Archive 101 Bigfoot and Horror Fiction

and they just keep listening to the new stuff. However, the stories that I did, especially in the first couple of years, they weren't presented very well as you're gonna hear in this podcast, but the stories are fantastic. I'm reaching way back in this episode one on one of the archive drops. Two of the stories in this podcast are from that era, and you'll look the audio horrible on them, and I've tried to improve it. The way

I read them was not very good. It was pretty poor reading, and I've learned how to do it just a little bit better through the years. But if you can get by that and just listen to the story, I think you'll be entertained and intrigued. That's all I wanted to say, thanks for watching the first one hundred. I didn't announce it. I was going to do it back in May. I just made a decision and just did it that I was going to try my best

to upload one hundred podcasts in one hundred days. I missed my mark, but I got a hundred up in about one hundred and six days. I believe it is so thank you for listening. I'm going to keep doing them. They're not going to drop every day from this point forward. Some might, but I'll probably drop a couple of archive podcasts per week along with the newer podcast that I do, so maybe you can expect two to three a week.

I just want to get on and let you know how much I appreciate you listening and following this podcast, and I hope you continue to enjoy the stories, new and old. All right, here we go. There was an old hermit once. No one ever really knew his name or where he came from. He was as much a part of the landscape as the trees that grew around a shack he kept himself. Mostly. Sometimes he'd venture into town and pick up a bag of coffee beans or maybe a pound of flour. But when he did, he

didn't speak much to anyone. Mostly he stayed out there by himself in the woods. He was such a quiet old man that no one ever gave him much thought. He was never invited to any parties, nor did he show up for the community dances. He was nowhere to be found when the fireworks the sky on the fourth of July. And well, it's highly unlikely that anyone ever thought to give him a Christmas present. He was just old Jake, and it may not have been his real name,

but who could say. But someone started calling him that one day, and it stuck. Old Jake didn't live alone in his little one room shack. He had three companions who lived there too, and their names were I Know, you Know, and Kaliko. They were three of the finest redbone hounds a man could ask for. They hunted faithfully at his side and spent long hours lying on the

banks of the river while Old Jake fished. Each morning, when Jake got up, those three dogs were at the door waiting to be let in, having spent a long night out chasing whatever animals inhabited the night. Each night before he went to bed, they were at the door again, waiting to be let out for another night of rolic. Jake didn't have many possessions, and just a few pieces of furniture and his gun in his fishing pole, and

the tools he needed to get through each day. In each spring, he'd put in a big garden and the food from which is what he lived on most of the year. He grew what he needed and canned and dried and put away as much as he could, along with the fish and the game he caught. It was usually enough to get him through the winter, and when

it wasn't enough, Jake went hungry. It was one of those years when the garden hadn't produced like it should and the game had been a bit scarce, that Jake found himself deep into February with nothing left to eat. He went out each day and hunted for rabbits and squirrels or anything else he could find, but he wasn't having a lot of luck that year. Sometimes he'd go a whole week before he'd managed to catch something to fill his belly, and at his age, with his bones

beginning to protest against the cold, Jake was miserable. One night, tired and hungry and with nothing to eat. He turned out the dogs and put up the biggest fire he could in the fireplace, and he crawled into bed under his old patchwork wilt. The wind blew hard that night, and the cabin creaked and shuddered under its force. Jake shivered in reply, and his belly was too empty and his body was too cold to allow for a good night's sleep. It's all he could do was lie there

and listen. I know, you know, And Kaliko had come back from the woods early. He could hear him bedding down in the cross space under the floorboards. Ought to get up and let those dogs in, he told himself as he listened to them scratching around below him. But he was cold and hungry, and he was tired. Getting up and going to the door seemed like too big of a task, So he laid there and he listened.

It wasn't long before he began to notice the But the noises he was hearing didn't sound like his dogs at all. This got his attention. He raised his head a little off the bed and concentrated. He heard scratching, long scratches and short scratches. That ain't my dog's, he said. The scratching grew louder and turned into a gnawing sound. What is that? He wondered. Feeling a little afraid, Jake sat up in his bed and he looked around the room.

At that moment, something nibbled through the wall and popped its head through the hole. It was a tall, bony rat like creature with beady red eyes that watered with milky secretions, and long yellow teeth that drips sliva onto the floor. It raised its clawed hands up and began to inch toward Jake's bed. Panic down, afraid, Jake forgot all about his aching bones and his empty belly, and he thought only of how he was going to rid

himself with this monster. He climbed out of bed and ran to grab something, anything, to defend himself from this creature that was moving ever closer. The first thing Jake got his hands on was a meat cleaver on the table. He turned and swung it at the fend and backed it into a corner where it had chewed the hole.

