WEBVTT

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In the summer of nineteen sixty eight, when I was nine, we took

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our annual summer holiday at a small
holiday camp at Romney Marsh near Rye in

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Sussex, located in the south of
England. As always, we stayed in

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a static caravan that was typical of
the era. It was basic and small,

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with seats that converted into beds and
a curtain that could be drawn between

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them for privacy. Lighting came from
a gas powered mantle around the walls that

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my father would light in the evenings. They made a comforting noise as they

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burned, somehow, much homier than
the modern electric lighting systems of today.

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My parents were not wealthy, so
we always catered our own meals and our

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entertainment was simple. After tea in
the evening we would always go for a

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walk and usually end up in the
camp Amusement and entertainment clubhouse. Dad would

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have a pint of beer and Mom
a sherry, and we kids enjoyed a

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coke with a straw and a pack
of ready salted crisps. I think you

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call them potato chips in America.
We would never be out late, generally

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heading back to our caravan around nine
thirty or ten. Our holidays usually took

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place around late August, meaning it
would already be dark by that time.

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By the late nineteen sixties, the
eyes of the world were focused on the

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sky, commonly referred to as the
space race. It was a time of

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astronauts and satellites. Unlike today's geostationary
satellites, those early versions moved in such

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a way that live broadcasts on TV
and radio between different countries had to wait

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until the relevant satellite came on stream, usually meaning a limited broadcast of maybe

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fifteen or twenty minutes. As irritating
as it was, these satellites were easily

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visible as they passed overhead, shining
as either red or green lights in the

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night sky. As we walked back
to our caravan from the clubhouse. My

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mother always found great fun in getting
us kids to stare at the nighttime sky

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searching for those beautiful green and red
lights or any stars really. Sussex in

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the south of England was especially conducive
to this activity due to the lack of

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light pollution in the area. There
were a few lights dotted around the walkways

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for safety reasons, but these had
little effect on the darkness of the night

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sky. One evening, on our
way back to our caravan, Mom had

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us all looking up as usual.
It was not a cloudless night, but

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there were very large patches of open
sky, so we could see the stars.

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As we stood there looking for satellites, we suddenly saw a bright white

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light moving across the sky. It
was very high up and looking no bigger

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than one of the stars around it. We watched it as it came overhead,

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and then it stopped. After a
short time, it moved off in

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another direction and disappeared behind a cloud. A short time later, we saw

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it reappear, but from a different
direction. Yet again, it suddenly stood

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still before moving off and yet another
direction. We must have watched it do

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this at least a few more times
over perhaps five minutes, before it eventually

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sped away, and then we never
saw it again. We were puzzled about

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what we had been watching, and
my mother proclaimed that it must have been

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a UFO. Whenever I have recounted
this story over the years, I have

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always referred to it as a UFO, simply because that's what it was.

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It was unidentified. It was too
high for an airplane. Besides, its

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course was too erratic and there were
no red and green navigation lights, showing

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just a bright white light. A
helicopter might be flown like that, but

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again it was too high and there
were no additional navigation lights. I later

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discovered that area of Britain is considered
and might still be a hotbed for UFO

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phenomena. I'm not suggesting that what
we saw was an alien spacecraft, just

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that it was unidentifiable. In the
nineteen fifties and sixties was also the height

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of the Cold War, with a
lot of classified experimental aircraft around. So

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who knows what we saw. All
I know is what we all saw and

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watched for around five minutes was real
and did not behave in a conventional way.

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Was it an alien craft or was
it something man made? Who knows,

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but it will puzzle me for the
rest of my life, as it

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is done for the last fifty one
years. It was early November nineteen eighty

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four. The place was William Atte
National Forest, thirty miles east of Eugene,

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Oregon. Our story starts with a
man named Renee Dupree. Renee was

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of Cajun descent, born and raised
around Lake Charles, Louisiana, his father,

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Bill was a fisherman and a trapper
by trade. From the time they

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could walk, Renee and his brother
Bill Junior, everyone called him Bill Junior,

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except as Mama, who called him
little Bill. We're out in the

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swamp fishing, crabbing, catching crawfish
and turtles. If it was in the

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swamp and they can make a living
on it or put it on the table.

