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Speaker 1: John Mercer heard the mountain the first week after they

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moved in from his bedroom window. Blackthorn Mountain looked peaceful,

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a dark ridge beyond the narrow strip of woods at

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the back of the Northern Vermont subdivision. His parents loved

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the view, nice and quiet. His dad said, it wasn't.

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One afternoon, while John lay on the bed staring at

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unpacked boxes, a voice exploded out of the trees behind

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the houses. The sound punched through the glass, deep, sharp, furious.

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More syllables followed, fast and guttural, rolling over one another,

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like men shouting through static. Underneath. He thought he heard

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smaller voices trying to cut in and getting steamrolled. Then

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it cut off. The TV murmured downstairs. John sat frozen,

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heart pounding. That wasn't a dog, That wasn't a TV.

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He pushed the blinds aside. The backyard sloped to the

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tree line. A couple of bikes lay in the grass.

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No one was out there yelling. Did you hear that?

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He asked in the kitchen, hear what his dad said,

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not looking up from his laptop. Someone was screaming, like

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like in Japanese or something. His dad chuckled, Probably someone's

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TV cranked up, sound bounces off the hill. You'll get

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used to it. John didn't. That night, he lay awake

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replaying the sound. His grandfather used to watch old samurai movies.

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The rapid clips of voices in those films flickered through

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his mind. This had felt like that, but bigger, angrier,

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as if the speaker was standing in the woods behind

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their fence. He imagined a huge, furious, Japanese looking guy

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living out there, shouting at people he couldn't see. It

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should have been funny. It wasn't. A few days later,

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he followed the narrow path behind the house down to

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the woods. Up close, the trees at the base of

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blackthorn pressed together, the light thinned and the air cooled.

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The dirt smelled of wet leaves and something musky underneath,

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like a dog that lived outdoors all year. He hesitated

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at the edge. One more step would put him under

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the branches. He stepped graw too rock eye A sorry. Sorry.

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The voice hit him like a slam door. It was

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echoing off the mountain. Now it was ahead of him, somewhere,

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just beyond the first curtain of trunks. Small little voices

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flared up in response. Higher quicker, tumbling over one another,

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jah ra high ll. They sounded like an argument. He

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couldn't understand a word, but the tone needed no translation. Furious, panicked, insistent.

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The deep voice snapped across the others like a drill sergeant.

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They're yelling because of you. The thought slid into his

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mind and lodged there. Hello, he called, because doing nothing

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felt wrong. The words went dead still. Then branches shook.

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Something heavy hit a tree, a loud thump, hard enough

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to knock woodloose, bark, that is. The big voice roared again,

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and the smaller ones climbed over it in a chaotic tangle.

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John backed toward the light, his heel snapping a twig.

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Instant's silence, the feeling of being watched closed around him

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like a hand. He didn't turn around and run. He

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walked back out to the grass as calmly as he could.

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The back of his neck the skin was crawling. Only

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when he was half way up the slope toward the

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house did he look over his shoulder, just trees, quiet, ordinary.

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It became a pattern. Whenever he walked down toward the

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woods and came within a few steps of the tree line,

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the chatter started up somewhere inside. Sometimes it was a low,

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angry grumble. Sometimes it flared into a full, booming argument.

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The deep voice always came back the loudest. The smaller

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voices sounded scared, defiant, pleading, depending on the day. He

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started marking the times in a note book and nicknamed

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the speakers to make sense of it. The two fast,

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higher voices were snaps and click. The lowest tense one

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he called soft step. The huge, chesty one that shook

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his ribs was chief. He tried to record the sounds

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on his phone. Each time the chatter dropped to a murmur,

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more vibration than voice. On playback, it sounded like distant

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highway noise. His mom said it was probably logging equipment.

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The neighbor waved off his question with sound. Does weird

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things up here? You'll get used to it. He didn't.