It ducked and swayed, even pounced back as they fought, But little by little, Jake was winning until he found himself standing by the door of the cabin, and thinking quickly, he threw open the door and called for the dogs. Seconds later, they were barreling into the cabin. They were growling and barking at the strange, monstrous being, and together Jake and the dogs drove it back to the hole

and out of the cabin. But before it could escape completely, Jake grabbed its tail and with one swing of the blade, he chopped it off. The animal gave out a horrifying scream that rattled Jake and sent three dogs cower back. Jake looked quickly around the room and found a piece of cloth to shove into the hole. Then he piled some of his firewood in front of it, and then he turned to the dogs and gave each one a pat on the head before letting them back out into

the night. Jake looked at the long tail in his hand, and he wondered what he should do with it. His stomach rumbled and hunger then, and so he decided to cook it into his suit. An hour later, with his belly full for the first time in a week, Jake tired and crawled into bed and fell asleep. It wasn't long though, until that scratching sound began again, and Jake found himself sitting up in bed, facing the corner where

he had secured the hole. A second later, the pile of firewood erupted and the rat creature was standing in front of him again. Where's my taily poe, it growled at him. I want my taily poe. I don't have, Jake cried, his voice wavering in fear. Go away. I want my taily pole, the thing replied. Jake sprang from the bed and ran to the front door. I know you know, Caaliico? He called, Come in here, boys, and once again the three dogs came. Running together. Jake and

his dogs forced the beasts back into the hole. Once again, Jake covered it with bits of cloth and firewood. He was exhausted beyond measure now and he crawled back into the bed within seconds, and he was snoring. When Jake awoke again, the monster was already inside the cabin. It was towering over his bed and croaking out the words where is my taily pole? Again. Jake sprang for the door and he threw it open. I know you know, Caalico, he called, but the dogs didn't come. I know, Come on, boy,

he yelled again, you know where you at, Kalko. Come on, boy, come on. No matter how many times he called, the dogs didn't come. He turned and faced the monstrous rat, who demanded in its leathery voice, I want my tailey pole. And Jake ran for his bed and jumped in and threw the covers over his head. I don't have it, he screamed. I cooked it and ate it for supper.

In an instant, the rat jumped onto the bed and began to claw at the old quilt, and Jake screamed and cried out for help, and the rat gnawed through the covers and into Jake's shirt. Help me, help me, he screamed, but no one was around to hear him, and then it began to claw its way into Jake's stomach. It was later that spring when someone finally noticed that Jake hadn't been to town for quite some time, and for the first time in memory, Old Jake was the

center of conversation. You don't suppose he's hurt out there in that cabin, Someone asked, well, maybe he died out there. He's getting old, you know. Another suggested, do you think we ought to go check on him? Yet another wondered. The town gathered up a group of men and they headed out to the cabin where Old Jake lived, and when they got there, they found the place had been torn to pieces. The only thing standing was the fireplace chimney.

They found a skull that looked like it probably belonged to one of Jake's hound dogs, and there were bits of material that might have been covered in blood. But Jake was gone. He was never seen again. These days, if you head out to the woods where Old Jake's cabin once stood, don't be surprised if you hear screaming on the wind in a scratchy, growling voice, demanding to know where's my daily pole. In April of twenty ten, my husband was assigned a contract to work in Germany.

We decided that it would be a good experience for our son, Jake, then eighteen and a senior in high school, to go for a senior trip. We discussed the plans with his school principal and was met with the resounding yes, he's excused. This is a trip of a lifetime. Go with lots of instructions on how to navigate the airport's use of passport finding a US embassy and movement through customs. We sent our one hundred and seventy five pound, six foot tall wrestler alone to Germany to meet his dad.

He stayed a week and then he returned home. Jake returned to an airport where I had never driven. Monday, May third, twenty ten, my twelve year old daughter, Journey and I picked up my son at Dulles International Airport in Virginia at nine forty five pm. I used a map quest to find the shortest route and printed a copy, which took us down country roads in the daylight hours. It was easy, peasy. We arrived at the airport without a hitch. I proceeded south on Route twenty eight with

both of my kids heading home. My daughter rode in the front seat to navigate the printed directions in reverse and in the dark. My son rode in the back seat with his head down. I became disoriented and missed our left turn on to Aiden Road. To make matters worse, the fuel gauge was on empty. I had less than three gallons in the tank. I was afraid that we'd

run out of gas in the middle of nowhere. This was compounded by the fact that the local news was plastered with stories of a mass murderer in the Manassas area. His mo was stabbing victims with screwdrivers or bash with a hammer and leaving them for dead. I didn't tell the kids. I'm not one to shield my kids from gore, but they sensed my urgency and the tension was high. I saw a dimly lit gas station on the side of the road. I pulled in, swiped my card. It authorized.

