my mind. I cannot help but wonder if she purposely revealed herself to my sister and I

that evening as a way of deterring us from sneaking out of bed. Perhaps she knew what we were up to and wanted to let us know that we were not as sneaky as we thought we were. Whatever the reason, to this day, neither of us can walk into a darkened, empty kitchen without slight apprehension and the haunting memory of a faithless old woman waiting for us. I loved that story. That story was so well written. I only had to change a couple of words that I couldn't pronounce, but it was perfectly

written. It was perfectly structured and put together, and it was exciting. Don't you agree. Wasn't that a great story? I wanted to share that with you, And thank you so much to the writer for sending this. It was just a joy reading it. Thanks. Here's an email from someone who doesn't want their name disclosed, but she gives it a title The Beast on the by You and Bigfoot by the Highway. And here's what the woman

writes, This is really good. Long before Bigfoot are what is also known as Sasquats in the northwestern United States in Canada, was North America's most popular legendary monster. My late father, Lewis would tell of an experience he had with a similar creature when he was a young boy living on Bayou Lafouche. I think that's how you pronounce that in southern Louisiana. My father was ten years old at the time, and his younger brother, Lloyd, was approximately

seven. My father was born in nineteen thirty two, so this would have occurred in the early nineteen forties, a quarter of a century before the Patterson Gimlin film that made Bigfoot a common phenomenon. My father would vivid recall this day in great detail. He said he could remember how it was a beautiful sunny morning, and my grandmother had sent him and his brother to pick snap

beans along the levee near the bayou for dinner. He and his brother both quickly gathered their buckets from off the back porch, glad to be able to get away from home and enjoy a beautiful sunny morning away from their mother's watchful eye. While they picked snap beans along the rows of the levee, they began to smell a horrible stench. My father remembered it to be similar to

the smell of rotten eggs, only worse. My father and uncle Lloyd decided that the horrible smell was more than likely the decaying remains of an animal, Because unpleasant odors were commonplace on the farm. This did not initially set off any alarms of what would soon become one of the most terrifying moments of their young lives. They knew their mother wanted them to fill their buckets with snap beans and return home in sufficient time for her to prepare them to cook for

dinner. They decided they would pick more than enough so there would be no need for them to return to the levee. They were enjoying their time together, but that awful stench was becoming unbearable. When they decided they had picked enough snap beans to sufficiently satisfy my grandmother's needs for dinner and possibly supper, they picked up their overflowing buckets and headed home. All of a sudden, they heard a frightening guttural growl. My father said it sounded like someone who

was heavily congested clearing their throat, but much deeper. The rotten egg stench was now even thicker in the air. Suddenly, a manlike creature covered in long, stringy, dark brown, matted wet hair walked out of the wooded area near the bayou and stood right in front of my father and uncle. My father said he could just stand remembered that this creature was only about thirty to fifty feet away, and he could clearly see that it had a face

that looked human, but with huge, jagged teeth. The creature then let out a terrifying, piercing scream and turned and jumped into the bayou, and it swam away. My father said it was as if everything from that point was in slow motion. He remembered dropping his full bucket of snapbeans and grabbing his brother by the arm, as if all in one movement. Uncle Lloyd

then dropped his full bucket, spilling all the contents on the ground. The two of them started running as fast as they could back towards the house. My grandmother's version of the events of that faithful morning made it all the more credible because my grandmother was never one to embellish a story. She said she looked out the window and saw my father and uncle running towards the house that she knew instantly they were not playing a game, but that something terrible had

happened. She initially believed that they had been threatened by white men, as this was southern Louisiana and lynching of blacks were not uncommon at that time. She ran out of the house to meet them. They were both shaking and crying uncontrollably. She quickly sent one of my aunts to the field to get my grandfather to let him know that something terrible had happened to the boys. By the time my grandfather reached the house, my father and uncle had calmed

down sufficiently enough to talk. My grandmother was confident that whatever happened, they would not dare lie to their father. When my grandfather asked them to tell what had happened, they recounted seeing a hairy manlike creature near the bayou. They described how this bayou beast had walked out of the trees and screamed at them with a high pitched scream, and jumped in the bay you and swam

away. Because they had none of the snap beans they had spent all morning picking, and they both were still visibly shaken, my grandfather was confident they were telling the truth. My father would often end this story by saying that he did not know what he feared the most, the hairy man like creature with a loud piercing scream, or my grandfather not believing him. My father said he was so relieved when my grandfather turned to my grandmother and said,

these boys aren't lying. They saw some type of creature. I'm certain of it. It is my father's vivid recounting of this encounter that made me know that sosquatch is real. Oh yes, he's real. I also recently missed having my very own daytime encounter. On January twenty eight, twenty nineteen, my sister and I both met up on a connecting flight to Birmingham, Alabama for my son's wedding. We picked up our rental car at the airport and

began our hour and have trip to Huntsville, Alabama. This journey was one I have made many times by car, as I lived in Huntsville, Alabama for over ten years. However, this particular day, I was turned around as to how to leave the airport and connect with the highway to take me to Huntsville. After driving for about thirty minutes, we decided to stop and get a bite to eat. My sister was bewildered as to how I could be so turned around and unable to get my bearings. I'd only been gone

from this area for six years. She was growing impatient. Finally, we were on the correct exchange and headed to Huntsville. We even talked about what possibility made me so scatterbrained and confused. We both had a good life and chalked it up to old age, not that we would be considered that old, but we laughed it off and looked forward to the next few days at my son's wedding. Just as we made the extra change on to Interstate five

sixty five leading into Huntsville. I decided to call my soon to be daughter in law to let her know that we would be at her house shortly. I was driving and talking to her via bluetooth, so I knew exactly what time it was. It was three zho five pm. My sister then looked at me and said, with this really blank look on her face, I just saw a sisquatch. I looked at her and initially thought she was talking about a billboard or a sign for a business. I ended my phone call

and turned to her and said, what did you say. She repeated, I just saw a sisquatch. I said, you're joking right. Strangely, my sister and I have never discussed the topic of sasquatch or bigfoot. She then said, no, I was looking at this thing crouched down off the side of the road as if it were trying to conceal itself in the trees. You were driving so you could enter the highway and I could clearly see it. First, I thought, what is an orangutane doing out there?

And then I realized I was looking at a subsquatch. There are no words to explain how I being a bigfoot enthusiast felt realizing that I had missed having my own daylight sighting in the safety of a car. I told my sister, Apparently that is what all my confusion was about in trying to leave Birmingham, because had we not had all of that trouble leaving Birmingham, you would

never have had your sighting. We had a quick visit with my son and his soon to be wife, and I told them about my sister's sighting. They found it to be extremely humorous, but I was a bag of nerves because I knew she was telling the truth. I couldn't wait to check into the hotel so she could give me even more details of what she could remember. In that brief moment. She did say the creature was pale skinned and had a face that looked more Neanderthal than ape, and it had long,

stringy red hair. It had a thick brow ridge and a really huge face. The head was cone shape, but not really as pronounced as the Patterson Gimlin film. She said it looked more manlike than ape. Of course, I reminded my sister of our father's encounter on the Bayou. She said she remembered it, and that she had always believed my father was telling the truth,

but now she was certain of it. I really hate that there appear to be so many encounters all over North America and other parts of the world, and people have been made to keep their sightings and encounters to themselves. I do believe that more people that share their encounters, the more it will minimize the stigma around it, and mainstream scientists will have to take this subject

more seriously. Oh, what a great story. There's a secondhand story from her father from the nineteen forties in South Louisiana, like she said, a quarter of a century before Patterson Gimlin. You know, there's tons of reports of bigfoot sightings in the swamps. I don't know. I don't know what to make of all that. There's a few around here. There's a bunch down in Louisiana and South Mississippi and North Louisiana, all over the place.

