Speaker 1: Today, I want to tell you about a journey that
Speaker 1: I've been on for most of my life. Ever since
Speaker 1: I was a kid, I've heard tales of bigfoot and
Speaker 1: wild men while spending time with my friends and family.
Speaker 1: As I grew older and read more about the paranormal,
Speaker 1: my interest in encryptids and other things strange only deepened.
Speaker 1: That's why I'm so excited to share with you what
Speaker 1: I've personally become involved with the Untold Radio Network. The
Speaker 1: Untold Radio Network is a live streaming podcast network that
Speaker 1: airs a new show every day across all podcast platforms, YouTube,
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Speaker 1: much more. I even have my own show called Weird Encounters,
Speaker 1: where I talk about all things strange. This is more
Speaker 1: than just a podcast network. It's a community that allows
Speaker 1: me to meet so many amazing people who share their
Speaker 1: stories and experiences with strange. If you're interested in hearing
Speaker 1: more of these stories and learning more about the paranormal
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Speaker 1: Network for all kinds of exciting shows. It's free to subscribe.
Speaker 1: So what are you waiting for visit www dot untold
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Speaker 2: Now, what are your reporting? I got a screen going
Speaker 2: on here. Something just kid with my dog, something to
Speaker 2: kill your dog? My dog. We're flying through there, over
Speaker 2: the tree. I don't know how it did it? Okay, Damn,
Speaker 2: I'm really confused. All I saw was my dog coming
Speaker 2: over the fence, and name was dead once you hit
Speaker 2: the grill. I didn't see any cars. All I saw
Speaker 2: was my dog coming over the fence. Sat, what are
Speaker 2: you reporting? We got some wonder or something crawling around
Speaker 2: out here? Did you see what it was? It was
Speaker 2: enough out here? Look him do the one down now
Speaker 2: and I don't need anything. I don't want to go outside.
Speaker 2: Its fight? Hello, hit the boddy out here? What quin?
Speaker 2: I'm out there? It's thought of a bitch about text nine.
Speaker 2: I don't know easy him out there? Yeah, I'm walking
Speaker 2: right heady.
Speaker 1: You hear it all the time, especially if you spend
Speaker 1: time around hunters, loggers, or anyone who works deep in
Speaker 1: the woods for a living. I've hunted these woods for
Speaker 1: thirty years. I've never seen anything. If Bigfoot was real,
Speaker 1: if something like that was out here, I'd know about it,
Speaker 1: and I get it. It makes sense on paper. A
Speaker 1: man who spent more time in the timber than behind
Speaker 1: a desk, who's tracked whitetail in the rain, climbed into
Speaker 1: a tree stand before first light more times than he
Speaker 1: can count. Well, A man like that trusts his own experience.
Speaker 1: It's hard not to you think, if something was out here,
Speaker 1: I'd have seen it. If there was something that big
Speaker 1: walking these woods, tracks making noise, I would have run
Speaker 1: across it by now. And maybe you're one of those people.
Speaker 1: Maybe you've said the same thing. I know I have.
Speaker 1: I spent the first half of my life believing that,
Speaker 1: believing that the woods were known territory, that I understood
Speaker 1: the sounds and the shadows, that if there was something
Speaker 1: strange out there, I'd have found it already. But what
Speaker 1: I've come to understand is this. It's easy to say
Speaker 1: something doesn't exist when you've never seen it. It's easy
Speaker 1: to be confident when you've never had to question what's
Speaker 1: watching you from the trees. It's easy to act brave
Speaker 1: about something you've never faced. That changes real fast when
Speaker 1: you do, and when it happens, you realize something. All
Speaker 1: the years you spent walking the woods with certainty. All
Speaker 1: the tracks you followed, all the miles you hiked, they
Speaker 1: don't prepare you for when something breaks the rules, when
Speaker 1: something steps out of the tree line that shouldn't be there. Now,
Speaker 1: for the men in the encounter stories, I'm about to share,
Speaker 1: that moment came when they were already put to the edge,
Speaker 1: when they were hunting, not for sport, not for a trophy,
Speaker 1: but for survival. And when you're hunting to put food
Speaker 1: on the table for your kids, When you're out there
Speaker 1: because you have to be, because you've got mouths to
Speaker 1: feed and nowhere else to turn, Turning back isn't an option.
Speaker 1: Even when things don't feel right, even when you hear
Speaker 1: something out there you can't explain. A sound that makes
Speaker 1: the hair stand up on the back of your neck,
Speaker 1: a whistle that echoes through the holler but there's no
Speaker 1: one there, A howl that doesn't belong to any animal
Speaker 1: you've ever heard in all your years out in the woods.
Speaker 1: You press on, even when you come across a footprint,
Speaker 1: big barefoot, five toes, but way too big for a man,
Speaker 1: too wide, too deep. You tell yourself there's got to
Speaker 1: be an explanation. You've got work to do, You've got
Speaker 1: a family back home waiting on you, a freezer that's empty,
Speaker 1: a promise you made before you left. You press on
Speaker 1: even when you feel like you're being watched. When the
Speaker 1: woods go quiet, not the kind of quiet that happens
Speaker 1: when the sun's going down or a deer's about to
Speaker 1: step out, but dead quiet, like something heavy is settled
Speaker 1: over the trees and every living thing knows to stay still.
Speaker 1: You press on because you have no choice.
Speaker 2: Now.
Speaker 1: What happens when that something steps out of the dark,
Speaker 1: when it takes what you killed to feed your family,
Speaker 1: When it comes into your camp and lets you know
Speaker 1: you don't belong there anymore, What do you do? Then?
Speaker 1: That's what happened to one man on a three day
Speaker 1: solo hunting trip in northern Alabama during one of the
Speaker 1: hardest times of his life. A man who didn't go
Speaker 1: out there to find monsters, A man who went into
Speaker 1: the woods because he had to, and came out with
Speaker 1: a story he never wanted to tell. These are the
Speaker 1: kinds of stories that make you stop and think, that
Speaker 1: make you wonder about the things we say aren't possible
Speaker 1: until they are, and they just might change your mind
Speaker 1: about what's really out there. I'm not sure why I'm
Speaker 1: doing this. I don't like talking about it, and I
Speaker 1: sure as hell don't go looking for attention. But this
Speaker 1: has been eating at me for a couple of years now,
Speaker 1: and maybe writing it down will help. Maybe someone out
Speaker 1: there has been through something similar and can tell me
Speaker 1: how to live with it, because I haven't figured that
Speaker 1: part out yet. My name's Chris. I'm thirty eight years old,
Speaker 1: live in northern Minnesota. I've been hunting, fishing, and trapping
Speaker 1: in these woods since I was big enough to walk
Speaker 1: behind my old man. I'm not some city guy who
Speaker 1: spooks at shadows. I know what a bear looks like.
