Speaker 1: I never believed the stories about the meadow monster. Kids
talked about it every fall, right around the time the
trees went bare and the farm fields near the mac
Millan property turned silver from frost. They said something tall
wandered the meadow at night. They claimed live stock went
missing or feed barrels got dragged into the tree line.
But to me, it sounded like the same kind of
rumors that spread when people are bored. One Friday night,
after the football game, my friend convinced me to cut
through the mac millan farm to get home faster. We
weren't a good group by adult standards. Teachers called them slackers.
Parents told their kids not to hang around us. Still,
these were the only guys who didn't treat me like
an outsider. We walked together everywhere, and every path we
took seemed to lead through the woods. The sky was
clear and the moon lit the field enough that we
didn't even need flashlights At first. The grass was ankle
deep and wet from a light rain that had passed earlier.
The air smelt like cold dirt and hay. We entered
from the back surface road, hopping the fence at its
lowest point, the barn was barely visible in the distance,
sitting quiet and square against the tree line. Somewhere ahead
of us, something cracked. It wasn't a twig. It sounded heavier,
like weight shifting on a branch before it snapped. My
friends stopped walking. I kept going. Probably a deer, I said.
Nobody answered. I turned around and saw three faces staring
into the dark. Another crack, louder this time. Then something stepped.
A heavy thud reached us through the ground. One of
the guys whispered, that's the meadow monster. I rolled my eyes.
There's no monster. Another step closer. My heart kicked against
my ribs. The sound came from the fore edge of
the meadow, where the grass dipped slightly, just enough to
hide anything crouched inside it. I scanned the dark and
forced myself to laugh, as if a volume alone could
keep the fear away. You all act like you've never
heard a cow move. That's not a cow, someone said.
I didn't want to show hesitation in front of them,
so I bent down grabbed a broken limb off the ground.
It wasn't much, just a green stick with one thick end,
but it gave me something to hold without waiting for
a group decision. I started walking toward the sound. My
friends whispered behind me, trying to get me to stop.
One even grabbed the back of my jacket, but I
shook free. I wasn't afraid of a rumor. I wasn't
afraid of a shadow. I told myself that whatever we
were hearing had to be normal. As soon as we
got closer, I noticed something strange. The sound wasn't moving
away from us, It was waiting. We crossed half way
into the field, and the trees ahead formed a wall
of black. The smell changed too, less hay, more musky,
almost like wet dog mixed with dirt. I tightened my
grip around the stick and held it across my chest.
My voice came out louder than I intended. Come on,
show yourself. For a moment, everything went silent. Even the
distant highway noise seemed to fade. Then something rose from
inside the shallow dip in the grass. At first I
thought it was just a shape, like a bundled tarp
forgotten near the fence. Then it lifted higher and kept rising.
It was standing straight up, tall, taller than any one
had a right to be. When the moon cut through
the clouds. The light hit it just enough for me
to see the shape of a shoulder and then ahead.
Every instinct I had screamed to run. Instead, I threw
the stick. It sailed through the air and hit the
ground short of the figure. For a heart beat, nothing happened.
The thing stood still, hunched slightly forward, like a person
leaning over a balance. Then it took a step up
the small rise and came fully into view. It wasn't
a bear. Even from a distance that was obvious. Bears
have rounded shoulders, shorter necks, and move on all fours
unless they're threatening. This thing was upright from the second
it appeared. Its outline was thick through the upper body,
broad across the back, and heavy in the arms. Its
height made the fence behind it look small. Then our
flashlights scattered across it, narrow beams shaking in nervous hands.
The head shape stopped me cold. The hair on top
looked shorter than the rest of its body, almost cropped flat.
The skull underneath looked elongated in a way that belonged
to neither a person nor any animal I know, almost
like the shape of a football. Standing upright, the creature's
chest expanded once, deep and deliberate. Then it moved, not slowly,
not cautiously, two explosive steps forward, a bluff charge. The
ground trembled. My friends screamed and grabbed me at the
same time. The creature stopped just short of the half
way point between us, then leaned forward and let out
a roar that tore through the field. The sound was low, powerful,
and deep enough that I felt it inside my chest
instead of hearing it in my ears. The roar didn't
say I'm going to kill you. It said leave. My
friends didn't have to tell me twice. We turned and ran,
every one of us sprinting toward the opposite fence. I
could barely feel the ground beneath my shoes. The cold
air scarred my lungs. I didn't dare look behind me.
The footsteps came again, massive, heavy, closing the distance between us,
and then, just as suddenly as it happened, the sound stopped.
The footsteps faded. It had chosen not to follow. We
didn't stop running until we reached the barn and collapsed
behind it, gasping and shaking. Nobody spoke, nobody needed to.
We all knew something impossible had stood in that meadow
and that it had spared us. We didn't talk about
what happened on the run back to the barn. There
was no breath for talking, no room for anything except survival.
When we finally stopped, we collapsed behind the building on
the hard, padded packed dirt. Nobody coughed or gasped or spoke.
We just lay there with our backs against the cold wall,
letting our hearts try to pound their way out of
our ribs. It felt like everything inside me was vibrating
from the roar still echoing in my bones. After several minutes,
one of my friends whispered, what was that? Nobody answered.