I pulled the handle to start the flow of gas into my tank, and one cent dispensed and clunked the gas pump stop. I got three cents worth of gas over three tries when I noticed a large, brownish tan suv sitting at the stop sign with its hazard lights on. The feeling of relief that I had found a gas station changed from annoyance with the pumps to an undeniable fear something wasn't right about the vehicle. I got in the car, locked the doors, and drove out of the

gas station parking lot. As I approached the stop sign where the suv was parked, a dark haired man wait for us to stop. To OH. I was terrified and didn't know why. My son said, Mom I think this guy needs some help. No one needs more help than us right now. He's a grown man. He can figure it out. I blew through the stop sign. We drove down roads with unfamiliar names that were unmarked by lines and narrowed ominously into what looked like a tree lined tunnel.

Upon reaching a dead end, we backtracked, finding that we had to navigate around obstacles that were not there earlier. We approached part of a large broken pine tree laying in the middle of the road and drove around it. It was as if someone had thrown a broken pine tree randomly in the yard. We backtracked to find Fitzwater Drive. It passed an open well liit convenience store, where I stopped and filled up with gas. The tension calm because we had a full tank of gas and this road

would eventually lead us home. My cars old dim yellow tinted lights illuminated something beside the road. Crouched and bent over in the corner ditch was a large reddish brown figure. Its back was toward the road, so I saw no face. The fur texture, shape, and lay were like a wet brown bear. You knew how you see bears exiting a river on TV. The fur was auburn with a thick undercoat, and the outside hairs laid downward in points like fresh out of the water hair groomed with a wide toothed comb.

I saw the animal but said nothing. My daughter immediately said, did you see that? What was it poking fun? I said, I don't know, maybe it was a bigfoot. My son said he was looking forward and only saw a reddish brown colored difference in the peripheral vision. The time was approximately eleven PM. I asked if I should turn around and go back to see The kid said to keep because they were already rattled by being lost late at night, they didn't want to waste any more time getting home.

We arrived home around midnight or twelve thirty am. The kids went to bed with no further conversation about our adventure. The next day, Tuesday, May the fourth, I began research on grizzly brown bears in Virginia. I found a Virginia Department of Game in Inland Fisheries pdf link saying that grizzly bears do not live in Virginia. Virginia is home only to black bears. After finding this article, and without making any comments to bias a reaction. I showed my son.

He read in silence, his eyes widened, fear washed over his face, and the colored drain. Mom, you've got to report this. That was a bigfoot. I told Jake, wait here, don't talk, don't say anything. I immediately walked to my daughter's room. I asked, Journey, do you think you could draw a picture of what you saw last night? Sure, and went to work on a sketch in another room, away from prying eyes. I made my own drawing. When Journey completed her sketch, we compared pictures. My drawing showed

the back of a squatting, crouched, hairy figure. The animal's head bent low as if to hide, exposing only the massive hairy's shoulders to its waistline. My daughter's drawing was from a different perspective. She caught sight of the animal as we rounded the corner, placing her at an angle to see its profile. Her drawing depicted the curve of the ditch with a large, hunched being sitting in the depression.

It was leaning forward as though to make itself look smaller, with arms outstretched to support its weight against the rise of the ditch's embankment. On the other side, there was no mistaking that she drew massive shoulders, lack of neck, and a conical head file that transitioned into a heavy, sloping brow. With the pieces of evidence, I filled an online report with two of the leading Bigfoot research organizations.

I knew who to contact because Jake had completed an independent research project years earlier on the Bigfoot, Yetti sisquatch phenomenon. As I typed my response, Jake schooled me on what happened. It all makes sense, mom. The Native Americans believe he's a spirit being that orchestrates or is drawn by confusion, fear, or chaos. People report finding broken trees in the vicinity

of Bigfoot. That's exactly what happened last night. Within an hour, both Bigfoot research organizations contacted me, one of which went to the site and conducted their own investigation. He considered me a Class B witness because there was no physical evidence or photographic evidence from the scene found. I was a credible witness because of my standing in the community as a teacher and a disability awareness advocate. He said that any other animal would flee like a bear or deer,