Speaker 1: I know what wolves sound like. I've tracked moose through
Speaker 1: the brush so thick you have to crawl. I don't
Speaker 1: scare easy, and I sure as hell never believed in bigfoot. Yeah,
Speaker 1: i'd heard the stories. Who hasn't, especially around here, there's
Speaker 1: always some guy who knows, a guy who saw something. Hell,
Speaker 1: my own granddad told me about something he saw when
Speaker 1: he was young, but I chalked that up to old
Speaker 1: timer talk. You know, a little whiskey and a good
Speaker 1: story makes a cold night by the fire, A lot warmer.
Speaker 1: I never thought twice about it, not until I saw
Speaker 1: it myself. This was September twenty twenty two bow season.
Speaker 1: I had a big buck patterned on my trail cams,
Speaker 1: and I'd been working hard to get in front of him.
Speaker 1: I was hunting a spot about thirty miles out of town,
Speaker 1: way back near the Chippewa National Forest. It's not a
Speaker 1: spot many people go anymore. The roads mostly washed out,
Speaker 1: and the only reason I knew about it was because
Speaker 1: my dad used to hunt back there, said it was
Speaker 1: a good place to be alone. He wasn't wrong. I
Speaker 1: hiked in early, around four point thirty in the morning.
Speaker 1: Full moon helped, but it was cold in the forties,
Speaker 1: the kind of cold that makes your breath hang in
Speaker 1: the air like smoke. Right away I noticed it was
Speaker 1: too quiet. No owls, no crickets, no nothing, just dead silent.
Speaker 1: I should have paid more attention to that, should have
Speaker 1: turned around, but I was focused on the buck. By
Speaker 1: seven am, things seemed normal again, birds, squirrels, I even
Speaker 1: had a fox come trotting by. Under my stand, I
Speaker 1: relaxed a little. Figured the cold snap was throwing things
Speaker 1: off texted my buddy Dean told him it was a
Speaker 1: perfect morning. He's the only one I've told about all
Speaker 1: this in person. He told me to write it down.
Speaker 1: So here I am. I sat there in the stand, waiting, listening, watching.
Speaker 1: Around nine, I heard something behind me, heavy footsteps I've
Speaker 1: heard bear and this wasn't that. It was deliberate, like
Speaker 1: a person walking slow through the woods. Thud, pause, thud.
Speaker 1: I could feel it through the tree I was sitting in.
Speaker 1: I stayed still, waited, thinking maybe it was another hunter,
Speaker 1: but nobody comes out that far, not without me knowing
Speaker 1: about it. And then I caught the smell. It was
Speaker 1: like wet dog mixed with garbage, like something that had
Speaker 1: died thence in the sun. It hit me so hard
Speaker 1: I gagged, my eyes watered, and then I heard breathing, heavy, raspy,
Speaker 1: like something with lungs twice the size of a human's.
Speaker 1: I turned slow, just my head fifteen yards back behind
Speaker 1: a big pine. There was something standing there. It was huge,
Speaker 1: eight feet tall, easy built like a linebacker, only leaner,
Speaker 1: long arms hanging way past where they should, covered in
Speaker 1: dark brown hair, almost black, matted in places. I couldn't
Speaker 1: see its face right away, but its eyes caught the light,
Speaker 1: not like deer eyeshine, different yellowish like headlights through fog.
Speaker 1: It just stood there, staring at me, not moving, not
Speaker 1: making a sound, just breathing heavy and slow. Then it
Speaker 1: made this noise, a low rumble that turned into a
Speaker 1: kind of clicking sound, like it was talking, but not words.
Speaker 1: It vibrated through my chest, made me feel sick, like
Speaker 1: when you stand too close to those big speakers at
Speaker 1: a concert and your guts shake. After a minute or
Speaker 1: maybe ten, I don't know, it turned and walked away,
Speaker 1: not in a hurry, just casual and quiet. I don't
Speaker 1: know how something that big moved without a sound, but
Speaker 1: it did. It slipped into the trees and was gone.
Speaker 1: I sat there until noon, couldn't move. My hands were
Speaker 1: shaking so bad I thought I'd dropped my bow. When
Speaker 1: I finally climbed down, I ran left my gear. I
Speaker 1: sat in the cab with the doors locked, shaking. I've
Speaker 1: never felt that kind of fear before, not even when
Speaker 1: I flipped my ATV and thought I broke my neck.
Speaker 1: This was different. This was primal, and the worst part.
Speaker 1: It made me think about my granddad. He told me
Speaker 1: a story once when I was about twelve. We were
Speaker 1: up at the cabin for deer camp, sitting by the fire.
Speaker 1: He'd had a couple drinks and he got real quiet.
Speaker 1: Told me there was something in those woods you didn't
Speaker 1: mess with. Said. It was nineteen fifty eight. He and
Speaker 1: his brother were trapping beaver along the Mississippi, not far
Speaker 1: from where I was hunting. They had a line that
Speaker 1: ran about five miles through the swamp. One day they
Speaker 1: found one of their traps torn out of the bank,
Speaker 1: steel trap chain and all just gone. Figured it was
Speaker 1: a bear, But then they found the tracks, big barefoot
Speaker 1: prints toes arch heel human but huge, way too big.
Speaker 1: Granddad said his brother wanted to turn back, but they
Speaker 1: were stubborn. They followed the tracks for a couple miles
Speaker 1: came to a clearing where they found the remains of
Speaker 1: a deer. It had been ripped apart, not eaten, just
Speaker 1: torn to pieces. Then they heard something a howl, but
Speaker 1: not like a wolf, lower, longer, like it was calling out.
Speaker 1: They ran left, the traps, left their gear didn't stop
Speaker 1: until they hit the truck. Granddad never trapped that line again,
Speaker 1: said he'd see things out there from time to time.
Speaker 1: Shadows that didn't belong, eyes in the trees where no
Speaker 1: animals should be. He never said the word bigfoot, but
Speaker 1: that's what he meant. I thought it was just an
Speaker 1: old man scaring a kid. But now now I'm not
Speaker 1: so sure. Since my encounter, things have changed. I don't
Speaker 1: hunt that spot anymore. Hell I barely go into the
Speaker 1: woods alone these days. When I do, I stay close
Speaker 1: to the house. My wife thinks I had a panic attack.