And then for her and her sister to have that encounter on the highway way up in Huntsville, Alabama, that's in the north part of the state. That's amazing. That's really amazing. Well, ma'am, thank you for writing this. I really enjoyed reading it, and it was kind of nostalgic for me. But I really appreciate you. Thank you very much. Here's another story that the person doesn't want their name disclosed, and again that's no problem. And here's what she writes. Hold on a minute, Betsy, I've

been petting you all day. Good grief. Get out from under my chair. Go on, go go. I'm sorry about that. I would like to share with you in experience I had in the early nineteen eighties while driving home to Hendersonville, North Carolina, from Ashville, North Carolina. I would like to preface my story by saying I have never taken psychedelic drugs, and nor have I ever been a drinker. I was completely sober when this happened. Just before daybreak on a warm summer morning. I was driving south on

I twenty six from Ashville, North Carolina. I had just dropped my husband off at work and was heading home to Hendersonville. The morning light was still low and it was a bit foggy, so I was driving cautiously in the right lane. As I was passing the Ashville Airport exit, I saw a large bright light high in the sky coming down vertically directly in front of me. I remember thinking that airplane is off course and headed out in the wrong

direction. It looks like it's trying to make a landing on the interstate. I pulled over next to the guardrail and turned my radio volume down low. As the light came closer, it stopped and hovered just above the interstate, about one hundred and fifty yards away from me. Then the craft slowly made a sharp right turn and moved to the east of me to hover about one

hundred and fifty feet above the dairy farm below. This property is now the golf course at the Ashville Airport. The craft was only about fifty yards from the guardrail now, and where I sat in my car, I was mesmerized. I rolled down my window and turned off my car. I could hear the noise of the spacecraft pulsing and whirrying. It did not look or sound like anything like the airplanes I had seen and heard flying at the Ashville Airport

over the years. The craft was flat on the bottom and domed an upside down ulcer shape. The craft was huge, at least the length of a football field, and as it pulled alongside me on my right, the bright light on the front of the craft was behind my view inside the car as it illuminated the pasture and the trees beneath the craft. I could also see that there were three smaller lights on the side of the craft that I was now facing, a red light flanked by two small blue lights located at the

bottom of the disk. I could also see faint lights of the Ashville Airport runway in the background. I remember thinking it must be some type of top secret aircraft being tested by the Air Force. I got out of the car and I walked around to the back of my Camaro over to the guardrail. I stood there for some time, just staring at it and trying to rationalize what I was seeing. Why had the airport control not called the highway patrol, I thought to myself, Why is no one's set Why is there no

response from police or emergency agencies. All of these questions ran through my mind as I stood there for several minutes, staring at the craft and waiting to see what it would do next. I felt like I was in some kind of a trance or hypnotic state. That was the last thing I remember until forty five minutes later, when I found myself sitting in my car with both windows rolled up. The radio was blaring and the car was running. The heat was on high, and I was drenched in sweat. By then,

it was full daylight and cars were zooming past me. I was dazed and confused as I drove home, emotionally shaken, crying, and generally terrified. I was also in intense pain, so I went to bed immediately and I slept for several hours due to the stress. It felt like I had been raped, and the pain and my lower abdomen was excruciating. I never said anything to my husband or anyone else for that matter, for many years until now. About a month later after this incident, I had a very painful

miscarriage. Oh oh, it just breaks my heart. I don't know what happened during these forty five minutes of lost time, but I believe I was taken on board and I was impregnated. I will never know for sure. I did not see or come in contact with any creatures that I know of, because I don't have any memory of the forty five minutes. But this I do know. Whatever happened to me was against my will, and it

was very painful. It has taken me many years to get my head wrapped around what actually happened to me. It has not been until the advent of the Internet and YouTube that I have come to understand there are others who have had worse experiences with actions. Can I prove that I was abducted, No, but I do know this. If this was an alien craft, the creatures inside it were malevolent and very dangerous. I believe they are demonic in nature, and for anyone to think that aliens are here to help us is

a naive. There are created beings in this world that mean to harm us. Perhaps they are the type of nephelum spoken of in the Bible. Whether your listeners believe my story is irrelevant to me. I don't have a dog in this hunt. I just want to share this with others and let them know if they have had a similar experience, they are not alone. Just be aware that these beings are not like et Is portrayed in the film. They are evil, and if you have any contact with them, plead the

blood of Jesus and command them to leave. Ma'am. That's a heart heartbreaking story. I just oh, I don't know something about miscarriages and little babies and children. Just oh, it just kills me. That's a horrifying experience. And I know it's a horrible memory. And I've actually heard stories like this before. I haven't done any stories on this channel about it. And I was a little reluctant to do this because I know younger people listen in

with their families. But I don't think this was too explicit. I think this just you wanted to tell your story, and I wanted to get it out there for you. I hope you're doing well these days, and I hope things are good, and I hope you've got your mind adjusted to and I hope you're having a happy life. But thank you so much for the story, and I know we all appreciated you sharing it with us. Thank you. This is a list of encounters for encounters. As a matter of

fact, from a man who wants to be called old John. I'm going on seventy one years old now, and I've had four encounters in my lifetime. I was born in Ohio and lived on the northeast side of Eton. Back in the late nineteen forties and early nineteen fifties, we lived on the east side of the road that was called Eaton Gettysburg Road back then, sometime after we left that area, the name was changed to Park Street. To our west in stretched for some four hundred yards was a cornfield, beyond which

lay a thick forest. A large creek ran through these woods. But our parents wouldn't allow us boys to go back there without an adult. They'd say, the boogers will get you back in there. Sometime in April of nineteen fifty five, my uncle and his family came for a visit. I was in the first grade at the time. He had two boys about the age of my brother and me. Well. That afternoon, we'd played baseball with our dads and a couple of other boys from down the road. By nightfall,

we were in the house playing a board game in our bedroom. The bedroom was located on the west side of the house, with a window that sat up high and faced the cornfield. We'd been sitting on my bed playing the game for quite a while when something hit the house with a thump so hard that it shook the whole place startled. We looked up and saw two red eyes outlined by a large head, looking in the window at us.

Before we had time to register what we were seeing. It made a loud, screaming noise that jolted at us so deeply that we began screaming too. My father and uncle came running into the room, demanding to know what was going on. We all pointed to the window and they saw it for just a second before it disappeared. Dad and my uncle grabbed a couple of Dad's guns and ran out to see what it could be. When they finally came back inside, they told my mother and aunt that it had been a bugger

and that it had run off into the cornfield. Several years later, when my grandparents' jobs transferred them, we moved down here to Georgia. We lived in a house about a mile down a dirt road on the south side of a small town of about twelve hundred people. We made new friends and we'd like to hunt in the woods surrounding our house. There are a lot of low swampy areas in this part of Georgia, and we hunted almost all of them. I had a school friend who lived on a farm out on Highway

two twenty four, going towards Montezuma. I would often ride my bike to six or seven miles to see him. Back then, it was all dirt roads the whole way. Early one Saturday morning in the fall of nineteen six four, I was riding out there with my single barrel twenty gage shotgun to do a bit of bird hunting with my friend. There was a low, boggy spot about a mile down to twenty four where it turned off Highway one twenty seven. A creek full of cattails ran through a culvert under the dirt

road there. As I was riding across, I noticed what looked like a black man squatted down by the creek on the west side of the road, using his hands to dip up a drink of water. At first, I didn't think anything about this, because there was a lot of black sharecroppers back then. With the cotton fields that were just beyond the creek, it would have been normal to see a man getting a drink. But then I got even with him and he stood up. He didn't have any clothes on,

and he was over seven feet tall. His whole body except around the center of his face, was covered in black hair that was about three to four inches long, a low brow ridge and a sloped back forehead. With a sort of football shaped skull sitting on a stump of a neck that was almost nonexistent. He looked directly at me and watched as I started up to speed. Then, to my horror, he started running alongside the road on the

opposite side of the ditch, and he was going in my direction. I could tell that he was moving much faster than I was, and there was a narrow spot in the ditch up ahead. I stood up and began peddling for all I was worth trying to get away from him, at the very least to make it past the narrow spot in the ditch before he got there. I focused all my efforts on that one task and didn't look back until

I passed it. Once I got beyond that point, I looked back over my shoulder and saw that he had stopped and was now watching me pedal away. I still didn't slack up until I had arrived at my friend's house. His dad was talking to him when I pulled up, and he asked why I was so out of breath, and I told him what had happened. My friend's dad laughed and said, the next time, have the gun loaded,

keep your eye out for those swamp apes. Needless to say, I wasn't looking forward to my return trip home that afternoon, and since they didn't offer to give me a ride back home, I left well before it got too late. Now, I took my friend's father's advice and had a shell in my shotgun, although I seriously doubt that birdshot would have done much to deter anything as big as what I had seen. I got home pretty quickly that day. In nineteen sixty nine, I had gotten my draft notice.

