Speaker 1: I've lived at the foot of this mountain in southeast
Oklahoma for twenty years, and all that time I've seen
these critters twice, but I've heard them many times. They
howl and whoop and chatter, or they make a bird sound,
which if it were a bird, it would have to
be the size of a house to make a sound
that loud. They eat the pears off my trees, but
they always bring me one with no marks on it.
They leave me a perfect pair. They lay it in
the same spot in my driveway every time, where I
can see it from the porch when I have my
morning coffee, and if they're out to hurt me, they've
had apple opportunity to do so. The first time I
saw one was when I glanced out in my bedroom
window as I was walking down the hall. There it
was a face looking in the window. I could tell
it was a young one. It was gray with large eyes,
and when it registered what I had seen, I stepped
back to look again, but it was gone. The second
time I saw one, I was putting clothes in my
washing machine and I glanced out the window above the washer.
This one was very shiny black, and I think it
may have just been in the pond that's farthest away
from my home. I don't know for sure, but I
know it was not a bear. A few days later,
my husband and I walked out to where I saw
it and measured him beside a small tree that I
saw it walk behind the tree came to the hairy
person's waist, and when my husband walked behind that tree,
it was over his head. My husband is six feet tall,
the hairy person must have been eight or nine feet tall.
My point is they are here, and they are real.
There is simple proof out there. They are not a
grete eight. DNA has been tested and tested and then
tested some more. They do have bodies, and the question
we should be asking is why the government is trying
to keep them a secret from the American people. They
are not a joke or a sitting around the campfire
scary story. They are real. The DNA shows them to
be a human hybrid. Every American should be asking our
government to let people know about them. While the secrets,
is it the money or is it something else? And
after all these years, the government has finally come out
and said, yes there are UFOs. We Americans have known
that for years. We benefited from that secret? Who benefits
from this one? Voices United make a mighty roar, and
that's the end of our email. And I agree. If
these things are real, it's and the government knows about it,
and they have bodies and there's been DNA testing that
shows they are a human hybrid, then you know, why
not just make it clear? I don't. That subject is
so deep. I just can't I can't even begin to
think about it because I don't know. I'm just busy.
People with less busy minds can probably think about that
and maybe come up with some theories. And all they
are is theories. All we have is ideas. Unless the
government comes out or some school or college or whoever
would be a reputable give a reputable representation of the species.
Until they come out and actually show the evidence a body,
then we're just never going to know. We're not going
to know. But this was interesting. I like that there's
two stories in a row where there's gifting going on.
I don't think she's gifting them, but they're leaving her
a pair in her driveway. That's pretty cool. Thank you
man for the story. I really appreciate it. As a
nine year old in the nineteen eighties. I spent most of,
if not all, of my time in the woods. From
the time I could crawl. My mom sent me outside
to play with our Rhodesian ridgeback bullet. Somewhere in the
rubber maid container full of photographs is a picture of
me and a diaper propped up against a bullet under
our house with a bottle I lived outside. The first
day of the first grade, I was already deep in
the swamp when I heard my mom yelling from the
porch to come home and eat breakfast and get ready
for school. School hadn't even thought about it until that moment.
My life to that point had been a blur of camo,
my Swiss army knife buttoned into a leather sheath on
my hip, a machetty, my dog, and the twenty thousand
acres of wildlife preserved behind our little patch of swamp
in Christmas, Florida. At that time, the little town of
Christmas was composed solely of a post office, a church,
and a thirty foot Christmas tree that was lit year
round off the side of Highway fifty seven in the
middle of nowhere. Nowhere was just how I liked it.
I fished and trapped and built every kind of fort
imaginable among the pal meadows and the cypress of those swamps.
When I was nine, my dad helped me build a
little hut with a thatched roof made from palmeadows. It
was long and narrow, and the perfect size to hang
my hammock. Despite having spent so much of my life
in the woods until then, I had never spent a
night alone out there. With my new hut, I decided
that this was the time to attempt my first solo
camping trip. I had to prove it to myself and
my dad that I was a woodsman that I claimed
to be. Later that day, with my machete in hand,
I hacked my way the quarter of a mile or
so into the swamp behind our house to my hut.
As the sun's lash rays began to fade and darkness
swallowed the air around me, I struck my lighter to
start a fire, and I was looking forward to the
eggs and sausage that I was planning to cook for dinner.
The same instant the flame sprung from my lighter, a
scream erupted from the swamp not thirty feet into the
darkness behind me. It was a kind of blood curling,
freezer muscle scream that send your mind racing. It sounded
like a woman was being stabbed to death in the
palmetto patch, and I strained to see something, but the
night was already so thick that I couldn't see. I
sat frozen in terror, and a few seconds later the
sound of the scream had faded, and I was relieved
to find my heart had an actually explode. It felt
like an eternity as I struggled to comprehend what I
had just heard. Who would be all the way back
here in the dark. If they were here, they were trespassing.