Speaker 1: I haven't told her the whole thing. How do you
Speaker 1: tell someone you saw something that shouldn't exist. I don't
Speaker 1: sleep right. I hear things at night. Sometimes I smell
Speaker 1: that stench even when I'm inside. I've checked every inch
Speaker 1: of our property, thinking maybe it followed me home. Dean says,
Speaker 1: I'm paranoid. Maybe I am, but I know what I saw,
Speaker 1: and it wasn't a bear, it wasn't a man in
Speaker 1: a suit.
Speaker 2: It was real.
Speaker 1: It was watching me, and I think it wanted me
Speaker 1: to know it was there, like it was warning me.
Speaker 1: I still get out in the woods sometimes, but I
Speaker 1: don't stay past sunset, and I never ever go back
Speaker 1: to that stand. If you're reading this and thinking I'm crazy,
Speaker 1: that's fine. I would have thought the same thing a
Speaker 1: couple years ago. But if you're out there in the
Speaker 1: deep woods and everything suddenly goes quiet, turn around, get out,
Speaker 1: hard to imagine, isn't it spending your whole life in
Speaker 1: the woods, knowing every trail, every sound, and then having
Speaker 1: all of that torn away in a matter of seconds.
Speaker 1: What he saw out there in Minnesota wasn't something he
Speaker 1: could explain away, And even though he made it back
Speaker 1: to his truck and back to town, a part of
Speaker 1: him never really came back from those woods. But he's
Speaker 1: not the only one. Sometimes it isn't just about what
Speaker 1: you see out there. Sometimes it's about when it happens
Speaker 1: you're already at your limit. Life's got you backed into
Speaker 1: a corner, and you're out there because you have to be,
Speaker 1: not for sport, not for a trophy, but because there's
Speaker 1: no other choice. That's where Kevin found himself, deep in
Speaker 1: the forests of central Oregon, far from the noise of town,
Speaker 1: far from the safety of people. He was looking for peace,
Speaker 1: maybe a little rest. What he found was something else.
Speaker 2: Entirely.
Speaker 1: I've never told this to anyone, not my family, not
Speaker 1: my coworkers, and not even Jake, not really We've exchanged
Speaker 1: a look or two about it, but we've never sat
Speaker 1: down and talked about what happened. I think we both
Speaker 1: figure if we pretend it didn't happen, it won't get
Speaker 1: its claws into us any deeper. It's like ignoring a toothache,
Speaker 1: even though you know it's only going to get worse.
Speaker 1: But I can't ignore it anymore. I'm hoping that writing
Speaker 1: it down will help me stop carrying it around like
Speaker 1: a weight strapped to my back. My name's Kevin. I
Speaker 1: live in La Pine, Oregon. Spent all of my thirty
Speaker 1: nine years here, except for a brief and regrettable six
Speaker 1: month stint in Eugene that I don't like to talk about.
Speaker 1: Small town, lots of woods. You grow up around here.
Speaker 1: The outdoors gets in your blood. Hunting, fishing, camping. It's
Speaker 1: just how you live. And stay tuned for more sasquatch
Speaker 1: ott to see. We'll be right back after these messages.
Speaker 1: My dad used to say, out there, it's quiet enough
Speaker 1: to hear yourself. Think he wasn't wrong. At least that's
Speaker 1: how it used to be. Now, the quiet makes my
Speaker 1: skin crawl. Jake and I have been friends since junior year.
Speaker 1: Of high school. We met in shop class when he
Speaker 1: caught me looking at the wrong schematic and saved me
Speaker 1: from cutting through a live wire. After that, we stuck.
Speaker 1: We weren't the type to sit around and talk about feelings,
Speaker 1: but we always showed up when it counted. He was
Speaker 1: best man at my wedding. I was best man at his,
Speaker 1: though that didn't work out for him. His ex wife
Speaker 1: was a piece of work, but he got a great
Speaker 1: kid out of the deal. Boy's name is Tyler. He's
Speaker 1: six now, and Jake takes him everywhere hunting, fishing, snowshoeing
Speaker 1: in the winter. They're tight. Jake's the kind of guy
Speaker 1: who stays steady. When I lost my job for six
Speaker 1: months after the housing bubble burst, he lined up odd
Speaker 1: jobs for me and never made me feel bad about it.
Speaker 1: When his dad died, he only took one day off
Speaker 1: work because he said it kept his hands busy. He
Speaker 1: doesn't rattle. I say all that because you need to
Speaker 1: understand something. When Jake gets scared, it's time to get
Speaker 1: your ass moving. He's not a guy who spooks. He's
Speaker 1: a guy who handles things, or at least he was.
Speaker 1: The trip was his idea we'd been working on a
Speaker 1: house out by Bend, an ugly mansion for some tech
Speaker 1: money transplant who wanted the cabin esthetic without having to
Speaker 1: leave his gated community. Framing, siding, roofing, you name it.
Speaker 1: We did it twelve hour days, six days a week,
Speaker 1: the kind of work that makes your back hurt and
Speaker 1: your head empty. After three months of that, Jake said
Speaker 1: we need to get out, just us, no cell phones,
Speaker 1: no other people. I was all in. We planned the
Speaker 1: trip the way we always did, minimal two nights, deep woods,
Speaker 1: rifles in case we spotted elk, some beer, some food,
Speaker 1: a couple of tents, no electronics, no GPS, old school
Speaker 1: compass and map. We both grew up doing it that way.
Speaker 1: He picked the area out past Paulina Lake, but off
Speaker 1: the beaten path. We found an old forest service road
Speaker 1: on a map that looked promising. No camp sites, no trails,
Speaker 1: just raw land. Sounded perfect. We left on a Friday
Speaker 1: morning in October. The air was cold, but not miserable yet.
Speaker 1: I drove my truck. He drove his tyler's car seat
Speaker 1: still clipped into the back, even though the kid was
Speaker 1: with his mom for the weekend. We made good time.
Speaker 1: The roads out there get rough after the first twenty miles,
Speaker 1: but our trucks could handle it. We had to clear
Speaker 1: a couple of downed limbs, but that was normal. Jake
Speaker 1: cracked jokes about how soft people had gotten. Most guys
Speaker 1: had called this impassable, he said, dragging a log out
Speaker 1: of the way. That's how Jake was always steady. We
Speaker 1: found a clearing near a ravine, maybe forty or fifty
Speaker 1: yards wide. There was a little creek at the bottom,
Speaker 1: and the trees around it were thick and close lodge poles,
Speaker 1: mostly with a few old furs mixed in. There wasn't
Speaker 1: a mark of other people, no old fire pits, no footprints,
Speaker 1: no broken bottles, just clean woods, perfect, Jake said. I agreed.
