Bigfoot Harassing Innocent People

All right, here we go. In nineteen sixty nine, in the summer before we started high school, a few friends and I would head out on our bicycles every chance we got to explore the forest in our area. We lived in Castle Rock. It was a quaint Americana town situated between Mount Saint Helen's to the east and the Columbia River leading into the Pacific to the west. We

were fourteen years old then. My friend Randy had a brand new five speed shwind stingray bike with brake controls on the handlebars, and the rest of us had hand me down single speeds with coaster brakes. Randy led most of the adventures and we tried to keep up. West of Castle Rock was a two lane road known by the locals as the West Side Highway. I don't think any of the locals ever knew the highways number, and to this day I still don't. In that area was

a wooded place called Whiskey Flats. It got the nickname because way out there, hidden in the thick brush and away from the unforgiving eyes of the sheriff and the game wardens, high schoolers would sneak out there and have keg. Despite the no trespassing signs posted on both sides of the highway and our parents' warnings to stay clear of the area, we hung out there on occasion. We weren't very good at following directions. We were only fourteen, after all.

I don't think we ever knew who owned the property, but we knew about the sheriff and the game wardens patrolling the area for troublemakers and illegal fishing down by the Calitz River. The thing that kept us away from the area most of the time, though, was the thought of us slowly eighth graders accidentally trespassing on a high school party and getting our butts kicked by the other boys.

Two weeks before school started, the four of us were riding our bicycles on West Side Highway when in a moment of bravery, we decided to check out Whiskey Flights. We looked ahead of and behind us to make sure there was no traffic coming from either direction that would catch us and ruin our big plans, and we made a quick turn past an o trespassing sign and we rushed down the hillside. The path going down the hill was loose gravel. We had to ride our brakes all

the way. Randy, who made it to the bottom of the hill first, was already waiting for us, with a big grin plastered across his face. We came to a skid stop next to him and saw what put that smile there. It was a green and white nineteen fifty five Ford Sedan with a dark blue nineteen forty seven Plymouth Sedan, and both of them newly abandoned and ready to be explored. It wasn't unusual for people to ditch

their old vehicles and Whiskey flights. They just removed the license plate in the cereal numbers and dump them there, and someone else would inevitably come by, strip the vehicles of all the usable parts and leave the frame for the forest to grow around. We had a good old time checking out the old vehicles and sitting behind the driver's wheel and pretending that we owned the world. The Plymouth had a single brake light in the center of the trunk with an old sailing ship molded into the

glass lens, which I knew was most likely the Mayflower. Well, I wanted that lens, and I called DIBs on it, knowing all I had to do was come back with some tools and take it off, as if the sedans themselves weren't neat enough. Once we looked through into the windows, we saw something that made our jaws drop and our

hearts flutter. There were stacks of Playboy magazines stashed in the cabs of both cars, where we looked at each other like we had won the lottery, and did the only logical thing any fourteen year old boy could have done. We split into groups of two and checked out the magazines and both sedans, and we weren't reading any articles.

When we had seen all our eyes could handle, we switched cars with the other two and looked some more, and we thought about taking some of the magazines with us, but we realized some of the high school boys may have hidden them there, and we thought better of it. I swear we learned more from those magazines than we did in all of high school, and by the time

we headed back home we felt enlightened. Those magazines matured us, and we bike back home and our heads swirling with glorious images of playboy women, and we decided to go back to Whiskey Flats on Saturday. We were men now, and when we came back, we would make it down to the river, no matter if the high schoolers were

there or not. Saturday came and I packed a screwdriver in a crescent wrench into an old pillow case, figuring one of them would help me get the Mayflower lens off the car, and once again Randy and his Shwin led the way down the West Side Highway, and as soon as the coast was clear, we made that quick turn into Whiskey Flat and we disappeared down the hill. Randy was yet again waiting at the bottom for the rest of us, who had to coast cautiously down the