We were thinking the same thing, but none of us
wanted to be the first to admit it. Saying it
out loud would make it real. I stared at the
barn door instead, focusing on the chipped red paint and
the rusty hinge so I wouldn't have to replay the
moment that creature stepped up out of that dip in
the meadow. Eventually, our breathing steadied, and we knew we
had to leave before someone spotted us. The mcmillans had
a reputation for running trespassers off their property and explaining
why we were there wasn't something any of us wanted
to attempt. We slipped out around the barn, keeping close
enough to cast shadows on its wall, as if proximity
to a building could protect us from something capable of
shaking the earth. There was an open gate near the driveway,
and we aimed for it. Walking felt strange after running
for our lives. Every sound made us flinch. A dog
barked somewhere near the farm house, and we all jumped.
None of us were in the mood for another confrontation
with anything human or otherwise, so we cut toward the
far fence, planning to climate and drop into the drainage ditch.
Beyond the ditch, emptied into a small path that led
straight to the road, safe predictable ground. Once we reached
the fence, we froze again. In the soft dirt beneath it.
Something had stepped. The impression wasn't perfect, not like the
plaster casts you see in documentaries, but the size was unmistakable.
It stretched longer than any bootprint, wider than any work boot, broad,
very broad to be a barefoot human. The loose soil
caught only part of the detail, but there was enough
to see the arch, the forefoot, and the strange shape
of something too large to explain. One of my friends whispered,
tell me, that's not what I think it is. I
didn't say anything. There was nothing to say. We climbed
the fence, We didn't speak. The night swallowed us as
we escaped the property. I didn't sleep much after I
got home. I lay in bed, replaying the moment the
creature rose, how the shoulders broadened as it straightened, how
the hair along the top of its head was shorter,
almost trimmed, giving it that strange, elongated silhouette, and the
scar across the lower back wide healed old, a mark
of something that had tried to harm it before and failed.
That detail haunted me more than anything. Something had tried
to fight that thing and lost. School the next day
felt surreal. Teachers talked, bells rang, people laughed in the hallway.
The world moved on like nothing had happened. But every
room I walked into felt too bright, too safe, too
much like a place where the impossible couldn't exist. During lunch,
one of the guys from last night nudged me and
jerked his chin toward a table. Two rows away. Two
students were whispering about the McMillan farm. Dad found another
feed barrel gone this morning, one said, gone, dragged off,
same as before. None of us looked at each other.
We didn't need to. The meadow monster was still out there.
Later that week, as sunset dropped behind the pines, the
four of us met again, drawn together by something unspoken.
We weren't planning on going back. We weren't that reckless,
but we needed proof we hadn't lost our minds. We
biked into the far end of the service road and
stopped where the fence dipped low. A dry breeze pushed
through the grass, flattening patches and making others ripple. The
field looked harmless. For a moment, I convinced myself we
had exaggerated what we saw, fear plays, tricks, the dark lies.
Then we heard it, not a roar, not footsteps, a
slow exhale, slow controlled, measured. We looked toward the meadow.
There on the far side, something moved. A dark, upright
shape slipped past the hay bales and into the tree line,
not rushing, not disturbed, just moving the same way a
person leaves a room they don't care about. We stayed
until the dark eased into the last visible thing. Then
we left, silent all the way home. No one pushed
for adventure, no one dared anyone else. The story wasn't
fun anymore. It was real. In the weeks that followed,
sightings popped up, like scattered sparks, something tall crossing a
road at dusk, a shape watching from behind a tree,
more barrels missing, always nearer, the McMillan farm, always quiet,
always leaving just enough evidence. We never saw it roar again.
We never heard the heavy footsteps behind us like we
did that night. But once you know something exists, you
can't unknow it. Even years later, when I hear a
branch snap in the woods, I remember how I lifted
that stick like a weapon and charged forward, believing it
was probably just a bear, believing nothing could be bigger
than my own confidence. I was wrong. That creature could
have caught us, could have crushed us, could have silenced
that rumor forever. Instead, it chose to let us go.
To this day, I can still picture the moment when
it had held its ground instead of lunging the intelligence
behind that restraint, the way it seemed to weigh our
importance and decide we weren't even worth the energy. It
wasn't scared of us, it wasn't startled. We were irrelevant,
And somehow that realization changed more in me than fear. Ever.
Could people ask, sometimes joking, sometimes serious, don't you think
bigfoot is dangerous? After that night? I don't answer with
facts or with explanations. I answer with this, He knew
exactly what he was doing, and he chose not to
hurt us. Whatever walked that meadow, whatever stood up from
that dip in the grass and looked at us with
a face of patience instead of violence, it wasn't a monster.
It was something older, wiser, a survivor, And by sparing
a group of reckless kids, it taught me something I
didn't know until that moment. Power isn't proven by violence.
Power is proven by restraints. Again for listening to bigfoots wilderness,
I really appreciate it. If you ever find yourself walking
a lonely trail through tall grass, when the weeds brush
against your legs and the field feels just a little
too still, remember this story, because somewhere out there in
a forgotten meadow. Something may still be watching, waiting for
the moment when the wind shifts and someone else becomes
a part of the legend. And that is the story
of the Meadow Monster.
Speaker 2: Have a great night, not n JB. Job up.