Speaker 1: We set up camp easy, two tents on opposite sides
Speaker 1: of a fire ring, food stowed in Jake's truck, rifles
Speaker 1: within arm's reach. We strung some para cord with wind
Speaker 1: chimes around the camp, about fifteen feet out knee height.
Speaker 1: It wasn't for decoration, it was our alarm system. You
Speaker 1: do enough deep woods camping in Oregon, you pick up
Speaker 1: habits like that. We weren't expecting trouble, but it's better
Speaker 1: to be cautious than stupid. The first night was textbook
Speaker 1: steak and beans over the fire, a couple of beers each.
Speaker 1: In quiet conversation, Jake told me about Tyler learning to
Speaker 1: tie his shoes. That week I told him about my
Speaker 1: old man's busted knee. We didn't say much, didn't need to.
Speaker 1: When you've known someone that long words aren't always necessary.
Speaker 1: We turned in early. No reason to stay up when
Speaker 1: you're dead tired and it's pitch black outside. I slept
Speaker 1: like a baby. Next day we hiked out to a
Speaker 1: burn area we'd picked off the map, about five miles
Speaker 1: as the crow flies. We brought the rifles, but weren't
Speaker 1: serious about hunting. More scouting for later in the season.
Speaker 1: We found old elk tracks in some bedding areas, but
Speaker 1: nothing fresh. Jake found an old antler shed, cracked and
Speaker 1: gray with age. I little think it's a dinosaur bone,
Speaker 1: he said, tossing it in his pack. On the way back,
Speaker 1: we stopped by the creek. Jake dropped a line in
Speaker 1: and pulled out two brook trout in twenty minutes. We
Speaker 1: let them go. It wasn't about the fish. We got
Speaker 1: back to camp just before sunset. The light was golden,
Speaker 1: filtering through the trees, and for a few minutes everything
Speaker 1: felt perfect. I remember sitting by the fire later that night, thinking,
Speaker 1: this is what it's all about. Just two guys in
Speaker 1: the woods, no noise, no pressure. It was around nine
Speaker 1: point thirty when it all changed. We were sitting by
Speaker 1: the fire, sipping coffee laced with whiskey, talking about hiking
Speaker 1: up to the ridge at first light. Then we heard it.
Speaker 1: A scream. It was faint at first, so faint I
Speaker 1: thought I imagined it, but Jake heard it too. He
Speaker 1: froze mid sentence and looked at me, his face blank.
Speaker 1: That's when I knew it was real. Then we heard
Speaker 1: it again, closer, a long, high pitched scream that dropped
Speaker 1: into a deep, choking moan. I've heard cougar scream. This
Speaker 1: wasn't a cougar. It was worse. It sounded human, but
Speaker 1: it wasn't. There was something wrong in the tone, like
Speaker 1: a person screaming underwater. Jake stood up, slow, set his
Speaker 1: coffee down, without taking his eyes off the dark beyond
Speaker 1: the firelight. He walked to his truck, popped the door,
Speaker 1: and pulled out his rifle. I followed grabbed mine. We
Speaker 1: need to put the fire out, he said. His voice
Speaker 1: was tight, controlled, but I could see the sweat starting
Speaker 1: on his forehead, even though it was cold out. We
Speaker 1: doused the fire fast, covered the coals with dirt until
Speaker 1: the glow died out. Then we sat against his truck,
Speaker 1: rifles across our laps, watching the tree line. The scream
Speaker 1: came again, closer, then again, this time from a different direction.
Speaker 1: It was circling us. The forest was dead, silent, The
Speaker 1: creek didn't make a sound. Even the wind stopped, and
Speaker 1: then we heard the footsteps, heavy slow, crunch crunch, crunch
Speaker 1: through the pine needles and dead branches, fifty yards out,
Speaker 1: circling wide. We couldn't see anything yet, but we could
Speaker 1: feel it. It wasn't afraid, it was checking us out.
Speaker 1: I glanced at Jake. He was breathing slow through his nose,
Speaker 1: his rifle trained on the dark. If it comes in,
Speaker 1: he said, shoot, I nodded, but I knew neither of
Speaker 1: us wanted to pull the trigger. It didn't feel like
Speaker 1: it would do any good. That's when we saw the
Speaker 1: eyes high up nine feet easy, glowing faint orange. They
Speaker 1: didn't blink, just stared, and then They shifted side to side,
Speaker 1: swaying like something balancing its weight. We watched for what
Speaker 1: felt like an hour, could have been five minutes, could
Speaker 1: have been two hours. Time didn't work right then, and
Speaker 1: then the eyes vanished, no sound, no movement gone. We
Speaker 1: didn't move, not until dawn, when the sky turned gray.
Speaker 1: We packed what we could and left the rest. We
Speaker 1: didn't talk. We didn't need to. Jake's hands were shaking
Speaker 1: when he put his rifle away. I pretended not to see.
Speaker 1: We drove back in silence, didn't even stop to piss.
Speaker 1: Two weeks later, Jake called me, said he was going
Speaker 1: back to get the gear we left. His brother was coming.
Speaker 1: I told him not to. He didn't listen. They went
Speaker 1: in midday, full sun. When they got there, they found
Speaker 1: the tents slashed open, the cooler crushed flat. The trees
Speaker 1: around the clearing had gouges, four straight deep cuts running
Speaker 1: from six feet off the ground to nearly twelve. Jake
Speaker 1: found tracks by the creek barefoot eighteen inches long, five
Speaker 1: toes deep enough to hold water. He showed me the
Speaker 1: pictures once, then he deleted them, said he didn't want
Speaker 1: Tyler seeing them. By accident. We never went back Since then,
Speaker 1: Jake different. He still takes Tyler out fishing, but only
Speaker 1: at the ponds close to town. He doesn't hunt the
Speaker 1: deep woods anymore. Says it's because of his back. I
Speaker 1: don't call him on it me. I don't can't past
Speaker 1: where the pavement ends if I do. I keep lights
Speaker 1: on all night and I listen for the scream. Some
Speaker 1: nights I think I hear it. I lie awake, staring
Speaker 1: at the ceiling, waiting for it to come closer. I
Speaker 1: don't know what we saw that night. I don't care
Speaker 1: if anyone believes me, but I know this. If you're
Speaker 1: out in the woods and you hear a scream that
Speaker 1: makes your stomach drop, leave, don't wait. Don't try to
Speaker 1: be brave. What Kevin went through out there in the
Speaker 1: Oregon wilderness was the kind of thing that stays with you.