I decided to join the Air Force rather than wait to be inducted into the Army. After completing basic training, I had some leave time to use, so I came home to Georgia and got my car. I drove out to my duty assignment at McCord Air Force Base in Washington State. It's a long way from Georgia to McCord. It took five and a half days of driving all day from sun up to way past dark to get there. While crossing Idaho on the fourth day, late in the evening, it began raining really

hard. I was in the mountainous area of West Idaho, traveling on US ninety five, headed towards Lewiston. It was early September, but in the rain and the mountains that had already gotten dark, I still had quite a ways to go to where I had planned to stop for the night. I was coming up on a long hill with thick woods on both sides at about six thirty, but the rain were pouring down. Signs warned of a sharp

left turn ahead, and I slowed to about thirty miles per hour. As I crested the hill, it did make a sudden ninety degree turn, with a series of left face arrow signs all along the curve to mark the way. These signs were about six or seven feet high. As I followed around the curve, my bright lights hit a huge black sisquatch that had just stepped out of the woods about forty feet in front of me. He had stepped from behind one of the arrow signs, the top of which came to his

pectoral muscles on his chest. He was probably three feet taller than the top of the sign post. He took only about three steps to cross the road and disappeared out of sight into the woods on the left. He was heavily muscled and very powerfully built. He was barrel chested with shoulders that looked to be about four feet wide. His arms reached down to his knees and he swung them as he walked. I felt like I was frozen in time.

The whole encounter probably didn't last more than four or five seconds, it seemed much longer. I didn't want to hang around saw. I sped up got away from there as quickly as I could. Many years after that, in two thousand and five, my wife and I booked a weekend in a cabin in black Rock Mountain State Park, located in North Georgia near Mountain City. It was late October and we were the only ones staying in a cabin for the whole week. The first few days a couple of other cabins were occupied,

but the last four days we had the area to ourselves. We both enjoyed walking in the woods in the evening to watch the sunset on the ridge behind the cabins, and then having a leisurely walked back. I noticed a couple of times that there was an eerie silence as we walked. Also had the feeling of being watched each time I glanced around, but I didn't see anything. On our last evening at the cabin, we had watched the sunset

and then toasted some mark shmellows in the fire ring behind the cabin. After dousing the fire and making sure it was out, we decided to take a two mile night hike down through those woods. From there, it would lead us to a huge campground as well as a large parking area for day hikers. This parking area had been cut out on the side of the mountain and

had the remains of a small side ridge running through it. Rather than remove the ridge, they had left it and paved around it on both sides, allowing the gap to create a couple of rocky wooded islands that ran down the middle. The light itself was about a quarter a mile long, with the islands being about one hundred yards long each in space at fifty yards apart. As we walked down the old logging cut through the dark woods, we started

hearing something walking parallel to us with very heavy footfalls. We stopped to listen, and it took another step, and then it stopped as well. We started walking again, and it started walking, and then we stopped, and again it took another step or two and then stopped. Then we would walk and it would walk. This one on all the way down to the parking area, with us trying our best to figure out what was following us.

Several times we shined our lights, but we couldn't see anything close to us anywhere, and when we got to the parking area, we thought whatever it was it would stop, and it did. But once we got out past the first island and started walking on the other side of it, it all started over again. It was just after we reached the point where we could no longer see the old logging cut. Just like before, they were heavy

footfalls, but this time it was coming from the island. We shined our lights all up around through the wooded area and called out to see if it was one of the scouts who were camping in the park that weekend, but

of course we got over spins, so we just kept walking. We passed the first island with whatever it was following us and started to pass the second one, and no sooner had we gotten pasted the break between the islands where we couldn't see the gap anymore than we heard it again, this time coming from the second island. Again we shined our lights up into the woods, but we didn't see anything As we got to the end of the parking area,

we entered the campgrounds. There were still a good number of folks there that included the Scout troop and a few other campers. This was a well lit area that didn't offer as much cover for something to be hiding behind. We continued up through the campgrounds to the check in center, and from there we followed along the lighted road and back to the cabin without any further incident. Although we didn't physically see anything because of the heavy footfalls, I feel

sure we were followed by a sisquatch. Part of the incident to the rangers on Sunday when we were leaving. They tried to tell us it was probably a bear cub looking for a handout. I don't talk about these encounters to many people, mostly to just a few trusted friends who've had similar experiences. It isn't something I like to talk about. I do, however, enjoy hearing other people's experiences. Keep up the good work so that others will know

that these creatures are real and they do exist. Signed to Old John oh Man. Four different encounters, Three of them were full visuals and one was anecdotal or footsteps following him. The man is seventy one years old. He spent obviously spent a lot of time in the woods and where Bigfoot lives. He knows, and he's one of these people who he just has that magic. You know. Some people have that magic. They see him a lot

through their lives. Then there's people like me who never see anything, never even see a track or a tree break that we could say, oh, something actually did that. I never see anything. But old John is he's got that magic and he see and there are lots of people out there that have seen these things more than once. I thought this was great. I really appreciate him conveying these stories to us because it's just good stuff. It's

just so interesting. Thank you, mister John. I appreciate you sending it. This incident occurred in the uh, well no, it's not in THEE. But it's about the Mogalon monster. Now, I know some people say it's pronounced mogi on, but that's not how it's spelled. And I'm officially declaring that m O g O l l o n is now and forever more pronounce Moglon. That's the official pronunciation. Let the comments pour in, Let the hate pour in I'm calling that Mogalon. Here's what he writes, Arizona

has a bigfoot crypti that we call the Moglon Monster. I first heard about it nineteen seventy four when I was in the Boy Scouts. That summer at Scout camp, we heard the story of some previous fellow Scouts who encountered a bigfoot back in the nineteen forties. Camp Geronimo is nestled along the Mogolon rim near the town of Payson. Payson paysin Payson let the comments pour in. I know I mispronounced it. It's a prime Arizona camping hotspot. The story

is well documented in newspapers all over Arizona these days. I'm a retired correctional administrator with sons of my own in the Scouts, and in October of twenty nineteen, two of them were we Belows, and we were about to cross over to Boy Scouts. We were embarking on what was to be one of the last camping trips as we belows. Timber Camp Recreation Center is located along the eastern part of the Mogulan Rim on US sixty. My other two sons

had come with us on our weekend excursion in support of their brothers. We arrived at eight pm. We'd left right after the boys let out of school, but it was a long drive. As as we were among the last to arrive, our choices of camping spots were limited. We picked a spot away from most campers along the fence line against the pond of roast of pine forest, and by ten pm we'd set up our camp and we'd built a

fire and were relaxing a bit before turning in for the night. One by one, my sons grew tired and went to bed, but I stayed up a while longer. I needed to unwind. Around midnight, one of my sons woke up to find as the air mattress had gone flat. I pulled it out and set it aside so I could find and patch the leak in the morning. Meanwhile, we aired up a replacement. And by now it was one am and I was beat. And I looked around as I watered

down the fire, and I noticed all the other campers were dark. Everyone was apparently asleep. It was then that I heard footfalls on the other side of the fence line inside the trees. I had on a pretty good headlamp, but I couldn't see anything or anyone moving about. I gave up and got inside the tent to go to bed, and as soon as I did,

I clearly heard more footfalls. I grabbed the big six D cell flashlight that turns night into day and I went back out to investigate, and I pointed the light at the forest, but again there was nothing there, nothing but dead silence. I left both Coleman lanners on so we could have some light outside to see any shadows if anyone approached our area, and then I went to bed. When we woke the next morning, I discovered the flat

air mattress was soaked with what smelled like you. I thought the boys had taken turns hosing it down during the night. What did you do that for, I asked them, and I was a little irritated. They all looked at me like I was nuts. None of them had left the tent during the night. They said it was too cold, and no one wanted to leave his nice, warm sleeping bag. The next day was Saturday, October twenty six, twenty nineteen, and I spent that day trying to figure out

what I'd heard the night before. I found what appeared to be a track in a portion of soft soil inside the tree line one hundred yards from our camp. We brought a twenty one inch campfire grill, so I measured a stick against that and compared it to the track. It appeared to be sixteen to eighteen inches in length. Whatever left that track was apparently stepping across an eight foot wide ravine. It looked like it had been trying to push up

out of the creek bed, and I took a few photos. Back at camp, I was telling the boys about my discovery when one of the twins told me that something strange happened to four of the boys who had arrived early and had gone on a hike the day before. My boys went and got three of them so they could tell me what happened. The first boy said that four of them had gone on a short hike along one of the trails leading into the forest. They'd been hiking about thirty minutes when all four boys