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They knew how to hunt it,
catch it, skin it, cook

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it, and eat it. By
the time the boys were grown, they

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had their own boats and traps.
They were happily entrenched and running the family

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business. Renee would ping a few
muskrats and ducks for dinner, but hunting

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never really appealed to him. He
wasn't against it. He was a Cajun,

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after all. Each year he would
buy gator tags, and if someone

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wanted him to get rid of a
pesky gator, he would do it.

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But that was about it. Back
when Renee was eight years old, his

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grandfather, Boudreau, the boys called
him Pappy, took the boy's deer hunting

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and placa mine's perish. Bill got
his deer right away. When it was

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Renee's turn to shoot, he couldn't
pull the trigger. Boudreau asked him,

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why didn't you shoot? Boy,
Renee teared up, handing the gun to

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the old man. Pappy, it
was just too alive to kill, he

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said. The old man placed his
hand on Rene's shoulder and comforted him.

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It's okay, not like a big
old muskrat. Huh. They feel dressed

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bills deer and slowly made their way
back to the jeep, the old man

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lumbering with one hundred pounds of venison
packed on his back. On their way,

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they came across the carcass of a
large buck. It had been caped

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out, with only the backstraps and
tenderloins removed. The old man sat his

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pack down and called the boys over, and, in his thick caging accent

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tinged with anger, he spoke,
you see this, This is wrong.

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This is a crime against nature.
God he put the animals here for us

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to eat, not to sport.
No, never for trophy. Never.

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He leaned forward to the boys for
effect. If you kiss something and take

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that life to God gave, and
you don't eat it, it'd be a

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sin. Boys. Renee rarely carried
a gun on his boat. He went

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happily about his life in the world, marveling at nature and fishing in the

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swamp. In the fall of nineteen
seventy four, everything changed. Brene was

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way up by you in a cypress
swamp, checking his traps for crawfish.

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He found two of them destroyed,
thrown up on the bank with the wire

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screen torn away. It made him
angry. He could fix them well enough

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when he got home, but it
was the insult in. It must have

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been them damn Yankees, he thought
to a cage in. Anyone born outside

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the swamp is a Yankee. Even
a Florida native would be a Yankee.

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To a Cajun, there's a code
to the swamp. You know everyone in

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the swamp, and you know their
traps. If you happen to be fishing

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next to one, you don't mess
with it. If the trap is tangled

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or in need of repair, you
either call the owner or fix it yourself.

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To do less is considered stealing.
As warm as the Cajun folk are,

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they do not cotton the thieves.
Renee, suspicious now that the thief

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was still in the area, cut
his motor and polled around to the next

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bin, hoping to catch him red
handed. The thief was there, but

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it wasn't a man. Renee heard
the stories and believed in the swampsy squatch,

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but he had never seen one.
Now there was one standing several yards

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down the bank, tearing up his
trap. Renee was surprised. He could

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not believe what he was seeing.
He watched silently for a moment before whispering,

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what you got, deaf fella.
The squatch whirled around quickly, but

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Renee continued speaking softly. So you
liked him? Crawfishes? Huh. The

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big animal held its gaze on Renee
while gathering the ends of an old shirt

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that it was using as a pouch
to hold the stolen crawfish. Renee's boat

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drifted closer. You know itms my
crawfish, deaf fella, Renee continued soothingly,

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But before he could finish the sentence, and quicker than his eyes could

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follow, the squatch threw the trap
at him, hitting him square in the

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chest, knocking him backwards into the
water. By the time he managed to

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get back on his feet in the
slick mud, the siequatch and his crawfish

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were gone. He stared dumbfounded at
the spot where the creature had been as

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the muck and filth dripped from his
body, but all he could do now