Speaker 1: When you spend your whole life feeling like you understand
Speaker 1: the woods, how they work, what's out there, and then
Speaker 1: something happens that doesn't fit the picture you've had in
Speaker 1: your head all those years. It changes you. He didn't
Speaker 1: go out looking for trouble. He went out looking for quiet,
Speaker 1: for a break from life. But sometimes the quiet hides
Speaker 1: something you're not ready for, and sometimes you don't have
Speaker 1: the luxury of walking away when things don't feel right.
Speaker 1: For the man in this next story, there wasn't a choice.
Speaker 1: He wasn't camping to clear his head. He wasn't out
Speaker 1: there for sport. He was out there to fill his
Speaker 1: freezer and feed his family. In the fall of twenty twenty,
Speaker 1: when the world shut down and work dried up, Luke
Speaker 1: did what he knew, what his family had always done.
Speaker 1: He went hunting. But what he found in the pine
Speaker 1: woods of northern Alabama wasn't the buck he was after.
Speaker 1: It was something else, something that changed his life forever.
Speaker 1: People think they know what they do in a bad situation.
Speaker 1: They tell themselves they'd be brave, or smart or quick.
Speaker 1: I used to be one of them. I thought I
Speaker 1: had it figured out. I thought I was the kind
Speaker 1: of man who could handle anything. But I was wrong.
Speaker 1: There's a point where you realize something's bigger than you,
Speaker 1: that you're not top of the food chain, And when
Speaker 1: that hits you, really hits you. You change. My name's
Speaker 1: Luke and I'm from a small town about an hour
Speaker 1: outside of Huntsville, Alabama. It's not much, but it's home.
Speaker 1: I've lived here my whole life. I worked at a
Speaker 1: machine shop until twenty twenty, when the shutdowns hit. We
Speaker 1: made precision parts, mostly for farms and a few contracts
Speaker 1: with construction companies. It was good work, steady work, until
Speaker 1: it wasn't. One day they called us in, thanked us
Speaker 1: for our time, and told us the orders had dried up.
Speaker 1: Just like that, I was out of a job. I've
Speaker 1: got a wife, Lisa, and two kids, Jared and Ellie.
Speaker 1: They were four and six. Back then, we weren't rich,
Speaker 1: but we got by. Suddenly I had no paycheck coming in,
Speaker 1: and the stores were damned, near stripped clean. What meat
Speaker 1: was on the shelves was too expensive to buy and bulk,
Speaker 1: and the food stamps they signed us up for wouldn't
Speaker 1: stretch far. So I did what I knew how to do.
Speaker 1: I loaded up my old Marlin thirty thirty and planned
Speaker 1: a hunt. We needed meat in the freezer. Lisa tried
Speaker 1: to talk me out of going alone, but I told
Speaker 1: her we didn't have time to wait three days, I said,
Speaker 1: I'll be back with venison. I headed out to my
Speaker 1: family's old hunting ground near Bankhead National Forest about two
Speaker 1: miles west of the Sipsey Wilderness Line. I've hunted there
Speaker 1: since I was twelve. My granddaddy hunted there my daddy too.
Speaker 1: It's thick woods, pine and oak, mostly with old logging
Speaker 1: roads and howlers that never see another soul. I figured
Speaker 1: i'd be safe. I figured it'd be like every other
Speaker 1: hunt I'd ever done. But it wasn't. I left home
Speaker 1: at first light and hiked in after parking my truck
Speaker 1: at the old gate where the road gets too washed
Speaker 1: out to drive. The walk was good, quiet, cool air,
Speaker 1: and the ground soft underfoot from rain earlier in the week.
Speaker 1: I was careful with my scent, walking slow and stopping
Speaker 1: often to listen. The woods were alive in the usual way,
Speaker 1: squirrels bouncing through the leaves, birds chattering high up in
Speaker 1: the canopy, the faint trickle of water in the creeks.
Speaker 1: I set up camp where I always did a little clearing,
Speaker 1: with a spring fed creek running through it, tent tarp overhead,
Speaker 1: fire ring cleaned out. I hung my food bag from
Speaker 1: a high limb at least ten feet up and double
Speaker 1: knotted the rope around the trunk. Bears come through sometimes,
Speaker 1: and you learn to be cautious. I spent the rest
Speaker 1: of the day scouting trails and bedding areas. Found a
Speaker 1: lot of sign, rubs on trees, fresh droppings, hoof prints.
Speaker 1: A good sized buck had been moving through not two
Speaker 1: days earlier. My hopes were high, but that night things
Speaker 1: started feeling wrong. I was sitting by the fire, sipping
Speaker 1: instant coffee when I heard it. A sharp, high pitched whistle.
Speaker 1: Not a bird, not an owl. It sounded like someone
Speaker 1: trying to get your attention from across a parking lot,
Speaker 1: clear deliberate. I stood up, rifle in hand and scanned
Speaker 1: the dark. Nothing, no movement. Then a second whistle from
Speaker 1: the other direction. I didn't sleep much that night, laid
Speaker 1: in my bag with my rifle across my chest, listening.
Speaker 1: Sometime around two am, I heard a howl, low, long,
Speaker 1: not a coyote, not a dog. It was deep, felt
Speaker 1: like it rattled my ribs, but nothing came close, and
Speaker 1: I told myself it was just nerves, just being alone
Speaker 1: in the woods. I'd be fine come morning. By dawn,
Speaker 1: I was in my stand. It's an old homemade platform
Speaker 1: about twenty feet up a sturdy oak, overlooking a game
Speaker 1: trail that winds along a ridge, perfect spot. I watched
Speaker 1: squirrels play tag for the first hour, and a pair
Speaker 1: of doughs wander past a little before eight. I was
Speaker 1: thinking maybe I'd take one if no buck showed, But
Speaker 1: then he came, biggest buck I've ever seen in my life.
Speaker 1: And stay tuned for more sasquatch out to see. We'll
Speaker 1: be right back after these messages. Ten points, thick through
Speaker 1: the chest and neck, moving slow and easy, like he
Speaker 1: owned the woods. I waited until he stepped broadside at
Speaker 1: sixty yards, raised my rifle, slow breath, squeezed the trigger.