loose gravel. He was wearing a big expression again, but this time he wasn't smiling. We skidded to a stop next to him and asked what was going on, but he was too scared to speak, and instead he pointed with a shaking hand toward the Plymouth. Maybe part of me hoped it was some of the high school boys having their look at the Playboy treasure trove. Maybe his terrified look was normal for a fourteen year old boy

about to be knocked around by older kids. But when we turned our heads to see what he was pointing at, it took us a good minute to wrap our heads around what we were seeing. It was definitely not high schoolers, and it was about the furthest thing from a Playboy bunny. There could possibly be a female bigfoot with a hairless face and breast had gotten stuck in the door of the Plymouth. She was at least six feet tall, and

her head jutted out of her torso. The brown hair under her arms was so long that it looked like the fringe on a motorcycle jacket, and as she tried to free her hair from the door latch, she saw us. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up, and the smart thing to do at that time was to run, But fear had cemented our legs in place, and the four of us just stood there,

frozen in shot and stared at this creature. She didn't appreciate having an audience, and she let us know, and she let out a blood curdling scream that sounded like a woman being brutally attacked. It rang through our ears like hells bells, and it shook us to our core, and being a mature men that we had become, we all wed our pants. It was only a matter of time before she would break free from the latch, and by the looks of the door, which she had started to bash and din up like a soda can, Tom

was not on our side. We turned heel and got out of there as fast as we could, and we ran our bikes up that gravel hill, and when we got to the road, we peddled down West Side Highway faster than any kid ever had in the history of that area. Back near the safety of our homes, we agreed to never talk about what we had seen. No one would believe us anyway, and if our parents found out that we had been hanging around Whiskey Flats, we

would only get into more trouble. And when I made it home, I threw my pants in the wash, believed to see that my mother was still in town grocery shopping, and relieved I didn't have to explain myself. Now, many years have passed since that day, and I've long since moved out of the area. Recently, though, I drove past the old Whiskey Flats and it's completely gone now, no downhill to the river and no downhill to the old

abandoned cars. It was all filled with dredge boils from Mount Saint Helen's eruption and its level with the West Side Highway now and houses are built all over it. It would nearly be impossible for a bigfoot to hide out in that area, now, I knew that, But as I drove by, I heard that blood curdling scream echoed through my head, and I felt my hair stand up again.

What would have been a pleasant drive down Memory Lane was suddenly tainted by a life changing memory that only seemed to worsen the older I got well, I sped up and got out of there, trying to put as much distance between me and that memory as I could, all the while remembering the feeling of peddling my bike so fast that I thought I might fly, and that's when it occurred to me it wasn't the playboys that

stole away my childhood and made us men. That day, it was a terrifying realization that some monsters are real. Back in the nineteen nineties, my buddy and I headed to Paint Creek Lake in southern Ohio, that's where I'm from. We decided to walk off trail to go fishing in a honey hole I knew about where nobody else goes. Usually we would get there by boat, but this time we were walking, and we walked through a heavily forested

area with only a lantern to light our way. We made it through the brush along the shoreline, and when we had gotten as far as we could go, we heard some dead falls snapping behind us. And we were in the forest after all. But the normal sounds of wildlife and nature quickly turned into an explosion of noise as something massive beat and battered the trees and earth and the shadows behind us. I couldn't help myself, and I found a rock and I threw it at the noise.

Everything went abruptly quiet. Friend and I shrugged at each other and got back to fishing. But a few minutes later, that same rock came flying past my head. Well. I turned around to see who had done it, but everything had gone completely quiet again, and a little light from our lantern had no chance of penetrating, darkness blanketing the trees. Well, we stood there, dumb foundain, trying to figure out what

it could possibly be. We were hardly comforted knowing there was a slim chance it had been a human since the area around Paint Creek Lake is completely forested with very few homes. Standing there in the darkness, and knowing something was out there watching us, so we decided to end our fishing trip. Early a month later, my dad and I were fishing out on his pontoon boat at the same spot. It was early in the morning, around three or four AM, and a thick fog clung to

the lake, and the fish had finally stopped fighting. We decided to head home. The front of our boat was tied to a fallen tree that was half in the water and half on the shore, and the back of the boat was anchored. I pulled the anchor and I started doing my part by pulling the boat toward the tree, and when my dad started the boat. It was as if a light switch had been flipped and all hell broke loose on the bank next to the fallen tree.