Could it have been a poacher? Why were they murdering
a woman? Who was she? Was I next? In reality?
All of these thoughts flashed through my mind in less
than a second. My heart had just begun to slow
its relentless effort to escape my rib cage when a
roar that shook my insides exploded from the same patch
of pal meadows behind me. It was followed by another screen.
A lion was now eating the woman. But no, lions
didn't live here, I thought, the urge to mess my pants.
There was no conscious decision between flight or fight. There
wasn't time. I was already flying down the path towards
the house. Later, all that I would remember of my
escape was passing the pond that marked the halfway point
back to the house, and the next thing I knew,
I was beating at the French doors on the back
porch with all my strength. My Dad had been in
his room reading when he heard my pleading and relentless
assault on the glass panels. Open the door. It's me,
I screamed. There's a guy in the woods with a knife.
He's killing her. That was all I could think to say.
Dad rushed to the door and opened it and asked,
what in the world was wrong with me now? I
explained that I had just heard a woman being murdered,
and then lions roaring. Well. Then he started to laugh,
and I wasn't amused. Your hair is standing straight up,
he said. I didn't give a right speckle backside what
my hair was doing. A woman was being murdered. She
was being stabbed to death and eaten or whatever, right
in our backyard. It was probably a cougar, he explained,
They sometimes do that. I decided that I'd had enough
for one night. I'd have to attempt a solo camp
some other time when I was sure no women, bears, lions,
or cougars or axe murderers were out and about in
the dark. I've spent plenty of nights in the woods
since then, both alone and with others, but I've never
again heard anything like that. I was only nine at
the time, but I'm pretty sure I broke speed records
that night, and I don't think my feet ever touched
the ground. Whoa man, What a story These stories with
the children. You know, when these people are small and
they have these encounters, we listened to them, and we're
kind of entertained by these stories. I mean, really, we
are entertained by these stories. But if you put yourself
in their shoes, oh my gosh, you know, it's just
got to be terrifying. It would have been for me
at nine years old. I know that. And there were
things that scared me at nine, nothing like a bigfoot
or anything like that. But you know, you're very impressionable.
Fear level is like off the charts when something scares you.
And so that's why I kind of, I don't know,
I kind of identify with these stories. People reminisce about
their childhood and these weird things that happen. But Matt,
this was a great story and I really appreciate you
sending it. I'm gonna look up on the map where Christmas,
Florida is. I've never heard of it. Well, I'm just
gonna look it up and figure out where it is.
Maybe time next time i'm down there, I'm gonna go
look at that Christmas tree. I live on Fort Hill
overlooking Charleston, West Virginia. Over the last thirty five years,
I've heard bigfoot screams many times. On cold winter nights.
The dogs up on this hill will start barking until
a terrible scream echoes down across the valley and silences them.
I've heard tree knocks up here, screaming as if a
woman is being murdered in whoops, and jabbering like humans
talking but not human. This seems to happen most often
around the fourth of July. I guess that's because of
all the fireworks disturbing the creatures deep in the woods.
I've heard these same sounds on the Internet, listed under sysquatch, sabe,
and Bigfoot. In twenty eighteen, mold A Sun and a
few of his friends were shooting off fireworks in a
parking lot in a neighboring town not too far from
our home. When they got there around ten pm, they
decided to walk to the top of the hill, where
there was a water reservoir. They reasoned that they'd be
far away from any homes at the top of that
hill and they could shoot the fireworks high into the
air there. Besides, if anything went wrong, they figured they
had an immediate water source. They walked up this hill
through the dark woods with only their flashlight to guide them.
It had rained that afternoon and a low fog was
hanging in the air. The path was paved with asphalt
with gravel on both sides. The boys took turns carrying
the box while the girls were busy walking and talking
in the front. There's a fork in the path halfway
up that hill, and one fork leads straight up on
the hill while the other stays low and wraps around
the reservoir. The girls took the wrong fork. The boys
weren't paying attention as they continued down the wrong path.
They began to hear someone walking over in the woods,
and my son realized they should have reached the reservoir
by then, so he told the girls to stop. Don't
be silly. They told him we'll be there soon. They
pointed out that they'd stayed on the path and kept walking.
My son is a high functioning autistic. He thinks a
little bit different than others. He said, I hear somebody
walking behind us, walking in the gravel. Look y'all, I'm scared.