Speaker 1: He dropped where he stood, clean shot. I climbed down fast,
Speaker 1: heart pounding in my chest. I could already taste the
Speaker 1: backstrap in my mind. When I reached him, I knelt down,
Speaker 1: patted his flank, and whispered thanks. That's what we do,
Speaker 1: We respect the kill. I pulled my knife out, got
Speaker 1: ready to address him. That's when I heard it. A grunt,
Speaker 1: low and deep, like a hog, but more guttural than
Speaker 1: a whistle. Close too close. I froze, my pulse jumped,
Speaker 1: my hand tightened on the and then the woods exploded,
Speaker 1: Branches snapped, heavy footfalls thundered through the brush. I turned,
Speaker 1: expecting a bear, maybe a feral hog. It wasn't either.
Speaker 1: It was something else, something that shouldn't exist. It walked
Speaker 1: out of the trees like it had every right to
Speaker 1: be there, eight maybe nine feet tall, broad shoulders, long arms, swinging, low,
Speaker 1: hair everywhere, dark brown, filthy looking, tangled in places. But
Speaker 1: what got me was the face. Half man, half ape,
Speaker 1: but wrong, intelligent, eyes not wild, calculating. It walked straight
Speaker 1: up to my buck like I wasn't there, reached down,
Speaker 1: grabbed it by the antlers with one massive hand, and
Speaker 1: hoisted it onto its shoulder like it weighed nothing. It
Speaker 1: glanced at me then, just a quick look, eyes dark
Speaker 1: and deep. It knew I was there, knew I wasn't
Speaker 1: a threat. And then it turned and walked back into
Speaker 1: the woods, slow, unhurried. I stood there for I don't
Speaker 1: know how long, shaking, My hands were numb. My brain
Speaker 1: kept trying to make sense of it. Bear man, no,
Speaker 1: what was it? I had half a mind to pack
Speaker 1: up and go home, But when I thought about Lisa
Speaker 1: and the kids, the empty fridge, the bills stacking up,
Speaker 1: I stayed. I didn't have a choice. I needed meat,
Speaker 1: I needed food. I spent the rest of the day
Speaker 1: checking traps. I'd set out on the way in caught
Speaker 1: two squirrels. That's it. That night, the woods were wrong
Speaker 1: again to quiet. Then the whistle started up circling the camp.
Speaker 1: Then the breathing, heavy, raspy, just beyond the light of
Speaker 1: my fire, and then I heard the rope snap, the
Speaker 1: one holding my food bag. I sat by the fire,
Speaker 1: rifle in hand, stomach twisted in knots. Something out there
Speaker 1: was eating my supplies. I heard crunching, snapping, Then something
Speaker 1: bumped the tarp. I nearly fired, but I held back.
Speaker 1: I didn't sleep at all. By morning I was done.
Speaker 1: I packed fast. I had one squirrel left in a
Speaker 1: can of beans. My water was running low. I was jumpy,
Speaker 1: my head pounding from no sleep, and I felt watched.
Speaker 1: As I loaded my pack, I heard movement again, fast closer.
Speaker 1: I started walking, rifle ready. Every few minutes I heard
Speaker 1: something pacing me fifty yards out, then thirty, then twenty.
Speaker 1: I picked up the pace about a mile from the truck.
Speaker 1: They showed themselves, three of them. One was the same
Speaker 1: big one from before, the other two smaller, maybe seven
Speaker 1: feet tall. They moved through the trees like shadows, flanking me,
Speaker 1: pushing me. I raised my rifle and fired a shot
Speaker 1: into the air. They didn't flinch. I turned, aimed at
Speaker 1: the biggest one's legs and fired the shot. Hit it
Speaker 1: dropped to one knee with a roar that shook the ground. High, angry, guttural.
Speaker 1: The others rushed in. I ran. I ran harder than
Speaker 1: I ever have in my life. Branches slapped my face,
Speaker 1: my pack tore on a limb, but I didn't stop.
Speaker 1: I could hear them behind me, heavy fast, grunting and growling,
Speaker 1: breaking branches as they chased. I made it to the
Speaker 1: truck by sheer luck. Threw the rifle in the cab,
Speaker 1: fired it up, and floored it. Gravel flew as I
Speaker 1: peeled out. I didn't look back until I was miles
Speaker 1: down the road. When I finally stopped shaking, I realized
Speaker 1: I'd left half my gear behind. Didn't care. I got
Speaker 1: home just after dark. Lisa took one look at me
Speaker 1: and knew something was wrong. I told her I didn't
Speaker 1: get anything, that i'd try again later. She cried. I cried,
Speaker 1: I haven't hunted that land since I haven't told Lisa
Speaker 1: or anyone else exactly what happened. How do you ac
Speaker 1: plain something like that? But I think about it every night,
Speaker 1: the way it looked at me, like I wasn't worth
Speaker 1: its time, like it owned those woods. And I hear
Speaker 1: them sometimes whistles in the distance at night when the
Speaker 1: wind's still. If you ever find yourself out in Bankhead
Speaker 1: National Forest and you hear something whistle from two directions
Speaker 1: at once, leave, don't wait, because there's something out there
Speaker 1: and it's not afraid of you. Luke's story is a
Speaker 1: hard one, not just because of what he saw out
Speaker 1: there in the Alabama woods, but because of why he
Speaker 1: was out there in the first place. Desperation can push
Speaker 1: a man to take risks he might not otherwise take,
Speaker 1: and when your miles deep and unfamiliar country, it's easy
Speaker 1: to feel like you're alone until you realize you're not.
Speaker 1: Sometimes it's not about how prepared you are or how
Speaker 1: many years you've hunted. Sometimes it's about something finding you.
Speaker 1: And that brings us to the next story. You might
Speaker 1: not think of Texas when you hear about sasquatch encounters.
Speaker 1: Most folks picture wide open spaces, flat planes, and cattle
Speaker 1: ranches stretching out to the horizon. But there's a part
Speaker 1: of Texas that's nothing like that East Texas. Thick forests, swamps,
Speaker 1: endless pine thickets that swallow up the light and hold
Speaker 1: onto their secrets. For one hunter, that patch of Texas
Speaker 1: was home. He knew the land, knew the game, knew
Speaker 1: where to set his stand and how to follow a trail.