The fog was too thick to see what was causing the commotion, but I could see the rocks and the twigs flying everywhere. And then we heard something roar, and the rope in my hand began to vibrate as whatever was pummeling the old tree like an angry bull on a rampage. I stood there, frozen at the aggressive fury that I couldn't see, too taken off guard to consider

what had been happening. My dad yelled at me to cut the rope, and I was glad to do that, and there was no way I was getting closer to that tree than I already was, so I cut it in a second and we headed back to the dock as fast as we could. Now that I'm older, I think it's important to know the truth about what is in our forests, and looking back on this experience, it terrifies me to think about what it could have been. Was it a bigfoot, was it a dog man? Or

could it have been something worse. This event took place fifteen or so miles south of the Niangua River and a town so small the only thing in it is a Rundown post office at an intersection between state highways. In this part of the state, cows are much more numerous than people in the fields of crops and livestock and timber are expansive. It was four years ago in May that I was visiting my dad's house, shortly after

graduating high school and accompanied by my then girlfriend. We had planned to stay a few days at his residents to celebrate and explore all the nearby natural areas. At the time, he had fifteen or so acres of woods that bordered the backyard and the shop near the house that the boys and I would walk through to get to the fence line of our neighbor's cow pasture to

look at the stars some nights. Between the line of woods in the backyard and the fence was a small pond that was home to many frogs that sank throughout the night, and straight back behind the shop about forty yards was a pile of debris from a tornado some years ago that swept through that area and was bulldozed to that location. This same pile was used by my dad as a trash pile, and it doubled as a mountain of bear cans as he was a heavy drinker

at the time. Well, we lived along the US Highway, close enough that certain semis passed and would rattle the windows, but far away enough that it was the only vehicle you could hear with the windows closed. Used well, after my dad went to sleep, my brothers and I went about trying to get as much wood as we could before the sun had totally set, and between the five of us we managed a pretty sizable stack that would keep an immense fire blazing throughout the night, and blaze

it did. I pulled my car up on the side opposite of where my girlfriend and I were sitting in a kayak on the ground and played old rock tunes from it. We sat and laughed for hours, tossing around and shooting the bull and catching up and laughing the night away. The sounds of the woods were like a symphony behind me that were full of life and penetrating the cool air, with the coral sounds of crickets, frogs,

and the occasional owl. It had been a long time since I had been privileged enough to be present in this kind of atmosphere living in Kansas City, and I was just elated the whole night. At two am, my two younger brothers went inside for a refill of their beverages. It was just a couple of minutes later, while talking to my older stepbrother, who was sitting next to me in a camp chair, that I heard sticks break in the woods over the music. Hey do you hear that?

I asked my stepbrother, who was staring at his phone. I don't know what you're talking about, dude, he said, and he never looked up. I wrote it off as a deer, seeing so many walk through the backyard in the mornings, so I continued conversing with him for a little bit longer. When I noticed the frequency in the volume of these sticks cracking simply did not add up

to a deer passing through. My experience as a hunter told me that something wasn't right, and I told my stepbrother to go turn off the music so I could hear it better. The first thing I noticed was how well I could hear these sticks breaking from what sounded like all the way to the fence, as the woods

had gone silent. The three of us in silence tossing around ideas as to what could be making such a racket in the woods at this hour, Bears had been known to come through the area, and sitting with my back to the woods, I suddenly became uncomfortable at that thought. But boy do I wish I could have seen a bear,

as I was not prepared for what came next. It dawned on me that the sounds were getting closer, close enough that I could hear individual footfalls on the leaves and the sticks on the ground, and I froze when it registered that these steps were being taken on two feet. I tried not to get ahead of myself, after all, I had two younger, mischievous brothers that had just gone inside, Nate and Joe. What the hell are y'all doing out there? Quit messing around? I called out to the woods behind me.

