Speaker 1: Okay, welcome to the podcast. My name's Cameron Butner and
this is the Dixie Cryptid What If It's True Podcast.
I have two stories from the United Kingdom, two very
well written stories that were really interesting, and I hope
you guys are going to enjoy this. I know you will,
so let's get on with it all right, Here we go.
In nineteen ninety four and Devon, Southwest, United Kingdom, I
was walking home from town one evening with just a
bit of starlight to light my path. I'd walked this
stretch home many times and didn't need a light to
find my way. The road was a deep, sunken rocky
track leading up a steep hill that led to the farm.
It was an ancient Bronze aged roadway known as as
a Hollow Wave, probably one of the oldest roads in
the country. The surface was bumpy and uneven, constructed with
stones that had moved out of place over the centuries.
Jogging or even walking at a fast pace could result
in a turned ankle or worse. But I was light
footed and agile in those days, and I was not
worried about stumbling. I walked onto the farm an hour
away when I saw something unusual in front of me
in the middle of the road. Without much light, I
could only make out the contrast of a figure against
the dimly reflective rocks and stones that made up the
road's surface. I could hear it huffing slightly as it
dug into the road and flipped large rocks over. I
immediately stopped still and strained my eyes to try to
identify it. My first impression was of a person in
a black cape, crouching down with its back toward me.
It seemed to have a pointed head shape like a
hood or a witch's hat, and when I saw what
looked like a long, sweeping tail, I thought it might
be a large black cat, like a leopard, that would
be quite out of place in the Devonshire countryside. At
this point, the thing was only twenty feet in front
of me, and it seemed to have its back to
me and hadn't noticed me yet. Not knowing what the
hell it was really spooked me, and I decided to
go around it by leaving the track via an open
gateway to my left. Now this led up to a
narrow strip of land that ran parallel to the roadway,
the old Norman Quarry, where they got the stone for
our local castle. But as soon as I got up there,
I cursed myself for doing it, because the only way
out of that piece of land was back onto the
road further up, and by the time I got there,
I would be in front of this thing, and it
would surely see me. Then I stood there for a
while and listened, still hearing the rocks turning and soft
huffing breathing. The road to my right was eight feet
below me, and I walked a few steps and heard
the rock sound stop, and then the creature's low breathing
came level with me, and I moved forward a few
more steps, and it did the same. It was pacing me,
and fear rose in pin pricks up my neck and
into the back of my scalp. Soon I would have
to drop back down into the road to continue forward,
putting me far too close to this thing. I stood
still for some time, getting up the courage to face
my fears before jumping down into the road. And when
I landed, I faced downhill into the blackness of the
thick sycamore tree cover in the direction of the creature.
The place where I re entered the track was open
and there was light enough to make the road below
look pitch black where it went under the trees. And
I stared into that darkness, and when nothing moved, I
began to relax, and I thought I had averted disaster.
And then a deep, rumbling growl traveled from the darkness
to my ears, and all hope was gone, and without thinking,
I picked up a rock. I don't want to fight,
but I will if I have to, I threatened, with
a shaking voice, to the creature hiding in the darkness.
The growl continued, but the entity didn't come closer. I
turned and began to walk up the hill toward home.
I never turned my back fully to the darkness behind me.
I felt it near, and I knew it was following me.
I turned several times to face it as I walked,
wanting it to know that I would not go quietly.
And when I got to the farmhouse, my partner's dog
was there to meet me. She was supposed to be indoors,
but had managed to get out. My partner and her
young son were away at the time. The dog was
beside herself, shaking. She wrapped her body around my legs
and then pulled and pushed me through the gate toward
the home, away from the road. What's that? What's that?
What is it? Go on? I excitedly said to the dog,
and pointed down the dark road. Now normally this would
send her flying off, fearlessly, chasing shadows and hints of
animal life, even at night, But this time, though she
never budged, she stayed pressed against my legs, refusing to
even look in the direction from where I had come.
I had never seen her act like that, and her
behavior convinced me that I wasn't imagining the danger that
I knew was there. I took her inside and pulled
up an armchair, and I sat with the open door
and the electric light pouring out into the farmyard. And
I stayed there until first light, and the dog by
my side the entire night. Neither of us took our
eyes off of the doorway. Sometime later, and not too
far away, I found a cave in the woods. It
was inaccessible and heavily fenced off, probably for safety, whether
to keep something from going in or to prevent something
from coming out. I never knew the places labeled on
old maps as a lead mine, but I think it's
a natural cave that was worked on by men in
medieval times. The cave entrance is a steep, muddy slope
going down and around to the left. It was free
of plant life and padded down smoothly, as if something
large had been using it on a regular basis. I
walked a little way down the slope and I was
hit by a horrible smell, a rotten, deathly stench sharp
with ammonia. That alone filled me with terror, and I
was out of there in a flash. I must have
jumped clear over a double five foot barbed wire fence
and a holly tree because I was in the field
bordering the woods before I knew it, and I didn't
remember the climb out at all now. I never went
back there, but later I heard of two male lines
that had escaped from a private animal collection. They were
never found, one was seen in that area, and a
farmer there was losing fifty turkeys at a time. The
area where I live is full of unexplained phenomena and events,
much of it too crazy to believe. And that particular
section of the road that I was on is famous
for spooking people, and I know some who will never
walk it alone at night. I wanted to believe that
it was a lion that was stalking me, but knowing
some of the strange things that have happened here, I
couldn't help but think that it may have been something
even more sinister. I want to say that I really
enjoy the Dixie Cryptid podcast. The stories are always thralling
and beautifully red and atmospheric. I wish I could report
a bigfoot sighting and equally thrilling story, but as a
fifty eight year old man from West Sussex, England, bigfoots
and encryptids are a bit on the ground. I think
the nearest we get here in the UK is the
Lockness Monster in Scotland, which the tourists seem to enjoy.