not crouch and hide. I wasn't a whack job. The researcher found a blind of a bent tree secured by a large rock in the area, supporting the thought that this may be a bigfoot shelter. There was also a food source dumpsters in close proximity, with nearby woods for cover. I've shared my story with very few folks, only those I can trust. Sometimes a family member will say, tell so and so about the Aiden Road incident, like I'm a party novelty. Most would be satisfied with this being

the conclusion of my bear turned Bigfoot sighting. But that is not the end. My husband calls me the unsolved mystery Lady because I love mystery shows on TV, and one day I hoped to unrival a mystery. After all the Bigfoot excitement had died down in our household, I had some quiet time on my hands. I recalled that about a month before the sighting, I had pondered Bigfoot and said, God, if you are the creator, certainly you made bigfoot, and certainly you can let me see one.

That was that. No hell, Mary's, no our fathers, no formalities, just a chat with God. I realized that God is the Creator allowed me and my children to see this marvelous creature. Then the news came out in the local newspapers, The Examiner and The Louden Times August tenth, twenty ten, and then in the Free Lance Star August twenty seventh,

twenty ten. The headlines noted that a serial killer responsible for five deaths near Flint, Michigan, is one in the same hunting men in North Virginia, wounding a dozen since May. While the victims varied in ages, they included a fifteen year old boy, a nineteen year old man in the area close to the age of my son, and one

in upwards of sixty seven years old. The report stated that the killer drove a nineteen ninety five to two thousand and six four door Chevy S ten Blazer GMC Jimmy or similar vehicle that may be green or gold. He feigned needing directions or help with his car. Only by the grace of God did we escape the evil that was the thirty three year old Elias of Wellasahm arrested on August eleventh, twenty ten. I kept the story to myself for years and only just started telling select

people what happened. No one believes me, but I don't care. In nineteen seventy three, I was eleven years old. I stayed with my grain parents a lot. Back then. I loved being with both of them and would stay with them a lot during the summers and the holidays. They have both passed away and I missed them, which is one reason I'm able to tell the story. My grandfather forbid me from telling anyone, even telling my mother and father. The weekend before school started was Labor Day weekend, and

of course I was spending the weekend at my grandmother's house. Traditionally, squirrel season opened on Labor Day weekend, and my grandfather started taking me with him when I was eight years old. It was a weekend I looked forward to every year. He had bought my first shotgun the year before, and living in the city, I never got to use it unless I was hunting with him. My mother had dropped

me off at their house on Friday afternoon. Saturday morning, my grandfather woke me early to get ready to leave. My grandmother always had biscuits ready for us. When we left, my grandfather told me to stuff a couple in my vest pockets. And that I could eat them later. We had to get going. We loaded up his car and headed to the woods, about an hour away. My grandfather drank a lot. He had all his adult life, or since he returned from the war. He was a marine

during World War Two. I never knew, nor did I care, what battles he fought in until I was older. He never talked about it. Now that I'm an adult and have read about these battles, I understand why he drank, and I do not hold it against him. I don't remember him not drinking, but it never seemed to cause a problem as far as a kid was concerned. He spent a lot of time with me, and I loved him.

This morning was no exception. About halfway to the woods, he reached under his seat and pulled a pint bottle of some cheap whiskey and started taking swigs from the bottle. I never thought anything about it. We reached the area we were going to hunt, and as all, he sent me to a washed out ditch and told me to follow it until I reached a certain landmark, then to come out of the ditch and make my way back. He would meet me by a huge oak tree that was not far from where he parked the car. I

cannot remember how far it was. I think it took me two hours to make the circle. The creek bed or ditch was always dry this time of year. It was perfect for walking because my footsteps made no noise in the sandy bottom, and though the ditch was deep, I still had a good view of the tree top so that I could pick out squirrel movement. I was never afraid, and I always had a great time hunting

by myself. My grandfather had finished the pint bottle by the time we reached the woods, and I knew he would be asleep under that big oak when I returned. He always said he was hunting. But every year I would wind up back at that tree, and he would be leaned against the trunk, snoring so loud. I could hear him from one hundred yards away as I made the la last leg of the route, and he would never have any squirrels. I laugh about it now, and my brothers and I get a kick out of these

stories about him. Go ahead and get into the woods, he would say, I'll meet you back here. Keep that shot gun pointed up and watch the treetops. These woods are full of squirrels on this day, I set off and was happy to be on my own. Against his advice, as soon as he was out of sight, I would click off my safety and get ready to shoot. I made my way down into that dry creek bed and started scanning the trees. I went on to kill three squirrels that morning, early right at daylight. Then all the

