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I've told only one other person about
my encounter. It led to ridicule and

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torment, so I've kept it to
myself ever since. I got my driver's

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license in the summer of nineteen seventy
six. Five months after that, I

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had earned enough money working in the
tobacco fields of West Virginia to buy a

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car. I lived with my stepdad. My mother had left me in foster

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care right after their divorce. My
stepdad was older, retired, and he

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was in poor health. He and
my mother had a son together, so

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he took custody of me to help
with my brother. It was a hot

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muggi July night, punctuated by a
supermoon that looked bigger than seemed to fill

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the sky. I had finally talked
a girl into going out. This was

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the greatest thing ever, so we
crossed the Ohio River to go to a

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drive in theater. Neither of us
had ever been to one before, and

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as soon as the outlawed Josie Wales
was over, we quickly headed back to

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her house to beat her midnight curfew. I dropped her off and started for

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home. The road I was driving
on was one I hated, but I

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had an errand to run before I
got home. Seven Mile Ridge has houses

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on both sides for the first couple
of miles, and then the next three

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or four miles were nothing but a
lot of fields and a few other houses

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that had seen better days and were
falling in on themselves. About halfway down

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that road was a farm we'd lease
for raising tobacco, which I had topped

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and suckered earlier that day. I'd
left our sprayer and some other tools laying

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at the end of the hay field
at the far end of the tobacco field,

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and I knew I had to retrieve
them on my way home. I

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pulled in and drove along the edge
of the hayfield, heading back to the

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far end, where the tobacco field
started and where I had left the tools.

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And as I did so, I
was suddenly inexplicably afraid. Nevertheless,

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I kept going. Dad would have
hit the roof if he knew I had

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left the sprayer out all night.
The feeling was still with me as I

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reached the spot where the tools were, so I shined my headlights on them.

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I jumped out and grabbed everything as
quickly as I could, threw it

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in the back seat and got in
my car. By now, the fear

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was almost overwhelming. I just wanted
to get out of there and get home.

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As I drove out, I caught
sight of a shadow on the passenger

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side of the car. I looked
over to see something running alongside me,

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as if it were racing me.
A thousand thoughts were running through my mind.

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When it darted ahead of me and
into the headlights, I knew what

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I was seeing. Its waste was
higher than the hood of my car.

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It was covered in long black hair, and its head was conical shaped with

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absolutely no neck. The muscles on
its body flex and rippled as it ran.

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My window was partially down, and
I could smell a future mix of

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wet dog and rotted road kill as
it permeated my car. I knew if

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this thing chose to reach through my
window and pull me out, there would

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be nothing I could do to stop
it. Terror mixed with dread. As

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we reached the end of the hayfield
together, I made a hard right turn

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onto the gravel rooster tailed rocks behind
me. As I did, I didn't

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look back to see if it was
following me. I was fifteen minutes from

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home, but I made it in
six. When I got there, I

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was still in the grip of panic
and trying hard to calm my fear.

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I couldn't get past the thought of
having to go back to that field and

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cut tobacco at the end of the
summer. Did not want to imagine what

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would happen if I ever encountered that
thing again. Unfortunately, by the time

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summer ended, I had figured out
a way to get out of cutting that

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field. Until that night, I
had always enjoyed hunting deer, squirrels and

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rabbits and other game. I had
dug gen singing in the fall and spent

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a great deal of time in the
woods. After that night, I found

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it nearly impossible to go into the
woods ever. I've never seen another one,

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but that one was enough. Eventually, the one person I talked to

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about it had his own encounter,
and he apologized for not believing me.

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His encounter took place at three am, and I know this because he called

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me as soon as it happened.
Well, that's what happened to me.

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I choose to remain anonymous for the
same reason others dol ridicule. It was

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seven forty PM and we were writing
in twilight, it was made darker the

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canopy that blotted out what little light
was left of the day. I was

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cycling with some recumbent riders. We
got a late start on getting back to

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our cars, and I was the
only one with the head lamp on my

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bike, so I volunteered to take
the lead. We had two motor traffic

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thoroughfares to cross, and I was
essentially the crossing guard. No sooner had

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we entered the dark part of the
trail, when twenty yards in front of

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my light beam, something flashed across
the trail. At first, I thought

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it was a deer, and in
the same second I remembered that deer don't

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have shaggy auburn hair. There was
also a silver tuft toward the back of

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it. I didn't see ahead arms
or feet, and it flashed so quickly

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from my right to my left that
there was no time to register it.

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If I did, we were coming
up to our first crossing, so I

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didn't give it too much thought until
thirty seconds later when I heard the distinct

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whoop coming from the south side of
the trail, the same direction that whatever

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ran in front of me came from. And then I heard an identical whoop

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whoop three times coming from the north
side. These calls came from such a

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distance that only something with a massive
lung capacity could have made them sound so

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loud. As we came to the
first crossing, I had time to let

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the whole experience play like a movie
in my mind. The recumbent riders crossed

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the road and proceeded to the next
segment of the trail, but I asked

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one of the riders on a conventional
bike if he'd heard the whoops. He

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replied that he had and asked me
what I thought it was. Well,

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I don't know, I said,
honestly, and then he went through a

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whole litany of wildlife that it could
possibly have been that made that call,

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including an elk. The nearest elk
in habits the western United States, two

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four hundred miles away from New Incid, England. I went back a week

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later, and I took pictures where
I had found evidence of habitation. All

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of this was sent to the local
BFRO. An investigator contacted me and interviewed

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me, and then never contacted me
again, nor did they ever list the

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incident on their website. I later
tried to contact them again, but to

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no avail. I can't help but
wonder if they were contacted by some authority

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to scuttle the whole incident. This
part of the Southern Hemisphere in northern Massachusetts

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is heavily populated. Maybe they thought
it might cause some sort of panic.