I want to go home. Someone in the group suggested
they shot off the fireworks where they were, that they'd
gone far, and the girls agreed. My son said, I
think this is a bad idea. We need to get
home now. The other kids laughed at him and called
him a scaredy cat. They pulled out one of the
coffee can sized fireworks and they lit it. It spewed
on for about two minutes, sparkling and lightning and popping
and crackling, and finally it went out and everything went
silent and dark, and from the woods they heard a
low growl. See. I told you he wouldn't like it.
My son said, it's time to go. We gotta go now.
The boys hurriedly picked up the box while the girls
were screaming. They all went running back down the hill,
leaving my son behind in the dark, and he heard
the growl again. I'm sorry, mister, he said, it was
their idea to set it off in your house. Now,
I'm going to start walking and I'm going to leave
your house now, and I'm sorry for disturbing you. I'm
going to go now. I did not mean to dishonor you,
and the growling stopped. My grandfather told me about the
old Man of the Mountain when I was just a
little girl. He taught me about the old ways and
what to do when being confronted by a sisquatch. Don't
make eye contact and speak loudly, but be non confrontational.
Be respectful, but don't show fear, and do not run
no matter what. That's exactly what my son did. He
told me that the sisquatch followed him down the mountain,
keeping about ten feet back. He could hear it walking
in the gravel. He used to cell phone to light
his way, but he never looked aback, and when he
got to the car, the others were yelling for him
to hurry. It's right behind you, they said, But my
son continued his slow, steady pace to the car, and
he never once looked aback. He got into the car,
and as they sped out of the parking lot, he
caught sight of it in the headlights. It was standing
at the edge of the path swaying back and forth.
He said it was nine feet tall, and it was
covered in black hair, and its arms were longer than
a human, and it had green eyeshine. When the other
kids dropped my son off, they were all nervous. The
girls were crying. They were all talking over each other,
trying to tell me what happened, But my son was
calm and sober, like a priest. I sent the other
kids home and I had my son recount a story,
and I believe every word of it. Oh wow, what
a great story. An autistic kid caught out in the
woods shooting fireworks by a bigfoot. He sure did a
good job getting out of there by not running and
not being confrontational. That's I guess that's the way he
made it out. Who knows if this thing would have
hurt him otherwise, but it was just escorting him out.
What a great story. Okay, this is a short This
is a little short story that I've had for a
little while, and it's not real scary or anything, and
it's not a bigfoot story, but it's very heartwarming. The
writer's name is Missy. She writes, I heard you reading
a ghost story. Now, I haven't seen a bigfoot, but
I have seen a ghost on more than one occasion.
Most are just a fleeting moment of a stranger, but
this one was special. My husband was in the Marine
Corps and we were stationed in Yuma, Arizona. We were
living on the base in base housing in Yuma. We're
from the same little town in Alabama, not too far
from Mississippi. At the time, I was twenty six weeks
pregnant and did not know it yet, but things were
about to get scary. I woke up in the middle
of the night to see my mama and two people
that I didn't know. I think they were her parents.
They died before I was born, so I only have
seen old black and white pictures. They all looked concerned.
I was startled but excited to see her. She had
passed away just under two years before then. They disappeared
in just a few seconds. Now. I got up and
went down the hall, but they were gone. What I
didn't know was at twenty seven weeks, I would be
hospitalized for pre eclampsia, eclampsia, eclampsia, I'm not sure what
that is. I would go home after a couple of
days on bed rest. However, on my next check up
at twenty nine weeks, my blood pressure was out of
the roof, so I was taken to the hospital. I
was about to go full eclamtic and be air ambulance
to Phoenix. My son was delivered by cesarean section and
was in NICU for three months until his due date.
He was born one pound in twelve ounces, and if
not for the grace of God and the good care
at Good sam and Phoenix Children's Hospital, we would have died.
I think Mama was either there just worried or preparing
to take us home. My son was lucky and he
never had to go back into the hospital. A lot
of premies do have to revisit a bit. But he's
now five foot ten and he's a radiology He is
a radiology technologist, and she writes, that's a fancy name
for the person that takes your X ray in the hospital.
We're blessed to still be here on this big blue
ball and to have family no matter where they may be.
Thanks for working so hard doing these stories. You can
use my nickname Missy. What a great story. One pound
twelve ounces. Just think about that, these babies. He was
twenty nine weeks think it was twenty nine. He was
born by caesarean, weighing one pound twelve ounces. I don't know.
There's a lot of argument going on about if these
fetuses or people or humans or not, you know, the
whole debate. And this is one of the things that
always really makes me wonder if a baby can be
born at one pound twelve ounces and grow up be
a five foot ten radiology technologist, which again is a
fancy name for a person that takes your extra at
the hospital. It's pretty compelling, pretty compelling. Save those babies.