movement seemed to stop in the trees. I walked on, looking and looking for any movement that would give a squirrel's location away. But after two hours or so of walking and backtracking, I saw nothing. I still had a ways to go, so I started walking faster. I was getting bored to an eleven year old kid. When the action stops, I reached a deeper part of the creek bed and the walls began to obscure my view of

the tree tops. When I reached the lowest point, there was a pool of water still from the rain back in the summer. I could either wade through the shallow pool or go back, climb out of the ditch and walk around. I decided that I didn't want to get my shoes wet, so I backtracked to try to find a spot easy to climb out. As I turned around, I heard something walking in the woods above me. I first thought it was my grandfather because it was obviously a man walking, so I called out his name. No

one answered, but I couldn't hear the footsteps anymore. I walked a little further and the footsteps started again, and I called his name again, no answer. I could not see anything. The walls of the creek were three or four feet above my head. I was in a hole. I kept walking and looking in the direct of the footsteps, and finally made it to a washout that I could climb out of. I grabbed a root ball in the

ditch bank and started to pull myself out. As I reached the top, I laid my shotgun on the leaves so that I could pull myself over the top. As my line of sight broke the edge of the ditch bank, the first thing I saw was a large fur covered leg behind a tree trunk. The body of whatever this was was hidden behind the tree. I let go of the roots and fell back into the ditch. I was about to run like hell when as I got up, I saw a creature standing over me. At the top

of the ditch bank. It was standing there just looking at me. I just stared at this thing. It was not making any threatening movements. It just looked at me. Then I got really afraid. I guess the shock of the moment was wearing off because I noticed the end of my gun laying halfway off the edge of the bank. The animal was standing on top of it. Then I noticed it was a female. It made a grunting sound that again was not threatening, but it still scared me

to death. It started grunting, not like a monkey, more like a human imitating a monkey. It raised its arms and pointed them at me, and then grunted again. Then the fear meter went up one hundred notches because it stepped off into the creek bed with me. I backed away, keeping a distance between us. It moved towards me. I backed up. It raised one of its arms again and grunted. I was terrified and was about to turn and run

for my life. I wanted to slowly back up and get a little more distance between us before I turned and ran, and I backed into someone, another human. It was my grandfather. He put his hands on my shoulder and told me to be still. I know he could feel me shaking. I was about to burst out crying, but I held it together. I was so happy that he was there. Then he leaned down and softly told me to slowly move behind him. The creature just stood there,

looking at us. It had stopped its forward movement. Once I was behind my grandfather, I felt more safe. He asked me if I had any squirrels in my vest palates, and I told him I had three. Hand them to me now, he said, I reached back and found the squirrels and handed them around his waist. My grandfather never stopped looking at the creature. He took two or three steps towards the animal and pitched the squirrels to the creature's feet. The distance was only maybe fifteen or twenty feet.

The creature looked down at the dead game and looked back at us. Then it reached down and gathered them with one of its big hands. In a calm voice, my grandfather told me to start backing up. When I did, he was right with me, always keeping himself between me and the creature. I started to turn around and walk, and he squeezed my arm and said, don't turn your back on this thing. Just keep backing up so we

can climb out of this ditch. I finally made it to the bank and turned around and started to climb out. As I was climbing out, he told me to get his shotgun, which was laying on top of the bank, to get ready to shoot if this thing came at us. He told me not to shoot the animal, but to shoot into the air. I found his gun and stood up, clicked the safety off, and got ready. He slowly made it up the bank. The creature still stood there with the squirrels in her hand. In a few seconds, she

began to walk away down the creek bed. She walked through the pool of water I had tried to avoid, and then she disappeared around a bend ahead. Then we heard her climb out, and I could see a dark figure moving away from us through the woods until it was out of sight. My grandfather asked me where my shotgun was, and I pointed to it across the bank. He cussed and jumped back down and across the ditch to get it. Then we started walking out. He asked me several times on the way out if I was

okay and had that thing done anything to me? I told him I was fine. Then I asked him what that thing was. He said he didn't know. We drove home that afternoon, talking about it the whole time. I finally asked him how he knew that I was in trouble. He told me that he felt like following me that day to see how good of a squirrel hunter I was. I told him that I was sure glad that he did. The rest of that Labor Day weekend was weird. On Monday, the whole family showed up for the holiday and we

cooked fish outside. All the men were telling stories and laughing and drinking beer, while all the women gathered together and laughed all amongst themselves. Everything seemed back to normal, But I will never forget that thing I ran up on that day. I know what it was, but we never talked about it again. In my grandfather's house,