saw what they called a very tall monkey. A tall monkey, I repeated, yes, The boy answered, A hairy monkey. How tall was the monkey? I asked. The boy pointed to a small eight foot tall pine tree. He said, it's that tall. Are you sure, I asked, yeah. All four boys answered at once. The monkey thing did not look happy. The first boy continued, she showed us her teeth. What ten year old kid would make that up? I stood there in amazement,

knowing these kids weren't inventing this with this amount of detail. I've listened to enough YouTube videos to know that the lip curling behavior is mentioned on occasion as a form of intimidation. You said, she, What did you mean by that? I asked, Well, the first boy answered, we could see that she didn't have any guy parts down there. His face reddened a little, and she had, and now he pointed at his chest. Reason embarrassment

spreading across their faces boobs, I supplied for them like a woman. Yeah, they answered in unison. Well, how did she show you her teeth? I asked next, and they each curl their lips in a sort of snarl, and I continue to ask questions. I needed to know all that they remembered. What color was she? I asked. They all agreed that she was dark brown or black. One of the kids said he could see

hair on her arms was a bit long and moving in the wind. How much hair I asked, and they said, well, it was like a monkey. It had hair all over, but very light in the face there the skin was kind of gray like the hands. Well, did you see anything else, I asked. They said, it just stood there and the trail, staring at them. It didn't move closer or farther away. It just stood there for a bit. Then the first kid said, and then after a minute or two, it turned around and started walking away, and

then it was gone. It walked into the forest. I added, for clarification, No, they all answered, it disappeared. The first boy said it was walking away and it had just disappeared on the trail. This was not the first time I'd heard about bigfoot and portals. By now, I was sure there were too many details for kids to make up, and I asked if they had told their parents, and they said they hadn't. We didn't want to get in trouble. One kid said, so, we didn't

tell anyone. You're the first person we've told. And then after that they left. I made a short video recounting everything they told me. It was the first eyewitness encounter ever told to me. I wanted to make sure that I remembered it oh, sir, where's your video? I'd love to see your video. This area of the Mogion Moglon region is just rife with stories of this creature or these creatures, and it seems to have the legend of some kind of paranormal you know, orb, I don't know what you call

it. The going in and out of portals and things like that. It's very interesting. I'd like to see this area. I'd love to. I don't want to live in the desert, but I like to go to the desert and visit for short periods of time and look at the beautiful scenery. I'd like to go here and see what's going on in this Mogalon area, Mogion area. So, and you know what, just because I've officially made Moglawon the correct pronunciation for that word, you can still use mogi On if

you want, you have my blessing on that. I just want you to know. Here's an email from Kelly and she doesn't think this is worthy of a Cryptid channel, and it's really not about a cryptid, but it is a great story. It's just oh man, you guys are so nice to send me these, even though they're not about Bigfoot or whatever. There's just so good. I love reading them. I just sat here and read through this and I was like grip gripping the arms on my chair, going what's

going to happen next? So let's get into it, She writes. My name is Kelly and I'm from England and I'm a regular listener to your show. I have a true story, but I'm not sure if it will interest you. It isn't about Bigfoot nor dog man, to be honest, it does not even involve a cryptid, and I'm not sure you could class as paranormal or supernatural, but I will let you decide on that yourself. First, let me tell you a little about myself. I am a forty seven

year old woman and I live in Lincoln with my husband. The story did not happen in Lincoln, but in Manchester, where I used to live before I married. I lived on a rather large estate back in two thousand and two when this strange incident occurred, and I had lived in that area since nineteen seventy two. It was the beginning of July and we had just had the hottest day of the year. It had been around ninety four and the

night was so humid it was still in the eighties. I knew I would not be able to sleep, although I was doing for work at nine am the next morning, and I stayed up watching television until two am. When I retired to bed. It was boiling hot in the room, and I opened the window as wide as I could to let some air inside, but there was any. Sadly, we don't have air conditioners here, and the

air outside was as warm as that within the room. I dressed lightly and I chose to sleep on top of the covers, but as hard as I tried, I couldn't sleep, and I did not even feel tired. But I knew without any sleep, I would pay for it the next day at work, I clock watched instead as I tossed and turned, and then two am changed into three am, and then four am. It was just far too warm to sleep, so I took a book from my bookshelf and I

began to read, hoping that I would eventually drift off to sleep. There was not a sound from anywhere coming through the window as I read, and then about four thirty am I heard the clopping sound, clip clop, clip clop. My first thought was, who was riding a horse at this time of the morning. The clip clopping noise continued, so I put my book down and I leaned out to look through my window. It was daylight, and from my home I could see either end of the street that I lived

on and the main road that it attached to. The clip clop sound grew louder, and then in the distance on the main road came a figure. I could not see them clearly, only the top of their head over the distant hedges, but it was a woman, I was sure of it, and she was wearing heels, and that is what was making the clip clop noise. There was no traffic at the time in the morning, and it

was a Tuesday, so I wondered why someone was out so early. I popped my head back into the room so she would not see me spying on her, and as she turned the corner, I was amazed to see that she was wearing a winter jacket with a hood pulled up in all that heat. She was also wearing trousers in what looked like old fashioned hobnailed boots,

which still made the loud clip clop sound. The jacket had the old style wooden toggles on the front to tie up, and I stood back in the shadows, watching her, thinking that she must be slightly mad to be dressed for winter after the hottest day of the year. I observed her and she drew level with my house clip, clopping along. She was side on to me, with her head down, looking at the ground, so all I could see was her hood, and then she suddenly stopped. Abruptly, she

turned and looked directly up at me. This caused me to take a sharp intake of breath and step backward. How did she know that I was there? I thought. I remember her face well from what I could see of it under her hood. It was pale like alabaster, and she had dark eyes and a thin mouth that remained closed. Everything about her was off kilter to me, and the hairs on the back of my neck were standing on end. I thought, what am I doing stepping away from the window.

It was still wide open, and I thought, if anyone is weird here, it's her. So I stepped back to the window and she was gone. All this occurred in seconds, and seeing as I had heard her approaching for the last five minutes with her loud footwear, if she had run off or walk I would have heard it. I knew all my neighbors well, and she wasn't one of them, so she had not skipped into the houses. Plus, they all had iron gates that made a loud noise as you

opened them. I looked out of the window the entire length of the street, left and right, but she was gone. I thought I had spooked her and she ran into the garden to hide. I would have heard that clip clop of heels though on the pavement. I stood at the window until five thirty am in case she was hiding somewhere, but I never saw her

again. As I stood observing and slightly baffled at the window, a cat came from the left of the street walking along, and another from the right, and they met and sat side by side where the woman had stood. When she turned to look up at me. It was so weird. Cats usually fight, and these two were not known to me as any of the neighborhood cats either. I stood watching the road with the window shut, even in the heat. I had images of her flying through my window to get

me, so I slammed it shut and watched through the glass. The whole episode creeped me out. I could not sleep at all that night, and I went to work A few hours later. I told a few family members and they thought it strange, but they had no ideas. I wondered if the lady had maybe a skin problem, hence why she was covered over, But why would you wear the heaviest clothes in that heat? Plus it still did not answer where she suddenly disappeared to silently. I suppose that will remain

a mystery. I moved out in twenty twelve, and the only time I ever saw and heard anything was back in two thousand and two. But it has stuck in my mind as odd all these years later. And if she it was real or not, your guess is as good as mine. I don't even know if this story is scary or just perplexing, and I was most definitely not dreaming. I know, as I never slept that night, and on hot evenings afterwards, I'll always keep the window closed and endured the

heat. As I finished typing this, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up again, and I turned around to check that she wasn't standing there. How foolish is that? Lol? Anyway, I love the channel and keep up the good work. Kelly. I love that story. You know, it's the way you wrote it. It's the way you wrote it, ma'am. I mean, you just did a great job. You guys.

If you think about these stories and you take real events and you describe them really well, and you know where to put the suspense, and you know how to structure your paragraphs, and sometimes it takes right in it two or three times. But when you do, you guys pop out some great stories. And I love this, Kelly, thank you so much for sending it. It will absolutely fit on this channel and it's going in this video.

