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My first encounter was something that couldn't
be explained. Happened to me back in

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nineteen eighty seven. I was a
sixteen year old boy, and I wasn't

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afraid of anything, at least while
my dad and uncles were nearby. It

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was a family tradition at the time
for all of us to wake up at

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three am and travel an hour and
a half to our favorite hunting spot,

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the Okay here we go with a
pronunciation mangle muggly oak mugly ok m u

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Lge Wildlife Area in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. Once we arrived to the general area,

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it was a mile hike back to
where we would set up camp.

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On this particular morning, we were
running late, and as we arrived just

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before sun up, the codies were
already sounding off in the distance. They

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made me feel a little unsettled since
I was walking into the deep dark forest

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with just a flashlight. But my
dad and my uncles were there to reassure

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me or at least poke fun of
me, making me forget any of my

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fears about the woods. We had
been hunting together for years, and like

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family, we knew each other pretty
well. For whatever reason, the rest

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of them decided to venture off into
the woods, leaving me and my rifle

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to occupy an old deer stand.
To me, it looked like an old

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outhouse with a small window on either
side, and after sweeping the cobwebs out

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of it with my hands, I
closed the door behind me. I looked

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out the windows, and I scanned
the woods for coyotes, and around seven

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am I noticed a young doe off
to my right. She was probably seventy

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yards away. According to the laws
at the time, you could only take

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a dough on selected days, and
I raised my rifle. The doe was

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laboring to breathe. It staggered toward
the stand, and then it lapsed.

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Deer run from humans. Yet the
dough was just lying there motionless. I

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couldn't pull the trigger on her.
And then I heard something rustle in the

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bushes behind the stand, and I
pointed my rifle in the same direction,

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and I waited a few seconds,
but nothing emerged. The dough struggled to

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her feet and disappeared over the ridge
ahead of me, and the bushes rustled

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again, but the noise was coming
from a different direction. No sooner than

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I had refocused my attention, the
sound would drift to my right and then

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to my left. I was spinning
in circles, trying to figure out which

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window to aim my rifle out.
I was sure a herd of deer were

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going to fly out of the brush
from all directions at any time. And

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then something slammed into the side of
the shooting house with enough force to knock

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me off my feet, and it
was followed by a blood curdling screen.

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My back was against the wall,
and I slid into a crouched position,

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and I clutched my rifle, and
I panicked, and I burst through the

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door, determined to outrun whatever had
crashed into the stand. When I got

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to our truck, my uncle was
sitting inside the cab. He was having

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a smoke, and I was out
of breath, and I asked why he

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wasn't out in the woods honting,
And something's out there, was all he

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said. My dad and my other
uncle stumbled in a few minutes later,

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and they threw their gear into the
back of the truck and they climbed inside

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the cab, and a few minutes
later we were on the highway, headed

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home. For all of our big
talk about hunting, we left empty handed

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that day. Apparently each of them
had heard the same thing that I had

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heard, an inhuman scream that echoed
through the trees. Each accused the other

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of pulling a prank. I realized
whatever had hit the side of my shooting

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house, it did so with such
force that it certainly couldn't have come from

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any My uncles are my dad.
The Oak Mulgi Wildlife Management Area is an

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old Indian burial ground. It's rich
in Indian traditions. Just look up Moundville

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some time. My father passed away
in two thousand and four. He was

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a Vietnam veteran who wasn't scared of
anything, but in the early nineteen seventies

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something happened that terrified him. It
was a fall afternoon in the small town

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of Bird's Eye, Indiana. My
father was squirrel hunting on my mother's family

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property. He used the opportunity to
scout the land for signs of deer for

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the upcoming season. There was a
nice autumn day, and Dad wasn't in

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a hurry to get anywhere. He
was enjoying being in the woods and surrounded

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by nature. As he made his
way through the forest, he came across

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what he believed were some animal bones. He took him in to look at

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them, but he wasn't all that
interested, so he moved on. He

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hadn't gone much farther when he came
across some more bones, and he moved

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on and he found more, and
the deeper he moved into the woods,

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the more bones he came across.
That was when he noticed a trail of

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bones leading up the hill. And
all these remains lying around was odd,

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and Dad was the curious type.
He decided to follow the trail of bones,

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and as he made his way up
the hill, he noticed that the

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bones seemed to be getting bigger.
Some of them almost looked human a Dad

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was a medic in the Marines.
He was familiar with human bones, and

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about halfway up the hill he started
smelling something pungent. If he was a

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medic in the Marines, he was
a Navy corman. By the way,

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just the heads up, My son
was in the Marine corpns. I learned

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all this stuff back to the story. At the top of the hill he

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found a cave, and all around
it were more bones of all shapes and

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sizes. And when he approached the
mouth of the cave, the odor got

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so strong it nearly overpowered him.
The smell burned his eyes and he fought

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back the knee to vomit. As
he looked into the black opening and a

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pair of red eyes stared back at
him. He jumped backwards and shock at

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the glowing eyes that were easily seven
feet off the ground. An instinct kicked

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in and he emptied both barrels of
a shotgun into the mouth of the cave.

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But even as the shells were spent, he was turning and heading back

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down the hill at break next speed. He didn't wait to see if he'd

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hit anything or if he just made
it angry. He got out of there.

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My father was never an animated man. He believed in getting right to

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the point. He kept a poker
face at all times. But when he

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told this story, I could see
the fear in his eyes and I could

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hear it in his voice. Years
later, when I was thirteen, Dad

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and I were girl hunting on my
uncle's place in Taswell, Indiana. Like

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always, while we were there,
we were scouting for deer trails and scrapes

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and rubs. It was a hot
day in the middle of a dry spell,

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and Dad decided we'd follow a creek
bed that wasn't more than a few

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water puddles here and there, And
when we came around to ben in the

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creek, Dad stopped so quickly that
I nearly ran into his back. I'll

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never forget the expression on his face
when he turned around and looked at me.

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It was out of place for him. I really only remember having seen

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it when he spoke of that day
at the cave. I was looking at

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my dad and he was scared.
I don't know what the hell made this

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track, he said, but we're
not going to stick around to find out.

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I was born with my father's curious
nature. I had to see what

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he was talking about. I thought
maybe he was joking with me, and

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I looked around him, and at
first I thought I was looking at some

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kind of deer track where the deer
might have slipped or something. And then

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I realized next to the half dried
up puddle was a track that must have

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been eighteen inches long and nine inches
wide. I could clearly see the toe

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prints in the mud. Well,
Dad was right. We didn't need to

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stick around to see what had made
that track. When we got back to

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my uncle's house, my dad told
him what we've found, and I guess

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I half expected my uncle to laugh
at us. Instead, he looked at

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my dad straight in nine and he
said, well, this doesn't surprise me.

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My uncle had been hearing weird howls
and noises for the past few weeks.

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He told us that he saw a
hairy man who was over seven feet

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tall take two of his pigs.
Now, I guess we didn't have to

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wait around to find out what made
the track. My uncle already knew