I shot a grin at Michael, who had finally looked up from his phone listening to the sounds with concern on his face. I got no answer from j Nate, so I called out again, wondering if someone was trespassing on our property, whoever you are, you need to announce yourself a warning you and I remember the AK forty seven that had been used for target practice that day, was just inside the shop, and then the rustling paused. It was met with silence, and I thought that maybe

they acknowledged my words. But then the walking continued, except it was now coming in our direction. My older brother and I exchanged glances of worry when my two younger brothers came walking around the corner of the house with drinks in their hands. Y'all better quit before dad wakes up? What's going on out here? And when I saw them and realized that whatever was walking toward us was not familiar, the potential danger of the situation was starting to set in.

Who the hell was walking in the woods between properties at two am? Well? My girlfriend, who was sitting right in front of me, who had been quiet this entire time, asked, what are we gonna do? Just sit here? Well? I didn't have an answer, and I was the only person capable of operating a firearm in the group. Intense anxiety gripped me, and I thought of what it meant to possibly pull the trigger on somebody. I must have sat

there for a good minute now. I was petrified, thoughts racing through my mind when it became apparent that the footsteps were closing in. Whoever this was was making deliberate steps with the full intention of walking right up on us, And I swear to you it must have only been ten yards or less away. When I stood up out of the kayak and I shouted as loud as I could, Hello, who goes there? The footsteps stopped dead, just out of

you from the light of the campfire. The tension in the air was thick, and so was the silence, only ever broke by the crackle of the fire. We all sat there anticipating their next move. We were paralyzed. Just then they were treated toward the left of our viewing area. What the hell? I thought? And we all looked at each other in disbelief, and we listened to the footfalls go back and forth between our ten o'clock and our

two o'clock. It seemed whoever this was decided they were going to stay just outside of our field of view, but just close enough to observe our group. I could see the look of astonishment creep across the faces of my siblings, except my younger brother, Nate. Nate, he was brave, and he grabbed sticks and rocks and whatever he could find laying on the ground, and he started chucking them

into the woods, shouting at the bastard. I think his intentions were to taunt the guy into coming out, or at the very least, this was his attempt to run them off. But his actions, nor our knowledge of the figure year's presence, dissuaded them from running away. It simply moved from left to right, dodging the items that were

being thrown. It was at this pivotal moment that I was wrestling with the thought of getting the gun and firing warning shots, when I realized that if this lunatic was armed, they would have already done what they had intended to do, so I told my brother to stop let them get close. It seemed their objective was to make their presence known but conceal themselves in the trees.

I told my brothers to sit quietly and let this fellow get close enough while I was waiting in my car that I then pulled up to the edge of the tree line. When I thought they were close enough to be viewed, I would illuminate the woods with my brides and the perpetrator would come into full view. But in hindsight, this action seemed kind of strange, but the result was much more so. I waited there with my

car on and my headlights off. I could hear this person getting closer and closer, and it occurred to me that the sight of an operated vehicle near the woods would have been enough reason to flee in fear of possibly getting run over. And yet here they were, meandering ever nearer to the edge. I heard the rustle of the leaves right in front of the car, some feet away when I decided to light up their world, and I shouted profanities as I flipped the switch. And this

is the moment that I would never forget. As it would turn out, I wasn't close enough to see the damn thing thing is what it was, because when the lights came on, I only saw the movement of a single branch in the trees where it had just been accompanied by what sounded like a freaking car driving through the woods as this thing crashed through them, running away from me. Judging by how loud the snapping was this morning, munster had to have been a few hundred pounds on me,

and my blood ran cold. My comprehension of what I thought lived in the woods was immediately defied, and when the trees were once again quiet, I turned to the rest of the group, who also had their jaws hanging open. My two younger brothers were the first to break the silence, announcing their departure indoors, and they wished us a good night, and they hurried inside, having no idea what to even

think or feel. My older step brother and my girlfriend and I sat there trying to wrap our minds around what took place here, but we stayed out there, unsure of what to do next. When I heard it come back. This time it stayed further out in the woods, but it didn't try to conceal its movements, and my mind raised as daunting thoughts of revenge made me fearful of my life, and my girlfriend certainly ran inside for hers.