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was laugh. After that, Renee
spent a lot less time fishing and a

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lot more time polling up and down
those backwaters looking for the foots. He

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asked all the folks he knew if
they had ever seen one. He was

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infatuated with the beast. Now.
He heard about a Bigfoot meeting in Mobile,

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and he drove one hundred miles to
attend. He watched a film there

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and listened to the lectures. During
the question and answer periods, he asked,

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if I wanted to see one,
where would be the best place to

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look. They conferred with each other
before declaring that the Pacific Northwest was the

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best place. If that's where they
are, he told himself, then that's

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where I'm going to be. He
quickly sold his boat, traps and nets,

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and other equipment, mostly to his
brother, and headed for bigfoot country.

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He ended up in Oregon, where
he found a job working for the

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Forestry Service at the william At National
Forest. Here he was able to search

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while on the job. It was
nineteen eighty four and muzzle loading season,

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and Renee was checking in a man
named John Scope and his fourteen year old

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son, Danny. They were there
for Danny's first deer hunt. Certain they

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were abiding by all of the stringent
Oregon rules for youth hunters, Renee pulled

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out a map and showed them which
trails to take to reach the regulated hunting

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area. Taking a hard look at
the boy for the first time, he

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noted his pale complexion in his trembling
hands. Is he okay, he asked

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the father. Oh, yeah,
he's fine, just first hunt jitters.

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Renee was taken immediately back to his
first hunt. Mentally, he decided,

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since he'd worked the night shift and
the sun was breaking on the horizon,

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that he would go up and check
on the boy as soon as he got

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off work. He'd seen too much
of himself in the kid's eyes. As

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Renee pulled into the gravel parking lot
at the foot of the trail up to

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the youth hunting area, three gunshots
rang out in rapid succession. It was

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a call for help. He jumped
from his vehicle and ran up the steep

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trail, finding John waving his arms
at the entry gate. John, he

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yelled, where's Danny. It got
him? John answered, through sobs,

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it got my boy, calm down, Renee told him what got him,

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I don't know. It was as
we saw a deer through the brush and

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when Danny flanked to get the better
shot at him. Show me now,

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Renee demanded. John led Renee through
the gate into the meadow, where the

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thick line of small trees and brush
mark the edge. Renee whispered to John,

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you stay here. If you hear
me holler, you come running.

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Then, he added, reload your
gun and be ready to shoot if need

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be, before slowing making his way
through the brush line the two hundred feet

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or so to where the meadow opened. He'd wanted badly to see a si

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squatch, but not like this.
As he drew closer, he heard a

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low, soft whistling sound like a
flute being played ever so softly. Then,

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as he rounded the brush pile,
he saw something that his mind could

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not accept standing there was a creature
with the body of a goat or maybe

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a deer or something, with long, straggly hair, not quite the color

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of auburn, but not quite brown
either. Most unbelievably, where the neck

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should have been sprung a torso of
a boy no more than eight years of

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age. The human part was pale
and freckled, with the long, thin

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arms and the typical features of a
child, except for a long red goateee

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on his chin. Two small horns
jutted out of the mass of red curls

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on his head. This strange creature
stood before Danny, cupping its hands to

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its mouth, creating the soft,
flutelike whistle. It seemed to be dancing

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side to side and back and forth, all the while staring into Danny's eyes.

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Danny never moved. He was frozen
in place, mesmerized by the strangely

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magical creature that seemed more like something
out of a Disney movie or a fairy

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tale than any kind of reality.
It would have been comical if it weren't

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for its obvious intent on Danny.
Renee moved forwards, slowly, hands up

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palm's fork to show that he was
unarmed. In that same quiet voice he

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had used on that swamp squat so
many years before, he said, hey

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fella. The beast looked towards Renee
for a split second before returning his gaze

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to Danny. Renee continued speaking softly, the boy, he didn't mean no

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harm. The thing gestured with its
chin towards Danny, and Renee continued to