Thanks Kelly. All the way in the uk Okay an anonymous writer and this is about a bigfoot and he says this is true, absolutely true. I hail from the deep southern Pines of Mississippi, where I grew up in the small community of steep Hollow. After my parents separated when I was ten, my sister and I would spend weekends with our dad. He was living on his sister's land at the time. We enjoyed going there because my aunt's

kids were around our age, which meant plenty of playmates. My oldest cousin and I were of an age to wheel pellet rifles and had therefore deemed ourselves skilled hunters. Early one winter morning, we got up and dressed without waking anyone else, and then headed out on a hunting excression. We left my aunt's house at the top of the big hill and followed a gravel road down toward the family fish pond. At the midway point, we passed the pond

and kept going until the hill leveled out into a large field. On the other side of that field was a tree line where Crane Creek ran through the property, and beyond that, my aunt's land continued for several more acres into the woods. We went into the tree line and followed the creek, plinking at old coke cans and whatever little birds we thought we could hit, but we never did. We both noticed a rancid smell in the air. It

was nauseating. It was a combination of rotting, death and earth. Nevertheless, we carried on exploring and plinking. We were surrounded by the natural sounds of the woods. Birds were singing, and the creek gently babbled alongside of us as we explored. A short while later, we set up two pine cones or target practice, and I was taking aim when a bone chilling, blood curdling scream like nothing we had ever heard before split the air. Petrified,

we froze in place. Growing up in the southern countryside, we knew the sounds of bobcats and wild hogs and pretty much every animal known to exist in those woods, but this one we couldn't identify. It was somewhere between a large cat and a woman screaming, but louder and angrier. It was almost as if it were raging at us, and from our best estimate, it was doing this from not more than fifty yards away on the other side of the creek, a distance that any predator big enough to make that sound

would have no trouble closing in seconds. We didn't know what to do, and fear kept us frozen in place. Our eyes were like saucers as we stared at each other and then in the direction of the scream, and then back at each other. I don't know exactly how long we stood there, It felt like several minutes, and then through the trees, we saw my father's truck flying down the hill toward us, with my aunt in the passenger seat. They were at the bottom of the hill in no time. But

that was the part that felt like the longest to me. Get in the truck. My dad yelled, we didn't have to be told twice. We jumped into the bed just as quick as he'd driven down the hill, and he drove us back up to the house. We didn't know it, but my dad and my aunt had been sitting on the front porch watching us that morning. We thought we'd slipped out of the house undetected. They were sitting there keeping a watchful eye on us when they heard that same scream that terrified

us. But they saw something that we didn't. Shortly after the scream, they saw a monstrous black figure careening across the field in our direction. It was running on all fours and moving faster than anything ever seen. Well, we never saw it, assume because of the trees, but we smelled it and we absolutely heard it. It was a long time before we ventured off into the woods again, and to this day I can still hear that screen.

I'll likely never forget it. Oh man, you ever you ever miss a tragedy like there was one time I remember when I was a kid. It was dark, we were all out playing at night. It was summertime, and you know those kind of nights whereas kids you could just go and go and go and go and run full speed and your energy never ran out. We were playing some game I don't know, but I was running. You know. It's one of the games where you're it, you're it,

you try not to get caught. I can't remember the game, but I was running towards this magnolia tree. I was going to jump up in this magnolia tree. Of course, it was dark and I couldn't see anything, but I I ran at that tree full speed and I leaped. It's like I never slowed down. I leaped to get on to grab onto the trunk

and shimmy up the tree. Now, MAGNOI, your branches are down low, but these people have had cut them off, and this thing had a trunk about head high to me. But I ran full speed at that trunk, and just as I bare clawed that trunk and was fixing the shemy up, there was a branch poking out of that magnolia tree and it hit me right at the corner of my eyebone, the outside of my eyebone, and

it deflected to the outside of my head towards my ear. It kind of went above my ear, but it put a pretty good cut in my eye. I mean, it wasn't didn't need stitches or anything, but I was going so fast. If I had been an eighth of an inch closer to my right, that stick would have gone straight in my head and in my brain and killed me. It's one of those where you avoided a tragedy by micro inches and you always remember it. And this is what this story reminds

me of. It's like this thing was barreling through the field at them. I don't know how the parents got there fast enough before whatever this was running on all fours got to these boys. But man, that you know, you look back on things like that and you think, maybe maybe God has a plan for my life or something, because he didn't kill me then,

but he almost did. But that that's what that reminded me of. And I don't know why I told you all that, but it's the first thing that popped in my head, and you know me, if it pops in my head, I'm going to say it all right. Thank you to the writer for this story. It was really good, really good. Here's a story from Florida, possibly a skunk cake story. The writer's name is Matt. Here's what he writes. As a nine year old in the nineteen I spent most of, if not all, of my time in the woods from

the time I could crawl. My mom sent me outside to play with our Rhodesian ridgeback bullet. Somewhere in the rubber made container full of photographs is a picture of me and a diaper propped up against bullet under our house with a bottle I lived outside. The first day of the first grade. I was already deep in the swamp when I heard my mom yelling from the porch to come home and eat breakfast and get ready for school. School hadn't even thought

about it until that moment. My life to that point had been a blur of camo, my Swiss army knife buttoned into a leather sheath on my hip, a machette, my dog, and the twenty thousand acres of wildlife preserve behind our little patch of swamp in Christmas, Florida. At that time, the little town of Christmas was composed solely of a post office, a church, and a thirty foot Christmas tree that was lit year round off the side of Highway fifty seven in the middle of nowhere. Nowhere was just how I

liked it. I fished and trapped and built every kind of fort imaginable among the palmeadows and the cypress of those swamps. When I was nine, my dad helped me build a little hut with a thatched roof made from palmeadows. It was long and narrow, and the perfect size to hang my hammock. Despite having spent so much of my life in the woods until then, I had never spent a night alone out there. With my new hut, I

decided that this was the time to attempt my first solo camping trip. I had to prove it to myself and my dad that I was a woodsman that I claimed to be. Later that day, with my machete in hand, I hacked my way the quarter of a mile or so into the swamp behind our house to my hut. As the sun's lash rays began to fade and dark and I swallowed the air around me, I struck my lighter to start a fire, and I was looking forward to the eggs and sausage that I

was planning to cook for dinner. The same instant, the flame sprung from my lighter. A scream erupted from the swamp not thirty feet into the darkness behind me. It was a kind of blood curdling, freezer muscle scream that send your mind racing. It sounded like a woman was being stabbed to death in the palmetto patch, and I strained to see something, but the night was already so thick that I couldn't see. I sat frozen in terror, and a few seconds later the sound of the scream had faded, and I

was relieved to find my heart hadn't actually exploded. It felt like an eternity as I struggled to comprehend what I had just heard. Who would be all the way back here in the dark. If they were here, they were trespassing. Could it have been a poacher? Why were they murdering on woman? Who was she? Was I next? In reality? All of these thoughts flashed through my mind In less than a second. My heart had just begun to slow its relentless effort to escape my rib cage when a roar that

shook my insides exploded from the same patch of pal meadows behind me. It was followed by another screen, A lion was now eating the woman. But no, lions didn't live here, I thought, the urge to mess my pants. There was no conscious decision between flight or fight. There wasn't time. I was already flying down the path towards the house. Later, all that I would remember of my escape was passing the pond that marked the halfway point back to the house, and the next thing I knew, I was

beating at the French doors on the back porch with all my strength. My Dad had been in his room reading when he heard my pleading and relentless assault on the glass panels. Open the door. It's me, I screamed. There's a guy in the woods with a knife. He's killing her. That was all I could think to say. Dad rushed to the door and opened it and asked what in the world was wrong with me? And I explained that I had just heard a woman being murdered and then lions roaring. Well.

Then he started to laugh, and I wasn't amused. Your hair is standing straight up, he said. I didn't give a rat speckle backside what my hair was doing. A woman was being murdered, she was being stabbed to death and eaten or whatever. Right in our backyard. It was probably a cougar, he explained, they sometimes do that. I decided that I'd had enough for one night. I'd have to attempt a solo camp some other time when I was sure no women, bears, lines, or cougars or

axe murderers were out and about in the dark. I've spent plenty of nights in the woods since then, both alone and with others, but I've never again heard anything like that. I was only nine at the time, but I'm pretty sure I broke speed records that night, and I don't think my feet ever touched the ground. Whoa man, What a story These stories with the children. You know, when these people are small and they have these encounters, we listen to them and we're kind of entertained by these stories.

I mean, really, we are entertained by these stories. But if you put yourself in and their shoes, oh my gosh, you know, it's just got to be terrifying. It would have been for me at nine years old. I know that, and there were things that scared me at nine,

nothing like a bigfoot or anything like that. But you know, you're very impressionable, and your fear level is like off the charts when something scares you, and so that's why I kind of, I don't know, I kind of identify with these stories people reminisce about their childhood and these weird things that happened. But Matt, this was a great story, and I really appreciate you're sending it. I'm gonna look up on the map where Christmas, Florida is. I've never heard of it. Well, I'm just gonna look

it up and figure out where it is. Maybe time next time i'm down there, I'm gonna go look at that Christmas tree. All right, Thanks Matt, Thanks again. I appreciate the story. I was born into a violent family. My father was an alcoholic scot with a Native American and his lineage somewhere. My mother was an auburn haired Irish girl who was naive but quick tempered. Every day of my life was filled with arguments that turned violent.