And then the most unnerving thing happened. The creature walked out from our ten o'clock all the way to the trash pile, which was to our four o'clock, and it stayed concealed by the woods the entire trek there, and I heard it walking on top of all the beer cans, seemingly jumping up and down and throwing or kicking cans around. Well, the size and weight of this thing was fully illustrated

by the crunch of the aluminum beneath its feet. Neither of us could tell what it was doing or why, but we got the hell out of there, and when we went inside we found that our brothers had woken up our father to tell him what had happened. And by the end it was just past three, and I thought my dad was going to be really hiked off, but he wasn't. He seemed somewhat concerned, but more bewildered

than anything. He knew exactly what it was, having had his own experiences in the state of Washington, but he seemed astounded that such a thing would happen in Missouri. He inquired about the event for a few minutes, and then he shrugged it off, and then he went back to bed. I couldn't believe what I had just heard.

Four am rolled around and we were all getting tired, and I crawled into my makeshift bed on the floor, and I was almost asleep when it struck me that my phone was lying on top of the roof of my car. Well. I was gripped by fear at the thought of even going out there, but with the rain in the forecast and the thin wallet, I surely wasn't going to let that happen. So I stepped through the front door and I made my way around the corner.

The fire had gone out and the only thing illuminating the night was a single light on the shop that was on the side closest to my car, thankfully, and as I walked across the yard, I noticed that the woods were still, and I had the distinct feeling that I was being watched. I grabbed my phone from the top of the car and made a quick work of getting back in the looking behind my shoulder every so often at the dark and the silent abyss of trees, until rounded the corner and I got inside the house.

The next morning, my older brother and I were up before everyone else, and we decided to go out back and do some investigating. We carried the rifle with us and I told him to stay put and I wanted him to listen to me jump on the pile of cans to try and guess the weight of the creature. And when I arrived at the pile, I was amazed and frightened by the amount of beer cans and trash

that had been strown about the general area. When I came back, he told me that whatever had been on that pile the night before must have been at least three times my size. At that point in time, I was five foot eleven, one hundred and sixty five pounds, and I was not courageous enough to look for prince, realizing that even a full clip might not protect me from a creature of that size, and we left it

at that. My love for the woods is not wavered, and I'm an avid out dorsman, but this event has cemented itself into my mind, and my view of the natural world has changed. And since this event, I do not enter the woods at night anymore, and during the day I'm very attentive to my surroundings. I have seen strange structures and smelled unexplained things since then, but those experiences are just conjecture. This, however, is significant for a

couple of reasons. Whatever this creature is was walking on two feet and objectively bigger than a human, and most importantly aware of its utility, and deliberately making its presence known to us, yet staying just out of sight. What gets me about this experience compared to the others that I've heard, is that I did not smell anything, and it seemed genuinely curious about us, not at all wanting to be seen. It wasn't deterred by our advances, and

it even came back after a crude attempt to see it. Also, in hindsight, it might have gone to the trash pile for food, but the sounds it made while doing so were very unusual, and I swear to you it was jumping around like it was deliberately making noise, And the prospect of something being intelligent and bold enough to do such a thing is terrifying to me. Now I have only told very few people about what happened that night because it is so surreal and outlandish, and I'm pretty

sure no one would believe me. And that's the end of his email, and that was I just can't believe. What a good writer, this guy, What a great story. I'm not going to send anything else and ruin it. You heard it, You know the story. You make your own judgments about it. But I thought it was great and I appreciate the man sending it. Thank you. Okay, I was going to do another story. But I got dogs walking around. They want to go outside. I'm tired of letting them in and out, in and out, in

and out. I've been doing that for two hours while I recorded this audio. And Betsy, Betsy, why do you keep going out and in and out? Girl? Can y'all hear clicking over here? He thinks I'm mad at her. I'm not mad at her. I kind of am, but I'm I'm I'm loving on her right now. Anyway. Thank you for joining me on this podcast. I appreciate it. Hey, maybe you could hit the thumbs up on this video

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