Speaker 1: But all the experience in the world couldn't prepare him
Speaker 1: for what he was about to see, and after that day,
Speaker 1: he never hunted again. I've only told this story a
Speaker 1: handful of times, and every time I do, I feel
Speaker 1: like I lose a little more sleep over it. But
Speaker 1: I'll tell it here because maybe someone else has seen
Speaker 1: what I did. Maybe you've been out there in the
Speaker 1: woods and felt that same dread creeping up your spine,
Speaker 1: but you kept it to yourself, thinking nobody would believe you.
Speaker 1: I get that I was there once, and if you
Speaker 1: told me this story five years ago, I would have
Speaker 1: nodded politely, maybe cracked a joke about drinking too much
Speaker 1: at deer camp, and gone back to cleaning my rifle.
Speaker 1: I didn't believe in monsters, and I damn sure didn't
Speaker 1: believe in Bigfoot, but that was before, back when I
Speaker 1: still hunted. When people hear Texas, they usually think about
Speaker 1: tumble weeds, oil rigs, and wide open spaces. I've lived
Speaker 1: here my whole life, and that's not wrong for West Texas.
Speaker 1: But out east it's a different world. Thick pine forests,
Speaker 1: hardwood bottoms, rivers and creeks cutting through miles of unbroken timber.
Speaker 1: We've got places so dense you can step in ten
Speaker 1: feet and feel like you're one hundred miles from the
Speaker 1: nearest road. That's where this happened, deep in the piney
Speaker 1: woods east of Lufkin, close to the Sabine River. I
Speaker 1: hunted out there every fall. It's family land, about two
Speaker 1: hundred and fifty acres that's been passed down through three generations.
Speaker 1: My granddaddy taught me how to hunt deer on that land.
Speaker 1: Always figured i'd teach my boy the same one day.
Speaker 1: That was the plan. Anyway. It's good hunting out there,
Speaker 1: thick cover, plenty of water, springs, creeks, marshy bottoms where
Speaker 1: the big bucks like to bed, Lots of deer, hogs,
Speaker 1: and even the occasional black bear. Plenty for something big
Speaker 1: to live off of if it wanted to I guess
Speaker 1: I never thought about that part too much until it
Speaker 1: was too late. It was November of twenty nineteen. I'd
Speaker 1: been out of work for a few months. Construction job
Speaker 1: dried up, and I was trying to get meat in
Speaker 1: the freezer without spending money. We didn't have my wife, Megan.
Speaker 1: She was picking up extra shifts at the clinic, and
Speaker 1: I was feeling like I wasn't pulling my weight. So
Speaker 1: I planned a solo hunt three days head out Thursday
Speaker 1: back Saturday night. That'd give me two dawn sets and
Speaker 1: two evenings to fill a tag. I loaded up my
Speaker 1: old Chevy with my stand, my Remington two seventy, a
Speaker 1: cooler of food and not much else. It's about a
Speaker 1: two hour drive from my place to the lease, and
Speaker 1: I made it in good time. Parked at the gate,
Speaker 1: unlocked it, and drove in as far as I could
Speaker 1: before the ruts got too deep. Then it was on foot.
Speaker 1: The weather was perfect, cold mornings, warm afternoons, clear sky,
Speaker 1: good sign everywhere, rubs on trees, fresh scrapes. I knew
Speaker 1: there were bucks moving through. I picked a spot i'd
Speaker 1: hunted a dozen times before, thick pines to my back,
Speaker 1: a creek, fifty yards out and an old game trail
Speaker 1: running between. I set up my ladder stand that afternoon,
Speaker 1: climbed up to make sure the view was good, and
Speaker 1: then came back down to set camp about one hundred
Speaker 1: yards away. Just a simple setup, small tent, fire ring,
Speaker 1: a line strung between two trees to hang meat if
Speaker 1: I got lucky. The first night was fine, quiet, no wind.
Speaker 1: I stayed up late listening to the owls and coyotes,
Speaker 1: and turned in when the fire burned down to coals.
Speaker 1: Right before I crawled in my sleeping bag, I heard something,
Speaker 1: a kind of knocking sound, two sharp knocks, like wood
Speaker 1: on wood. It came from across the creek. I froze
Speaker 1: for a second, listening hard, but nothing else happened. I
Speaker 1: told myself it was a tree creaking or a branch falling.
Speaker 1: I went to sleep. I was in the stand before
Speaker 1: first light, rifle across my lap, thermos of coffee at
Speaker 1: my side. The woods were quiet, almost too quiet. Usually
Speaker 1: you hear the birds wake up, squirrels bouncing around, but
Speaker 1: it was still dead still a little after sunrise things
Speaker 1: got back to normal, squirrels moving, a couple of jays squawking.
Speaker 1: I saw a few doughs pass through mid morning, but
Speaker 1: no buck. I climbed down around eleven, stretched my legs,
Speaker 1: and went back to camp for lunch. That afternoon, I
Speaker 1: headed back to the stand around two. The shadows were
Speaker 1: long by four, and that's when I saw him. A
Speaker 1: big bodied eight point stepped out of the trees on
Speaker 1: the far side of the creek. He worked a scrape
Speaker 1: for a minute, then started toward the trail. I raised
Speaker 1: my rifle and waited for a clean shot. When he
Speaker 1: turned to broadside, I squeezed off around. He jumped, bolted,
Speaker 1: and disappeared into the brush. I knew I hit him.
Speaker 1: I heard the thump, so I waited a few minutes,
Speaker 1: climbed down and went to look for blood. Found it easy,
Speaker 1: good trail. I followed it maybe sixty yards and found
Speaker 1: him piled up at the edge of the marsh. As
Speaker 1: I knelt down, I felt uneasy, like someone was watching.
Speaker 1: The hair on my neck stood up, but there was
Speaker 1: nothing there. I gutted the buck quick as I could,
Speaker 1: strung him up, and hauled him back to camp. That night,
Speaker 1: I cooked a little tender loin over the fire and
Speaker 1: felt pretty good meat in the cooler. More to cut
Speaker 1: in the morning. I figured i'd sit again at dawn,
Speaker 1: maybe get a hog. But then the knocking came again, louder,
Speaker 1: this time closer. And then I heard something walking through
Speaker 1: the brush, heavy, slow, deliberate. I sat by the fire
Speaker 1: rifle across my knees, listening to it circle my camp.
Speaker 1: It stayed just out of sight. I'd hear a branch snap,
Speaker 1: a soft grunt, then silence. At one point, something hit
Speaker 1: the meat pole hard enough to make the line creak
Speaker 1: and sway. I stood up, raised my rifle and shouted.