And while we might be lacking a bit in the
cryptid department, what we do have is an abundance of history.
Britain is full of historic buildings, castles and ancient ruins,
homes and dwellings that have been virtually unchanged for hundreds
of years. There's a real sense when you live in
the UK of this abundance of history and those that
came before. I don't know if my little story in
some way taps into something that happened in the past.
But it certainly is odd. Let's see what you think.
When I was six, my parents took me and my
old brother to the beautiful, quiet, little seaside village of
poles Eith p o l z Eah Polsyth, in stunning
North Cornwall. This wonderful place truly had everything. A beautiful
sheltered beach, dramatic scenery, and my favorite thing, the opportunity
to play and bodyboard and the exhilarating waves pounding in
from the Atlantic. As I got older, I always found
a week or so to revisit this childhood haunt and
recapture some of the memories I had so enjoyed growing up.
Most years I paid a visit to Polsith and continue
to add wonderful memories of this lovely place to people
in the UK. If I'm mispronouncing the name of this town,
I apologize. I just have never heard it, so bear
with me and give me some grace on that. Okay,
back to the story. One of the traditions I was
keen to keep alive was an eighteen round trip hike
going north following the rugged and stunning coastline of Polsith
to Port Quinn and then along to the picture perfect
fishing village of Port Isaac. In two thousand and one,
I had been running a marketing company in Sussex and
my team had decided to take part in a hike
for charity. In preparation for this, I took the opportunity
to suggest that as part of our training we could
have a long weekend down in Cornwall and I could
introduce the team to my go to hike along the
coastline and back, and coupled with the opportunity of a
wonderful adventure, the prospect of great weather and perhaps a
few crafty beers after the event, I had no trouble
enticing the team to come. After work on Friday. We
jumped into the minibus and headed west. We arrived at
our b and b, the Cornish cottage and polseyth and
had a quick beer and then went to bed shortly after,
all keen to set off early on Saturday morning for
our adventure. The day could not have gone better. The
weather was amazing, the views were spectacular, and the banter
and camaraderie were everything I had hoped. The hike was tough,
but manageable, and we all felt a true sense of
accomplishment when we arrived back at the Cornish cottage, ready
for a great meal and some alcoholic reward for our endeavors.
There was a true intention to party hard, but the
reality was different. One by one everyone started to yearn
for their beds, and they left the food and half
drunk pints on the table. And still it was a
perfect day and a well deserved rest to savor. That night,
I was sharing a room with my business partner, Graham.
We had two single beds, one toilet, a shower, and
not a lot else. It was fit for purpose and cheap,
and it was comfortable. I think I must have been
asleep before my head hit the pillow and I went
spark out. In the middle of the night. I was
suddenly awake and freezing cold. It had been a warm day,
so I had just gone to sleep in my underwear.
I felt the duvet on me, but I since something
wasn't quite right. As I became more conscious, I realized
that the mattress I was lying on was absolutely ringing wet.
It was like water had in some way erupted from
beneath me. Though the duvet on top of me felt
relatively dry. My first reaction was that there had been
a leak in the plumbing, but there was quite a
bit of light in the room from the street light outside,
and I could see no evidence of anything out of
the ordinary. After that, it had occurred to me that
I might have wet myself, and to be honest, I
thought this was unlikely because I had drank virtually nothing
the night before and had never done anything like that. Also,
I noted that my underwear was dry other than where
it had touched the mattress. In any event, I looked
over at my mate Graham, who was sound asleep. I
decided not to wake him, and I made the best
of the situation until morning. I turned the mattress over
and took off the sidden sheets, and I gathered all
the available towels together to give some protection from the wetness.
And my night passed very slowly. I was freezing cold
and a little spook because nothing like this had ever
happened to me before. I couldn't think of a rational explanation.
