I've told only one other person about my encounter. It led to ridicule and
torment, so I've kept it to myself ever since. I got my driver's
license in the summer of nineteen seventy six. Five months after that, I
had earned enough money working in the tobacco fields of West Virginia to buy a
car. I lived with my stepdad. My mother had left me in foster
care right after their divorce. My stepdad was older, retired, and he
was in poor health. He and my mother had a son together, so
he took custody of me to help with my brother. It was a hot
muggi July night, punctuated by a supermoon that looked bigger than seemed to fill
the sky. I had finally talked a girl into going out. This was
the greatest thing ever, so we crossed the Ohio River to go to a
drive in theater. Neither of us had ever been to one before, and
as soon as the outlawed Josie Wales was over, we quickly headed back to
her house to beat her midnight curfew. I dropped her off and started for
home. The road I was driving on was one I hated, but I
had an errand to run before I got home. Seven Mile Ridge has houses
on both sides for the first couple of miles, and then the next three
or four miles were nothing but a lot of fields and a few other houses
that had seen better days and were falling in on themselves. About halfway down
that road was a farm we'd lease for raising tobacco, which I had topped
and suckered earlier that day. I'd left our sprayer and some other tools laying
at the end of the hay field at the far end of the tobacco field,
and I knew I had to retrieve them on my way home. I
pulled in and drove along the edge of the hayfield, heading back to the
far end, where the tobacco field started and where I had left the tools.
And as I did so, I was suddenly inexplicably afraid. Nevertheless,
I kept going. Dad would have hit the roof if he knew I had
left the sprayer out all night. The feeling was still with me as I
reached the spot where the tools were, so I shined my headlights on them.
I jumped out and grabbed everything as quickly as I could, threw it
in the back seat and got in my car. By now, the fear
was almost overwhelming. I just wanted to get out of there and get home.
As I drove out, I caught sight of a shadow on the passenger
side of the car. I looked over to see something running alongside me,
as if it were racing me. A thousand thoughts were running through my mind.
When it darted ahead of me and into the headlights, I knew what
I was seeing. Its waste was higher than the hood of my car.
It was covered in long black hair, and its head was conical shaped with
absolutely no neck. The muscles on its body flex and rippled as it ran.
My window was partially down, and I could smell a future mix of
wet dog and rotted road kill as it permeated my car. I knew if
this thing chose to reach through my window and pull me out, there would
be nothing I could do to stop it. Terror mixed with dread. As
we reached the end of the hayfield together, I made a hard right turn
onto the gravel rooster tailed rocks behind me. As I did, I didn't
look back to see if it was following me. I was fifteen minutes from
home, but I made it in six. When I got there, I
was still in the grip of panic and trying hard to calm my fear.
I couldn't get past the thought of having to go back to that field and
cut tobacco at the end of the summer. Did not want to imagine what
would happen if I ever encountered that thing again. Unfortunately, by the time
summer ended, I had figured out a way to get out of cutting that
field. Until that night, I had always enjoyed hunting deer, squirrels and
rabbits and other game. I had dug gen singing in the fall and spent
a great deal of time in the woods. After that night, I found
it nearly impossible to go into the woods ever. I've never seen another one,
but that one was enough. Eventually, the one person I talked to
about it had his own encounter, and he apologized for not believing me.
His encounter took place at three am, and I know this because he called
me as soon as it happened. Well, that's what happened to me.
I choose to remain anonymous for the same reason others dol ridicule. It was
seven forty PM and we were writing in twilight, it was made darker the
canopy that blotted out what little light was left of the day. I was
cycling with some recumbent riders. We got a late start on getting back to
our cars, and I was the only one with the head lamp on my
bike, so I volunteered to take the lead. We had two motor traffic
thoroughfares to cross, and I was essentially the crossing guard. No sooner had
we entered the dark part of the trail, when twenty yards in front of
my light beam, something flashed across the trail. At first, I thought
it was a deer, and in the same second I remembered that deer don't
have shaggy auburn hair. There was also a silver tuft toward the back of
it. I didn't see ahead arms or feet, and it flashed so quickly
from my right to my left that there was no time to register it.
If I did, we were coming up to our first crossing, so I
didn't give it too much thought until thirty seconds later when I heard the distinct
whoop coming from the south side of the trail, the same direction that whatever
ran in front of me came from. And then I heard an identical whoop
whoop three times coming from the north side. These calls came from such a
distance that only something with a massive lung capacity could have made them sound so
loud. As we came to the first crossing, I had time to let
the whole experience play like a movie in my mind. The recumbent riders crossed
the road and proceeded to the next segment of the trail, but I asked
one of the riders on a conventional bike if he'd heard the whoops. He
replied that he had and asked me what I thought it was. Well,
I don't know, I said, honestly, and then he went through a
whole litany of wildlife that it could possibly have been that made that call,
including an elk. The nearest elk in habits the western United States, two
four hundred miles away from New Incid, England. I went back a week
later, and I took pictures where I had found evidence of habitation. All
of this was sent to the local BFRO. An investigator contacted me and interviewed
me, and then never contacted me again, nor did they ever list the
incident on their website. I later tried to contact them again, but to
no avail. I can't help but wonder if they were contacted by some authority
to scuttle the whole incident. This part of the Southern Hemisphere in northern Massachusetts
is heavily populated. Maybe they thought it might cause some sort of panic.