I became a panic stricken, socially backward, messed up kid, whereas the kids at school called me a retarded pansy. We lived in the Quad Cities area of North Alabama, a mile from the Tennessee River. The Tennessee Valley Authority or TVA owned the forested area. Those woods in the river were my sanctuary. I knew all the game trails, snake pits, and fishing holes for miles around, and I used to walk past the school bus stop and straight into the woods, where I would spend my day in peace.

At school, I was bullied and made fun of because I was a nervous and shy kid. Now I realized that I was suffering from severe social anxiety and panic attacks, a condition that was not studied in those days. I grew older and eventually collapsed into agoraphobia and became housebound. I only ventured out in the early morning hours to drive a newspaper route. This job allowed me to pay my bills, but still be alone and isolated. It's difficult to

describe the misery suffered by a housebound person. To be young and healthy, yet afraid to walk out the door. In my mind, there was a monster just outside that door, waiting to devour me. Now I thought I was insane, and that scared me even more. For years, I stayed inside, burying myself in pity because I couldn't live a normal life. I became jealous of others who were living the life I wanted, and that jealousy turned to resentment and eventually to pure hatred. I lived with my hatred and

plotted my revenge. The insults and bullying never left my mind. Fantasies of punishing my tormentors began to consume me. The thoughts grew darker by the day. The torture methods I envisioned for my victims were only complete when at the last moment before I killed them, I would reveal myself. I wanted them to see my face and regret the way they treated me. But insane or not, I never heard anyone, even though the thoughts of revenge continued.

Now I wonder if this was the way serial killers got their start. When would I snap something strange was happening? Though, the more of a monster I became in my own mind, the less I feared the monster beyond my door, and I began to venture out. Like in most neighborhoods, there are always the troublemakers, kids who seem to always cause problems. If it's a bad thing to do, When it would be easier to do good,

they always choose the bad. They get a kick out of picking on kids who just want to have fun, they seek out the innocent and prey on them. Most kids grow out of that face. Adulthood has a way of taming the devil inside us, but some never learn, and you have to wonder if they were born to constantly be a burden on society. Seth was the worst in our neighborhood. He spent his days tormenting the younger, weaker. Kiss I was his special project, and even as an adult, he

once drove by my house shouting insults while flipping me the bird. Seth had been on my list for years. Seth seemed to idolize all the hoods around our town. Eventually he teamed up with another local punk who had a worse reputation. Tony was a criminal who had done time in prison. When he was released, he showed no rehabilitation and resumed the life he lived previously.

Robbery, burglary, and intimidation were his forte Tony and Seth were arrested not long after for crimes that was send Seth to trial on a rape charge and Tony to death for murder. Tony was later convicted and his death sentence was carried out in January of nineteen eighty four. They both sat in the camp jail waiting to be transferred to a federal facility where they would be held until their trial. Careless guards left Seth's sell unlocked, and he slipped out without

them noticing he was gone for several hours. The story was soon breaking news on the TV. He was believed to be armed and considered dangerous. No one was to try to apprehend him without calling the police, and authorities didn't know where he was, but they were searching local woods. The image of Seth's mugshot covering the screen brought back the hate that had built inside me. I remembered seeing Seth and his buddies and years passed in the woods where I

went for peace and quiet. I knew he would run to anything familiar, and sure enough, not long after the story broke the news, police cars were running down my road. They were looking for him in that place I call sanctuary. But I also knew that he would need shelter. It was cold and it had been snowing, and Seth wouldn't stay in the open if he could help it. I knew exactly where he would be. It would be several hours before I needed to begin my paper route I had plenty of

time. With my pistol, a knife, and a flashlight, I headed for the woods. More cars drove fast down the road as I climbed the hill behind my house. They were heading to the wrong place. Seth would have made it past those woods by now, so I picked a route that would take me away from the search area, through the woods and to the place that I would go if I were on the run. I was going to find Seth, and I was going to kill him. He had it

coming. The snow had stopped and the clouds began to clear. The full moon lit my way, although I didn't need it. I hadn't been in those woods for years since the gooraphobia took over my life, but I knew the woods better than my own house. I headed to the river. Years before, the TVA had piled large concrete pipes or culverts on the bank. They had never been used in construction, and I played in and around those

pipes for years. It would be the only shelter for miles. On this cold night, I would quietly slip down the bank and approach the massive pipes from that direction. He would never think of anyone coming from the direction of the river, he would be looking toward the woods. After making it to the river one hundred yards from the pipes, I creeped along the bank. I wasn't afraid, and that felt good to me. I was outside in the open air. The monster I had feared was outside my door, had

not attacked. I was free, and I felt like a kid again. The pipes came into view under the moonlight, and I stopped and watched for movement. Seth would be no problem physically. I could take him down quickly. I even hoped that he had a gun, so after I killed him, I could claim self defense. And still no monster came after me. Now I was the monster. All was quiet except the shallow waves slapping the bank, and since there was no movement, I began to think Seth had

not come here. Disappointment took over, and I walked the last few feet toward the opening of the large pipe. When I entered, an odor of urine and riding fish hit me like a slap in the face. I stepped back out and took an inventory of the items around me. There were smaller pipes laying randomly along the bank, some piled up on top of each other, and others I could see farther away from the water. With my pistol in hand and the flashlight on, I lit the interior of the pipe.

I expected to see seth right away. Instead, I got that strong smell again. I crept forward to exit at the other end and searched the pipes beyond, and I felt the presence of someone else there. It was like a sixth sense. Even though I could not see them, I knew they were close, and I felt it before I heard it. A warm wind came down the pipe into my face, and my chest began to vibrate slightly. No one was in the pipe with me. I could see the end,

but thick brush had grown up at the far side opening. The air I felt was a breath or an exhale from something. I could smell it now stop. It screamed so loud and was amplified inside the concrete tunnel. Stunned and frozen, I shined the lights straight ahead and I saw two glowing red eyes staring back at me, and they were wrapped in the silhouette of a giant creature crouching behind the brush. I fired two shots at it, and then it stood up the top of the six foot pipe was at its

chest level. This thing was huge. With one swift motion, he was on top of the pipe, moving to the other end. It dropped down and glared at me, and I shot twice more, hitting it with both and the creature flinched and then roared. I had to get to the other end, into a smaller pipe where he couldn't reach me. I'm not sure I could get there fast enough. I sprended anyway, after crashing through the

tangle of vines and bushes. I was looking straight into a much smaller pipe where I would fit, but the creature wouldn't over the rocks and weeds. I dove into the inn and crawled. Its hand brushed my shoe as it reached inside to catch me. I was inside far enough the tube was too small for me to turn around and face the beast. The end in front of me was ten feet away and completely blocked by debris, and I was trapped. So I waited periodically, trying to look over my shoulder at the

thing after me, but it was pointless. Everything went quiet and I couldn't hear it now. No footsteps crunching in the rocks, no heavy breaths, no screams, and for a second I thought it had given up and left, until the whole pipe was lifted into the air. He was turning it on its end and trying to shake me out, and when he lifted the end, the pipe crack, giving me a handhold. I could feel myself

in the pipe being lifted vertically and lowered several times. I could hear the beast frustration when I didn't pop out the end, but I hung on for my life, maybe out of frustration or maybe from lack of interest. It finally pushed the end over and the pipe slammed onto another with a crash. I was on my back, now toward the ground at an angle and still unreachable from either end. And then one last lift dashed my hopes of surviving the night. As it lifted the pipe, I suppose, over its head

and through a thousand pounds of concrete and terrified human. My body tensed for the impact, and I expected the brittle covert to break apart enough for it to reach inside and pull me out. But it hadn't thrown me to the ground. The pipe and I sailed several feet in the air into the river. The cold water rushed in and shocked me, and if I crawled forward, I would be heading to the river bed. Backing out of that broken

pipe was difficult. My coat was hung on the reinforcing wire fabric and it dug into my clothes, through into my flesh, but I pushed through it. My air was running out fast. My feet cleared the end of the pipe and only had a few more feet to go and I would be free. One last push backward folded my coat over my head, so I allowed my body to relax enough to slip out of the heavy jacket. But without the coat, I was smaller, and I pushed free from the pipe.