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He got curious instead. At the same time, John walked

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to the edge of the trees and stared in. Something

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stared out from the shadow of a spruce. At the

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base of blackthorn, A broad shouldered figure watched the thin

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human boy pick his way down the hill alone. The

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boy's scent was always the same, sharp, young edged with worry.

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No other human sense clung to it. No mother scent,

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no father scent, no pack. The younger male snaps, though

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he didn't know that name. Paced heavy footsteps, pressing hollows

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into the wet ground. Shah, he burst out, voice crackling

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in the air. Ray. He jabbed a long, thick finger

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toward the bright strip of yard beyond the trees. He comes,

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he sees, we end him. The older male beside him

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barely moved. Scar tissue ridged his arms where fur refused

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to grow. His eyes stayed locked on the boy at

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the edge of the woods. Cold, no foil translated lone

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young one, no fire, no group. Let him walk soft step.

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The female shifted her weight, one hand resting on her belly.

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Her eyes moved from the boy's hunched shoulders to her own.

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Too offspring, small, she said, quietly, scared, But he bring

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others later. Click. The slighter adolescent made a nervous chattering noise.

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He remembered thundersticks, rifles, and metal teeth in the ground.

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Snaps snarled, we kill now, No others come, he insisted.

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One scream, one rush done. The older male chief led

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out a breath that rumbled his chest. He had seen

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what happened when a human vanished. Now sirens, lines of people, flying, machines,

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combing the hills. Kill lone cub, he said in his

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own tongue, And many ones come with thunder, with fire,

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with sky eyes, no place, hide, no food, no peace.

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He kept his gaze on the boy, who had stopped

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just inside the first drift of leaves. We stay, we hide,

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he walk, we watch. Snaps bared his teeth, but fell quiet.

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Chief's decision had kept them alive this long, so they

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argued loudly. Whenever the boy came on purpose, Snaps shouted

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to scare him back. Soft step fretted, click, darted, and mutter.

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Chief's voice rolled through everything, setting invisible lines. From John's side,

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all he heard was chaos from theirs. It was strategy.

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He tried not to type the word bigfoot. He'd always

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thought of it as a joke, a cartoon, footprints, taurist traps,

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the guy at the flea market with Squatch watch merch.

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But late one night, phone under the covers, he finally

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searched weird forest voice Samurai chatter. Page after page talked

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about odd, foreign sounding speech recorded in the woods hunters

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describing samurai chatter audio clips that sounded eerily like an

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argument in some unknown language. The same word kept popping

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up around the edge, bigfoot sasquatch. He shut the phone

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off and stared at the ceiling. The next afternoon was

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cold enough that breath smoked in front of him. He

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walked straight past his front door after school and headed

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down the hill. At the tree line, he stopped and

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planted his feet on that leaf litter. I know you're there,

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he said. The woods answered as if they had been waiting.

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Ay ay. Snaps tried to roar, sometimes heavy, striking a

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trunk and saying kill kill. Clicks chatter skittered over his

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high and frightened. Soft step hissed a warning. Then chiefs

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bark crashed over them, all sh which meant know or stop,

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and the others fell into a tense mutter. John took

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three steps in the houses slid out of his peripheral vision.

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The air under the branches was colder. Somewhere ahead, something

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vast shifted its weight, the soft thump of a foot,

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the scrape of fur against bark. Why are you yelling?

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He called? What do you want? Within the shadows, the

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family argued one more time, and him snaps, snarled, voice

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low now aimed at Chief. He come, he come close,

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He sees too much. Later he bring thunder and trouble.

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Now Chief's reply was calm and grinding. If he vanish,

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he said, they scour valley, they burn, they cut, They

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bring metal eyes that never sleep. We kill one, we

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call many. Soft step added a soft note about winter coming,

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about the new life she carried. Klik whispered that the

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boy walked with his head down, like a lonely youngster,

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not a hunter. Chief listened, then exhaled. We move, he decided,

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higher stone, new den, We live, lone cub live valley quiet.