That's my only thoughts. Though. This tale was related to me by my
fourth grade pe coach, and it made an impression on me. I'm not
sure where he heard it or how true it is. It takes place in
Cato Lake, which has a history of sightings of unknown creatures. It terrified
me as a child. The night watchman. The sun was setting in ol
City, Louisiana as the man made his way to his post. He was
to be the new night watchman for one of the many old derricks that had
been erected over the short period of time since oil had been discovered in nearby
Cato Lake and the surrounding swamps and marshlands. It would be a decent job,
he thought, keeping an eye on the various tools and equipment that the
wildcatter crew used during the day to pull the crew from the belly of the
earth. You just had to make it through the night without falling asleep.
As the new man, he had been picked to watch the dereck furthest back
from a particular boggy section of swamp. Having no boat available to pull through
the muck, he decided to walk along the bank. It would take a
little longer, but the track through the swamp wouldn't be anything he hadn't done
before, and he wanted to make an impression to hopefully move up to a
higher paying position on a day crew. The canopy of trees quickly blotted out
what little light was left, and he paused to light a kerosene lannerd that
he carried with a match. The amber light spilled out to push back some
of the gloom, and he continued on. The smell of the cypress trees
and stagnant mud were old companions that he had grown to love from his life
spent in the Louisiana bottoms. He let his mind wander with the memories of
hunting and fishing. Those familiar smells evoked, and a cypress called his foot,
and he stumbled as he caught himself he heard it. There was a
step holding the lantern high. He turned to look into the darkness. There
was nothing he could see among the dancing shadows. Deciding it was his mind
playing tricks, he turned and began to walk again. It wasn't long when
he heard it again, more steps mirroring his own, just to the side
and behind him. So he stopped and he turned once again, holding the
lantern high. Who is that? He called out, and he got no
answer. His pace quickened as he began to walk again, and he heard
the steps begin to once more mirror his own, now slashing in the nearby
water. Becoming unnerved, he began to walk even faster, catching his feet
on exposed roots, cypressknees, and clinging mud. Hearing the slashing steps growing
closer. With anger overcoming his fear, he stopped again. Who the hell
is that? He screamed, and still there was no answer. An overwhelming
quiet had engulfed the swamp. It was like cotton had been placed in his
ears. All he could hear was the beating of his own heart and his
wickened breaths, and then from the darkness came a low, deep growl that
reverberated in his chest. He could feel the color drained from his face and
his blood ran cold. Without thinking, he turned and ran. He had
nothing to defend himself with. His only hope was to reach the old derrick.
As he ran, slashing through the water and muck, he heard it
following him. It was crashing through the undergrowth. Water splashed as the giant
footsteps continued their pursuit, and it sounded as if it were upon him.
When he finally reached the derrick and began to climb, he dropped the lantern
and it fizzled out as it hit the water. Desperation made him climb faster
as he heard whatever it was it finally caught up with him. As he
climbed. The unearthly howl that blotted out the world came from just beneath him,
and he thought his heart would stock as he covered his ears and wrapped
his legs around the cross beams of the structure. It howled again and began
shaking the derrick with what had to be unimaginable strength. It circled him,
shaking and howling as it tried to claim its prey. Tears streamed down his
face and he climbed higher. He couldn't see what it was in the night
mare infested gloom, as his lantern was out, and there was no moon
in the starlit sky. This went on all night, the thing circling,
crashing, shaking, howling up at him until it threatened his sanity. Only
as the golden glow of the sun began to rise did the thing relent.
He heard it walking off with methodical strides through the water as the darkness had
vanished and the blue gray of dawn lit the swamp below. He could see
its footprints in the mud ud where it had circled him for an eternity,
and then going in a line deeper into the swamp as if on two feet.
He stayed where he was until the crew came. It took some time
to coax him down, and after hearing his story and seeing the footprints,
the men were at a loss as to what this thing could be. They
retrieved an older gentleman who had lived there all his life, and he knew
everything there was about the woods and the creeks and the bayous in the area.
He had surveyed the swamp and finally looked at the tracks. A steely
reserve came over his face, and then they asked what he thought it was,
and taking a steady breath, he replied loup Garoux. A confused silence
fell on the group as the old man repeated lou Garou, his finger pointing
in the direction of the tracks, going deeper and disappearing into the dark Cypress
swamp, a wog be distract from FROs