Speaker 1: Whatever it was backed off. I thought I heard breathing, deep, heavy,
Speaker 1: but when I swept my flashlight around, nothing was there.
Speaker 1: I didn't sleep much that night. I woke up stiff
Speaker 1: and tired, but determined. I climbed back into the stand
Speaker 1: before dawn, sat there, watching the wood slowly wake up.
Speaker 1: At least they should have woken up, but it stayed quiet,
Speaker 1: too quiet. Around eight I heard something big moving through
Speaker 1: the pines behind me. Slow steps, crunch, pause, crunch. I
Speaker 1: figured it was a hog, or maybe a bear. We
Speaker 1: get them sometimes, and then it happened movement below, right
Speaker 1: under me. I held my breath and looked straight down
Speaker 1: and there it was. It walked in slow from behind,
Speaker 1: right under my stand, big as hell, eight feet, easy,
Speaker 1: broad shoulders, arms long enough that its knuckles nearly brushed
Speaker 1: the ground. It was covered in dark reddish brown hair,
Speaker 1: thick and matted in places, like it hadn't groomed itself
Speaker 1: in years. But it was the face that got me.
Speaker 1: It wasn't an animal, not a bear, not a gorilla.
Speaker 1: It was a face like a man and an ape
Speaker 1: mixed together. Heavy brow, ridge, flat nose, wide mouth, and
Speaker 1: its eyes dark brown, almost black, but alive, intelligent. It
Speaker 1: looked up at me, not with curiosity, not with fear,
Speaker 1: with recognition, like it knew ex exactly what I was.
Speaker 1: I froze. My rifle was in my hands. I thought
Speaker 1: about lifting it, I thought about pulling the trigger, but
Speaker 1: I didn't. I couldn't, because when I looked at that face,
Speaker 1: I saw something I wasn't ready for. It wasn't just
Speaker 1: an animal out in the woods. It was something more,
Speaker 1: something closer to us than I wanted to admit. I
Speaker 1: stayed perfectly still, barely breathed, and after a moment, it
Speaker 1: huffed out of breath, turned and walked off into the
Speaker 1: pines like it had no reason to rush. I stayed
Speaker 1: in that stand for two more hours before I climbed down,
Speaker 1: and when I did, my knees barely held me. I
Speaker 1: packed up camp as fast as I could without leaving
Speaker 1: anything behind, hauled the meat, the stand, everything, and stay
Speaker 1: tuned for more sasquatch out to see we'll be right back.
Speaker 1: After these messages, I made it back to the truck
Speaker 1: by sunset and drove out with white knuckles on the
Speaker 1: wheel the whole way. When I got home, I put
Speaker 1: the meat in the freezer, cleaned my rifle, and sat
Speaker 1: in the garage staring at the wall for a long time.
Speaker 1: I haven't hunted since my rifle's still in the safe,
Speaker 1: but I haven't pulled it out. Every fall, when the
Speaker 1: leaves turn and the air gets crisp, I feel that
Speaker 1: old pull to go back out, but I don't. I
Speaker 1: can't because I know what's out there, and I don't
Speaker 1: belong in those woods anymore. Four men, four stories, four
Speaker 1: lives changed forever. They went into the woods with years
Speaker 1: decades of experience behind them. These weren't greenhorns or weekend campers.
Speaker 1: These were seasoned hunters, men who knew the land knew
Speaker 1: the animals, knew every sound, every track, every pattern of
Speaker 1: the woods men who trusted their instincts, who believed they'd
Speaker 1: seen everything there was to see out there until something
Speaker 1: came along and showed them they were wrong. For the
Speaker 1: first hunter, it was in the deep forest of Minnesota
Speaker 1: when something too big, too quiet, and too knowing stood
Speaker 1: behind his tree stand watching him. For Kevin, it was
Speaker 1: the terrifying screams echoing through the Oregon wilderness and the
Speaker 1: eyes that followed him through the night. Luke went into
Speaker 1: the Alabama woods to put food on the table for
Speaker 1: his family and came face to face with something that
Speaker 1: made him question everything he thought he knew about survival.
Speaker 1: And in East Texas, a man who spent his life
Speaker 1: hunting the pine thickets came home from his last hunt
Speaker 1: after something stepped out from the shadows and locked eyes
Speaker 1: with him, something that walked beneath his stand like it
Speaker 1: had done it one hundred times before. Four men, four encounters,
Speaker 1: and not one of them has ever been the same.
Speaker 1: Since it's easy to say what you do. It's easy
Speaker 1: to be a skeptic when you've never seen it with
Speaker 1: your own eyes, But when you're the one in that stand,
Speaker 1: or by that campfire, or standing on a game trail
Speaker 1: with something impossible staring back at you. Everything changes. For
Speaker 1: these men, seeing was believing, and for the rest of us, well,
Speaker 1: these stories remind us there are still things out there
Speaker 1: we don't understand. If you enjoyed tonight's episode, if these
Speaker 1: encounters made you think twice or had you looking over
Speaker 1: your shoulder, do me a favor. I don't ask often,
Speaker 1: but it makes a big difference. Subscribe, follow, and most importantly,
Speaker 1: turn on auto downloads. That way, you'll never miss a
Speaker 1: new episode when it drops. And if you like what
Speaker 1: you hear, please take a moment to rate and review
Speaker 1: the show. It helps more than you know. And if
Speaker 1: you know someone who loves a good story, whether it's
Speaker 1: your friends, family, co workers, or that one hunting buddy
Speaker 1: who swears he's seen something but won't talk about it,
Speaker 1: share the show with them. Help us get these stories
Speaker 1: out to the folks who'll appreciate them. And if you're
Speaker 1: hungry for more encounters like these, check out my other podcast,
Speaker 1: Backwoods Bigfoot Stories. It's packed with more eyewitness accounts, deep
Speaker 1: woods encounters, and the kind of stories that'll make you
Speaker 1: think twice before heading out alone. Lastly, if you are
Speaker 1: someone you know has a story to tell, if you've
Speaker 1: seen something you can't explain, send me an email at
Speaker 1: Brian at Paranormalworldproductions dot com. I'd love to hear it.
Speaker 1: And if you're listening on Spotify, drop your thoughts in
Speaker 1: the comments section. I read every single one. Thank you
Speaker 1: for your support, for listening, for believing. Until next time,
Speaker 1: keep your eyes open and be careful out there. Did
Speaker 1: di in bo