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He stepped forward from between two spruce trunks, half veiled

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by shadow. A shape rose. John saw it in a

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narrow gap, wider than his dad's truck, taller than the

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garage door. Fur hung in heavy streams from long arms,

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shoulders bunched under a thick neck. A head turned, and

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two deep set eyes caught the silvery light and sent

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it back in flat amber gleam. Every part of his

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brain tried to fix it bare costume, tree stump, but

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nothing held. He couldn't move. Chief held his gaze for

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a full thin second. The boys sent stank of terror now,

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but there was no iron, no gun, oil, no other humans.

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Lone cub. Chief said to his family, scared, curious, Snaps

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shifted the earth till leap. Burning in his chest, last chance,

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he grated, End him. Chief's jaw tightened, end him, he said, slowly,

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and we and ourselves. Then, drawing on the one human

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word he trusted himself to form, he let his lips

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shape it go. He rumbled. It came out rough and crackled,

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but the warning, the meaning was unmistakable. John flinched. I

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won't tell, he whispered, grote dry, I swear, I won't

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tell any one. You're here. Chief didn't understand the words,

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but he understood tone, soft pleading, not a threat. He

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snorted once a low gust of breath, and stepped back

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into shadow. The branches swallowed the outline. John walked out

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of the woods. He didn't remember deciding to move. His

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legs just carried him up the hill, through the thinning trees,

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on to the opening and the strip of grass. Only

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at the first back yard did he turn. The gap

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between the trunks was just darkness. Now that night, the

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strip of woods behind the subdivision stayed quiet. John sat

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on his bed with the blinds up, lights off, staring

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at the black line of trees. His heart still kicked

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whenever his mind replayed those eyes. He whispered bigfoot once

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into the dark, and it didn't feel like a joke

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at all. Up on a higher shoulder of blackthorn, a

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family moved through spruce and shadow, leaving their old hollow behind.

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Soft step, trudge, set up, click, kept the lancing down

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slope at the faint glow of houses, Snaps walked stiffly,

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but followed. Chief led, the rhythm of his steps matching

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the slow decisions in his head. Moved now before snow

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grew deep, find a new pocket of quiet, Let the

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valley below forget the days when voices rolled from its trees.

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And as they settled into a new crease of rock

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and root higher on the mountain, Chief looked one's back

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toward the subdivision of lights. Lone cub, he murmured down below.

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John wandered to the back of the yard in his jacket,

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breath puffing white, and stood at the edge of the

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now silent trail. The woods felt lonelier now. He realized

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standing there that as scared as he'd been, he never

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truly felt alone when the shouting started. Every time he

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stepped toward the trees, someone on the other side had

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been aware of him, weighing him, arguing over him, choosing

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again and again not to hurt him. Watching his trail,

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he looked up at the mountain, at the darker shape

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against the night sky. I hope you're okay up there,

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he said softly. From then on, whenever he walked past

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the path or glanced at Blackthorn's shoulder from his window,

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he thought less about monsters and more about a family

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he'd never seen, properly pushed a little higher because of him,

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a stubborn old giant who had chosen wisdom over fear.

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He never wrote Bigfoot in his note book. On the

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last page, where he tracked the dates in Times of

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the Strange Arguments, he printed the only name that felt right,

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neat block letters pressed deep into the paper, the Lonesome

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trail Watcher. The trail didn't disappear after that night. It

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stayed exactly where it had always been, cut through leaves

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and pine, leading straight into the quiet. The boys stopped

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walking it, not out of fear, but out of understanding.

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Some things aren't meant to be chased, photographed, or even proven.

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They exist because they choose to, and they stay hidden

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because they must. The mountain kept its secret, the woods

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kept their watcher, and the silence returned, thick, watchful, alive.

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Years later, when the wind moves through the trees just right,

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the trail still seems to wait, not for footsteps, but

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for restraint, Because not every mystery asks to be solved.

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Some only ask to be respected.