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That's my only thoughts. Though.
This tale was related to me by my

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fourth grade pe coach, and it
made an impression on me. I'm not

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sure where he heard it or how
true it is. It takes place in

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Cato Lake, which has a history
of sightings of unknown creatures. It terrified

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me as a child. The night
watchman. The sun was setting in ol

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City, Louisiana as the man made
his way to his post. He was

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to be the new night watchman for
one of the many old derricks that had

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been erected over the short period of
time since oil had been discovered in nearby

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Cato Lake and the surrounding swamps and
marshlands. It would be a decent job,

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he thought, keeping an eye on
the various tools and equipment that the

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wildcatter crew used during the day to
pull the crew from the belly of the

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earth. You just had to make
it through the night without falling asleep.

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As the new man, he had
been picked to watch the dereck furthest back

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from a particular boggy section of swamp. Having no boat available to pull through

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the muck, he decided to walk
along the bank. It would take a

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little longer, but the track through
the swamp wouldn't be anything he hadn't done

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before, and he wanted to make
an impression to hopefully move up to a

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higher paying position on a day crew. The canopy of trees quickly blotted out

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what little light was left, and
he paused to light a kerosene lannerd that

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he carried with a match. The
amber light spilled out to push back some

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of the gloom, and he continued
on. The smell of the cypress trees

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and stagnant mud were old companions that
he had grown to love from his life

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spent in the Louisiana bottoms. He
let his mind wander with the memories of

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hunting and fishing. Those familiar smells
evoked, and a cypress called his foot,

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and he stumbled as he caught himself
he heard it. There was a

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step holding the lantern high. He
turned to look into the darkness. There

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was nothing he could see among the
dancing shadows. Deciding it was his mind

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playing tricks, he turned and began
to walk again. It wasn't long when

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he heard it again, more steps
mirroring his own, just to the side

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and behind him. So he stopped
and he turned once again, holding the

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lantern high. Who is that?
He called out, and he got no

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answer. His pace quickened as he
began to walk again, and he heard

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the steps begin to once more mirror
his own, now slashing in the nearby

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water. Becoming unnerved, he began
to walk even faster, catching his feet

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on exposed roots, cypressknees, and
clinging mud. Hearing the slashing steps growing

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closer. With anger overcoming his fear, he stopped again. Who the hell

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is that? He screamed, and
still there was no answer. An overwhelming

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quiet had engulfed the swamp. It
was like cotton had been placed in his

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ears. All he could hear was
the beating of his own heart and his

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wickened breaths, and then from the
darkness came a low, deep growl that

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reverberated in his chest. He could
feel the color drained from his face and

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his blood ran cold. Without thinking, he turned and ran. He had

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nothing to defend himself with. His
only hope was to reach the old derrick.

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As he ran, slashing through the
water and muck, he heard it

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following him. It was crashing through
the undergrowth. Water splashed as the giant

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footsteps continued their pursuit, and it
sounded as if it were upon him.

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When he finally reached the derrick and
began to climb, he dropped the lantern

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and it fizzled out as it hit
the water. Desperation made him climb faster

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as he heard whatever it was it
finally caught up with him. As he

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climbed. The unearthly howl that blotted
out the world came from just beneath him,

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and he thought his heart would stock
as he covered his ears and wrapped

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his legs around the cross beams of
the structure. It howled again and began

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shaking the derrick with what had to
be unimaginable strength. It circled him,

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shaking and howling as it tried to
claim its prey. Tears streamed down his

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face and he climbed higher. He
couldn't see what it was in the night

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mare infested gloom, as his lantern
was out, and there was no moon

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in the starlit sky. This went
on all night, the thing circling,

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crashing, shaking, howling up at
him until it threatened his sanity. Only

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as the golden glow of the sun
began to rise did the thing relent.

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He heard it walking off with methodical
strides through the water as the darkness had

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vanished and the blue gray of dawn
lit the swamp below. He could see

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its footprints in the mud ud where
it had circled him for an eternity,

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and then going in a line deeper
into the swamp as if on two feet.

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He stayed where he was until the
crew came. It took some time

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to coax him down, and after
hearing his story and seeing the footprints,

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the men were at a loss as
to what this thing could be. They

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retrieved an older gentleman who had lived
there all his life, and he knew

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everything there was about the woods and
the creeks and the bayous in the area.

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He had surveyed the swamp and finally
looked at the tracks. A steely

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reserve came over his face, and
then they asked what he thought it was,

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and taking a steady breath, he
replied loup Garoux. A confused silence

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fell on the group as the old
man repeated lou Garou, his finger pointing

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in the direction of the tracks,
going deeper and disappearing into the dark Cypress

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swamp, a wog be distract from
FROs