All I knew was that somehow a whole lot of
water had miraculously appeared from nowhere, and I didn't know
how or why. As soon as I thought it reasonable,
I gave Graham a kick and I told him about
my nighttime experience. He said he had woken up at
some point and noticed my makeshift duvase situation, which he
had thought was strange but was funny, And together we
inspected the ceiling and the plumbing, and we saw no
evidence of leaks, and then we discussed the possibility of
one of us being the guilty party with an ill
timed night pee. Still, we soon eliminated that as unlikely
because frankly, the wet mattress had no odor, and as
I said, the water had erupted from below. We concluded
that it was just one of those things, and that
we would probably never know the truth, and the rest
of our team thought it was funny and just part
of the weekend's adventures. Over the next couple of years,
there were few opportunities to tell the story. It had
been a very strange thing to have happened, and when
we're laying the events, people seemed intrigued. In my heart, though,
I began to think that there must have been a
rational explanation that had caused this, and we probably hadn't
put in the necessary time to investigate the property at
the time. In any event, I didn't dwell on it,
and so I put it out of my mind. In
the spring of twenty twenty two, my business partner Graham
announced that he was engaged to be married and was
going to be hits that summer to the love of
his life, Babs. Great news, I thought, not only a
nice wedding to enjoy, but also the prospect of a
great bachelor party, which was bound to be eventful. And
with his impending nuptials fast approaching, Graham came to me
with an interesting suggestion. His idea was to get scuba
qualified before his honeymoon in Jamaica, so he would be
prepared the moment he landed. It was something I had
always wanted to do, and I jumped on the chance
to join him. It was allegedly spring here in the UK,
although most mornings still came with a thick layer of
frost on the ground. Graham and I found ourselves standing
by the foreboding lake that had formerly been a quarry
to do the open water part of our course. This
venue in Petersborough was an inland scuba training facility, that
simulated the real life experience of diving in the open ocean,
complete with sunken features such as an old aircraft and
even a double decker London bus. In our little group
we had eight other trainee divers, three ladies and five blokes,
spanning age groups from thirty to the oldest of sixty five.
We got to know these people well in the preceding weeks.
They were a good bunch of people who, like us,
wanted to tick scuba diving off the bucket list. One night,
our group decided to go for a few beers local
to where we were staying. After freezing most of the
day in the lake, sitting in a cozy pub with
an open fire was just the tonic we all needed.
After a good night with these like minded folk, we
got to the stage of the evening when we were
sitting back in chairs contently sipping on a malt whiskey
to round off the day. The conversation became quite animated,
with the subject somehow turning to what weird things have
happened to you in your lifetime? And when it got
to me it was easy I would tell the strange
story of our Cornwall adventure. Punctuated with Graham filling in
the blanks and interjecting his perspective. And as I was speaking,
I noticed that one of the guys in our group
started to look at me strangely. He had gone stone
faced and was fidgeting in his chair. Robert, are you okay?
I asked? Was this new BnB impulsive up on a hill?
He asked yes. I said, was it called the Cornish Cottage?
Robert asked yes. I said, was your room up the
stairs and first on the right, yes, I said, growing curious.
Was your bed the first one on the right as
you entered the room? Robert asked. I hesitated, yes, I said,
what's going on? Mate? I believe this, but the same
thing happened to me a couple of years ago, he said.
I woke up freezing and soaking wet, and I couldn't
come up with an explanation. I had just put it down.
It's just one of those things, Robert said, looking a
little disturbed. Now, as you can appreciate, this information was incredible.
During grams. In my telling of the story, we had
not given the location details, the name of the BnB,
let alone the precise layout of our room, And I
remember feeling the hair stand up on the back of
my neck, and it felt like this was no longer
just one of those things after all. In the following
years I have told both sides of this story many
times and have had no need to embellish it in
any way. These are two different accounts with the same
strange outcome. And since this strange event, I had visited
this lovely seaside village and hiked the glorious coastal path
many times. The Cornish cottages no longer there. It was
demolished and replaced by a parking lot, and I have
often wondered what the truth really was here. Was it
just the most incredible coincidence, or was there something more
sinister going on? And on beautiful sunny days, I would
be hard to imagine anything ghostly going on impulsive, But
in the heart of winter, with the waves crashing over
the craggy coastline, you can easily imagine a very different world.
The Cornish coastline is littered with wrecks and tales of
seagoing folk who have met their untimely deaths at the
hand of a very cruel sea, and perhaps my experience
was just one of those things, but I suspect not.
Thanks for joining me on this podcast. I love getting
these stories from my friends in the United Kingdom or
anywhere in the British Isles or Europe. I really enjoy
reading the stories from different places. I've gotten stories from
all over the world, actually, and I know there are
some places that I haven't gotten stories from. I don't
know something about something going on that I understand in
another country or another continent is I don't know. It's
illuminating to me. It really, it's very interesting to me,
and I love to read these. So I hope you
all enjoyed that. I've had these stories for a long time,
and I apologize to the writers for taking so long,
but I do have a lot of them to do.
I wanted to get these out today because I liked them.
That's why I did them, because I like them. All Right,
you guys, have a good day, and we'll see you
on the next podcast. Thanks