The river was shallow in this spot, and one easy push off the pipe upwards sent me to the surface. My eye searched the bank for the creature. It wasn't there, Thinking it had finished me off, I assumed it had left the area, and then a few strokes toward the bank until I felt the sandy bottom, and then I walked out of the water, frantically looking everywhere for my attacker, and still nothing came for me. What now,

I thought I had a long walk back home. I would freeze in this weather, but that was my only option before heading back up the bluff to my trail home. I looked for my gun in flashlight, and a few feet into the pile of discarded construction material, I saw the light I had dropped, and not far from the light, I saw my pistol laying in the leaves. And then I started straight up through the debris, working my way through the maze of pipes, trying not to break a leg an

injury now it would be a death sentence. When I was clear of the pipe and up the bank a bit, I looked back over the area and I saw the creature walking away from me and knee deep water. The splashing had drawn my attention, and in the moonlight I could finally see its full form. Long legs stepped high in the water, and they carried a frame that no man could contend with in a fight. I expected it to return to the bank and head up the mountain where the bank leveled out, but

instead it walked out deeper into the water and disappeared. The swirling of the slow current was all I could see on the surface pat and I was out there. Maybe that's where it was headed. The monster had come in and out of my life in a maddening, violent way, and I would never see it again. That moment was perhaps one of the most profound epiphanies of

my life. For years, I had dreamed of becoming the monster that brought vengeance to my tormentors, and now, watching this magnificent creature walk away from me, I knew I was not, nor did I want to inflict the same terror on anyone as I had just experienced. I had just gone through something that few survive. It wasn't the size and vicious nature of the creature in that moment that brought on my epiphany. It was the image in my mind, still fresh as if I saw it an hour ago, of Seth's

limp body hanging from the left hand of the beast. Seth's arm dangled free, his fingers dipping into the surface, pushing a tiny wake. The beast had found its meal, and Seth, the rapist, vanished forever. I started for home, a changed man, wondering if I could make it back alive. On the side of the mountain, already feeling weak, I saw lights moving through the woods toward me. I stopped and yelled, and soon I was surrounded by searchers Once they were sure that I wasn't Seth, they

bummled me up and helped me get home. They all left after depositing me in the house, except one deputy, who stayed to make sure that I was not in serious hypothermia. After taking a hot shower and getting some microwave food in me, he and I sat at my table sipping coffee, and I explained that I had suspected Seth would be sheltering in those pipes, since it was the only place he could have escaped the snow and wind. And then I lied and said that my plan was to hold him there until the

searchers arrived. There was no need to say that I had planned to kill the guy for making fun of me. If by some strange event, the creature didn't eat Seth that night and his corpse was found floating in the river, I might be implicated and questioned I had fallen in the river like an idiot on the coldest night of January, is what I told him. And then I headed straight for home, hoping to not freeze to death, and thank goodness that I had run into them not long after and sure that I

was healthy. The deputy left now alone with my faults. All the repetitive visions I conjured every day over the years seemed to slip away. I wasn't a blooming serial killer after all. I felt sane for the first time since I was a kid. I slept well that night and woke the next morning to the news. I already knew that Seth the rapist had not been captured, but the search continued, and then, without hesitation, I walked out

the door into the world with no fear, no anxiety. After finishing my paper route, I stopped at a local diner and ate a hearty breakfast, and I began to think of all the places I was now free to go. The monster was actually in the woods, not outside my door. Now I was free. This is an email I got from Paul. Paul lives in the United Kingdom, and he's actually sent me a couple of stories, and I'm gonna share both of them with you because I think they're interesting.

They're not bigfoot stories, he writes. I started hunting and fishing when I was ten years old with an uncle here in the UK, and I've hunted and fished worldwide ever since. Being in the outdoor is me at my happiest even if I don't get anything. I enjoy stalking deer, working the land, and being selective as to what I harvest. Everything I harvest is for

the pot, except for the foxes and the rats. As a hunter, I believe in selective and ethical hunting, and when I do take a life, I always give the best I can for a quick, clean kill. I live in England, but most of my hunting was in Scotland on syndicate land least from a tree plantation company. The plantation consisted of mature trees with fire breaks, clear fell and new plantation with gravel tracks. We were allowed

to have a static caravan on site. Americans call these camping trailers. The least area was fifteen hundred acres, but next to this was a further twelve hundred acres of woodland and farmland that was run by a local and they shot for driven pheasant. The agreement with the gamekeeper was if we helped keep the foxes down on the chute by lamping at night, we would get an invite

on the chute for the end of the season. On Keepers Day one weekend in early October two thousand and four, I arranged for myself and a friend to go deer stalking. I was all packed up and ready to go when my friend called me and said he couldn't come due to a family emergency, so it was just me and the dog, which was fine. I set off later than I was hoping for, and on the way up to Scotland,

I got held up even further with roadworks. The five hour drive turned into six hours, and when I got to the trailer in the Woodland, it was getting about nine thirty PM and I was losing light. There was not enough light left to start an evening stalk, so I made a meal and I thought I would drive the plantation next door after midnight and see if I could nail some foxes whilst lamping. For all you readnext out there, lamping is what we call shining or spotlight. But he's doing it legally for

foxes and predators, which is cool. We can't even do that. We can't even shine a light in a field at night, and the game warn will be on us like white on rice. But anyway, I digress. It's shining for all the rednecks. Just after midnight, I put the dog in the back of the land Rover, set the spotting lamp up and headed off with my two forty three. I arrived at the gate of the plantation and unlocked the gate and I drove in. It was strange because I remember

a funny feeling when I opened the gate. I wasn't sure what it was, but something didn't feel right. I drove along the mature woodland and I looked down a fire break and noticed a bright light in the sky. It was very bright. I thought it was a satellite off in the sky. This was looking out the right side of my car at my three o'clock.

I carried on past the mature trees and I turned right down a track that opened on some clear fell I expected to see the light in front of me, but it was still at ninety degrees to my right, which was strange. I carried down the track for about three to four hundred yards and I stopped. I looked at the light and it was still there, just hanging in the sky. I put my zeice binoculars on it, and it was hard to look at it due to the brightness. The thing was a bright

silver. It looked like a cylinder on its end, like you would put a coke can on a table. I put the rangefinder on it, and it was six hundred and fifty yards from me. It must have been twenty five feet long and maybe ten feet in diameter, and hanging about two hundred feet off the ground. I could see the trees illuminated by its brightness below. I carried on down the track and I turned right again. I was now driving behind it. I stopped and put the rangefinder on it again,

and it was now at five hundred yards. This thing just hung there. I don't know what it was, but it made no noise and it didn't seem to move. I was mesmerized by it. Fear took over, and I thought it best to move along. I floored it down the track. The road curved at the end and joined the original track that I came in on. I looked out the window and it was still hanging there. I had driven all the way around it, and it was always on the right

side of the vehicle. I drove back to my syndicate area and I went to bed in the caravan. In the morning, I drove to the next door plantation again about nine am, and I looked at the area again and saw no sign of it. I drove the same route and stopped in the

same places, and I never saw anything strange. A few months later I told a friend about it, and after he finished laughing at me and saying it was the moon or a planet, he asked me why I didn't go closer to it, or why I didn't take a shot at it with my rifle. At the time, that never occurred to me to even think of doing that, and in hindsight, I wouldn't have done so. Anyway. It's kind of drummed into me always to know what I'm shooting at and never

to aim or discharge a rifle above a backstop. To this day, I don't know what it was. Primeval fear kept me from getting closer and told me to leave, and I think a deep, unknown sixth sense told me something wasn't right when I arrived. I don't know if it was my eyes playing tricks, but I did get hits with the rangefinder, so this thing must have been solid and reflective. It seemed to emit a light, but it didn't have any lights. I've never seen anything like it again, nor

do I really want to. It would be interesting if any of your followers have encountered anything that fits this description. So guys, if you've seen a cylinder shaped, bright, silvery something or another in the air, comment below Paul, what's going on or telling what you've seen. I don't know, that's interesting stuff to me. I love these USO things. I've just started. I posted it on Facebook. I bought the Project Blue book series that

the History Channel put out. I'm actually watching it on Amazon and it is awesome. It is so cool, and it's the same kind of thing that Paul's talking about here. People are seeing these weird things and even encountering creatures that aren't of this world. And it's really cool. And the theme of it is how people when they come forward are bastardized and ridiculed for coming forward. They are even scenes in the show where it's like the mob gathers and

comes after the people. It's so weird. I just didn't know that ever happened. I knew you got ridical, but I didn't know the mob got after you. But Paul's got another thing he wanted to share, and I thought this was really good, just as good as his story. And here's what he writes. I wanted to give you one more short story that isn't a Bigfoot story, and it's not really a UFO story. This is about

people who tell about what they have seen. I've noticed the amount of decent people who are ridiculed for telling the truth about what they saw, regardless of whether it can be explained or not. A lot of these people are well respected, professional people who have their lives really affected by simply telling the truth. And that's what this story is about. Many years ago I used to

shoot wildfol and game with a really nice guy. He had a great sense of humor and the banter that he gave and was able to take was legendary. He worked for a local farmer and also was a part time truck driver, and he worked for various hall firms in the southeast of the United Kingdom. He was ex army and served with his original regiment in Germany and Northern Ireland. Then needed more of a challenge and went for the parachute Regiment.