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walk forward the gun. Huh okay, I'll fix that. He walked slowly

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over and tried to remove the gun
from Danny's grasp, but Danny was frozen

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in place. The gun wouldn't come
free. Renee tried to lift Danny to

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point him in the gun in the
other direction. It was as if Danny

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was rooted to the ground. Renee
could not even begin to lift him,

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so he stepped between Danny and the
creature and then back deliberately into the gun

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barrel until it pressed into his own
flesh. If Danny tried to shoot,

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the bullet would have to go through
him to hit the creature. At this

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realization, the creature quit his little
dance. The tune he was playing grew

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a bit louder. It bowed to
Renee, It leapt, and then leapt

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again. With a third leap,
it bounded into a flash of light and

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was gone. Renee dove to the
ground in a split second before Danny pulled

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the trigger. The melody of the
flute was gone with the creature, replaced

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by the fading, distant echo of
a child's laugh. At the sound of

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Danny's gunfire. John bolted onto the
scene, frantically waving his gun. When

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he saw Danny standing there with Renee
lying on the ground, he slowed to

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a stumbling walk and tried to reholster
his gun, dropping it to the ground

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instead. Renee stood up and pushed
the barrel of Danny's gun towards the ground.

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As the boy, relief from his
trance, began to tremble and cry,

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Renee put his hand on a shaking
shoulder and said, not like shooting

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a big old muskrat, is it. It's okay, son, It's okay,

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John said comfortingly. Danny looked down
at the gun, stealing his hand

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and threw it to the ground.
Through great wailing sobs, he told his

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father, I don't want to hunt
anymore. John led Danny back down the

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00:17:26.799 --> 00:17:30.039
path. Renee picked up the muzzle
loader and the pistol, looked around one

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last time for the creature. It
was as if it had never been there,

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00:17:34.680 --> 00:17:41.440
and then he followed them back to
their vehicle. John was sitting in

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00:17:41.519 --> 00:17:45.640
his truck staring out to space.
Danny was busy crying himself to sleep next

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00:17:45.680 --> 00:17:52.279
to him. When Renee approached,
John got out His demeanor had changed.

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00:17:52.680 --> 00:17:56.039
He shook Renee's hand and he hugged
him. Thank you for saving my boy,

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00:17:56.359 --> 00:18:00.559
But we're not filling out any damn
report, he said, tersely.

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00:18:00.440 --> 00:18:04.680
Okay, Renee said, I'll call
you in a couple of days. Don't

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00:18:04.720 --> 00:18:10.000
bother. I won't answer. John
told him, well, here, let

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00:18:10.000 --> 00:18:12.799
me get your guns, then keep
them. We're done, was all John

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00:18:12.920 --> 00:18:18.440
said. With that, he was
back in the truck and they drove away.

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00:18:18.559 --> 00:18:22.799
The pistol and the muzzleloader are still
locked in a safe at the ranger

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00:18:22.920 --> 00:18:30.240
station. Renee is no longer there. He moved toward Washington State, in

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00:18:30.319 --> 00:18:33.960
the general area of Mount Hood.
Someone told him he might find what he's

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00:18:34.000 --> 00:18:40.119
looking for there. I wish him
well. Here's a note from the writer.

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00:18:41.200 --> 00:18:45.720
I tried to contact the people involved
before I committed myself to writing it

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00:18:45.799 --> 00:18:49.880
down, but a lot of years
and some bad storms have come and gone.

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00:18:51.160 --> 00:18:55.400
The story is just as I heard
it. I changed the names to

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00:18:55.480 --> 00:19:00.160
protect their privacy. The sad truth
is Renee was heart when that trap hit

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00:19:00.240 --> 00:19:04.200
him in the swamp. He almost
drowned when he fell back into the water.

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00:19:06.240 --> 00:19:10.000
The part about him selling all of
his stuff in a hurry is true

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00:19:10.079 --> 00:19:15.200
too. He wanted to get as
far away from that swamp as possible.