You have to beat a tough bastard to get in that also, and you also have to be a bit mad. This was in the early nineteen eighties. In nineteen eighty two, he found himself on the way to the South Atlantic on a troop ship with his regiment in May of nineteen eighty two and found himself in full combat at Goose Green during the Falklands War. After he left the army, he returned back to rural life, settled down and married

and they had a child. He was well known in the community and very well liked, and was a kind of guy who would help anyone out. Over a couple of beers. One evening he told me this story and how it affected his life, his work, in his marriage. In the summertime in the late nineteen eighties, he was trucking freshly harvested peas with another guy in another truck. It was early morning and they were driving through a r

area in Suffolk and heading for a pea processing factory. As they drove down the quiet country roads, the sun started to rise and in the pink and blue sky they saw two black triangles. They seemed to just hang silhouetted in the sky. He drew them and they were Isaceles triangles. He said, you could even see the heat haze coming off of them. He got on his cib to the other driver and said, do you see them? What

the hell are they? The other drivers said screw this, and they both floored the trucks and didn't stop until they reached the truck stop twenty miles away. He said they both felt shook up and told other truckers what they had seen. This was a big mistake. At no point did they ever say UFO or spaceship or aliens. They just described what they had seen in the sky that morning, and they received a fair amount of ridicule. And it

didn't stop there. It spread like wildfire and it never ended. They both were accused of drinking on the job and being mentally unbalanced. They lost work through the ordeal. They just weren't hired by any of the haulage companies. Every time he went into town, someone would draw an alien face on his car in the dust or whistle the close encounters theme. It was the same

in the local pub. You would think that a tough guy like him could take it, and that it could only go on for so long, but it stopped being banter or a joke, and it simply turned into harassment. One day he had had enough and he punched one of his hecklers. Unfortunately, that got him his shotgun certificate. Revoked over it. I can't stress how constant it was. The other driver moved away because of the bullying. Also, in nineteen ninety one, when the First Gulf War started, it

suddenly became clear to him what he had actually seen on television. The United States Air Force rolled out the F one seventeen stealth Fighter. What he and the other driver had seen was these aircraft coming into land at an air base in Suffolk. Even when he explained to people that's what he had seen, it never mattered and the harassment never stopped. I last saw him in the mid nineteen nineties when he was running aid out for the United Nations to the

Balklands War. I heard he met a Bosnian woman who was from Germany and moved out there after the war. He was a good friend and a great guy and really didn't deserve what he got for simply telling the truth. Paul signs off here. Paul, I know, I have never experienced that kind of harassment or I catch some crap. When Bigfoot comes up in a discussion. You know, people always get that little grin, and I do too. I laugh with him and I make it fun. There's no sense in

taking all this stuff too serious. But that's quite different than being harassed by a bunch of blokes in your town who just hammer you constantly about something that you talked about and you even he never even said they were UFOs or aliens or spacecraft or anything. He just said he saw triangles in the sky. So I think here's the moral to this. Be careful what you tell people.

I know it seems and I know there are a lot of people out there, you know, trying to encouraging people to come forward and all. But I would encourage you to think it through. And I would also encourage you to maybe leave your name off of it, because it saying your name in one of these stories does not help advance the Bigfoot calls. It just doesn't. It just puts your reputation in jeopardy, in my opinion. And so you know, I don't ever read I don't ever even read last names.

I'm not going to put anybody in that position. If they say they don't want their name used, I don't even say their first name. But usually if they give me both of them, I'll just like this fellow here that wrote me, his name is Paul. I know his last name, but I'm not going to tell you what it is, but anyway, it's a great couple of stories there and good insights and good anecdotes for people to hear. And I loved it. Paul, Thanks for sending it. I

really enjoyed it. Thanks man. Here's an email from Edward, and here's what Edward writes. This took place in late twenty and eighteen. It started in deepfall and continued into late December. I live in northeastern Ohio, and my dogs were going ballistic every night for over two months in late twenty and eighteen. I had seen signs of the presence of something, but was unsure of what it was. And to be honest, I really wasn't paying attention

and it didn't occur to me at the time what I was seeing. I was mowing the grass in the very late fall of twenty eighteen when I passed a large, matted down spot in the tall grass. It was probably about fifteen feet in diameter. I didn't see any tracks or trails leading into or out of it, so I brushed it off as deer habitat. Every single night, within five minutes of the lights getting turned off, my German shepherds

would go to the door and peer out and growl and start barking. That went on for what seemed like it was going to be an eternity, and I didn't think I was ever going to get any sleep. I never heard any sounds, and I don't have a sense of smell. It's a hereditary thing. My grandfather couldn't smell, and my brother's daughter can't either, so I didn't smell anything. And winter was kicking in. It was getting cold.

The dogs still weren't letting up, and during the daytime I kept a pretty good on them because we have had a bunch of missing cats and dogs in this area recently. The same thing happened back in the eighties and a couple of guys were caught stealing people's pets and selling them on the market for animal food and all kinds of nasty stuff. So that's what I figured was

going on. I was very watchful, and I would call them in several times throughout the day and in the evening, just to keep an eye on them. Then I saw a video where a man's dog became the target of absisquatch because the dog was constantly giving away its position and something inside me clicked, and I just knew there was more to this than just a small herd of deer sleeping there and traversing back and forth. So I decided to load up a rifle and leave it by my bed until I managed to get rid

of whatever was coming around. My wife insisted that it was a coyote because the year before we had a rather large one come into the area in broad daylight and it wasn't at all afraid of us. The rifle I was using had a red laser sight on the end of it and a dot site up

top for quick tactics and a pinch. Then, on December second, twenty eighteen, around two am, I turned out the lights and I laid down in bed to wait, And sure enough, within minutes, my dogs rushed to the door and started barking like crazy, But this time they were growling like I've never heard them growl before, so I knew something was out there.

I sat up part way in bed with the rifle in hand, and I waited and watched, and sure enough, in the midst of that cold wind and rainstorm, I saw an almost man shaped, very dark outline figure step quietly and smoothly up to the kennel fence and stand there for a moment. Our kennel is six feet tall and this creature was a good two and a half feet taller and was about four feet wide at the shoulders. I couldn't make out any details, just its basic shape. I think we call

those blob squatches. I moved to put the rifle up to my shoulder and it obviously saw me because it backed off into the darkness again right away, but still silently and really smoothly, almost like it was floating. It rained like the days of Noah for a couple of days, and I never thought to even look for prints in the mud, but I'm pretty sure there weren't any after the heavy rains. Anyway. Well, it's not much of an encounter, but still enough to make me sleep with a rifle within arm's reach.

Not much puts fear into me, and this squatch didn't either, but it probably would have if things would have gotten ugly, and I would be reporting a dead sisquatch because I won't miss when it comes to protecting my family, and my dogs are like my kids. I love them that much, so they get the same protection from me as my son and wife would Edward, that's a cool story. Excuse me, that's a you know, just send a figure out there in the rain man. That gives me the willies.

Apparently it was close enough where you could tell it was taller than the fence and how wide it was. Anyway, that's a great story, buddy. I appreciate you sending it. Thanks. If you made it to the end of this podcast, would you leave a comment say something like I made it to the end or whatever. I doubt many people do because it's so long, but I really wanted to put a bunch of them together for people driving and people laying around on the couch this weekend. That's the purpose of

this podcast. But if you made it all the way to what you're hearing right now, drop a comment and say that you made it to the end. I'd love to see how many people do. So I appreciate you listening. We'll see you guys on the next one. Thanks. Would the