Speaker 1: I'm fifty nine years old. I live in Springfield, Tennessee,
and I've studied Bible prophecy for over thirty seven years.
I believe in angels, and I believe in demons, and
I pray a lot. I could write for days the
things that I have learned that would blow most people's minds.
I tell you these things to explain how I arrived
at the conclusions you were about to read. I can't
prove what I'm going to tell you, but I swear
it happened, and I believe I know what I saw.
One afternoon, I visited the fraternity that I belonged to
at Western Kentucky University. I've always loved playing foosball since
my college days in the late seventies. I spent all
afternoon at the fraternity house playing foosball with the young guys.
That day, I dipped a lot of snuff and some
beers with the guys. I played until I felt like
I needed to get home. It was after nine pm
when I got on to I sixty five south, headed
towards Tennessee. I picked up speed as I entered the
traffic and was cruising along at seventy four miles per hour.
I drove for ten minutes. I guess I was in
the fast lane. I had just passed an eighteen wheeler,
and I was now passing a car that was behind
two other cars, and the lane in front of me
was clear for at least two hundred more yards. I
was enjoying the XM radio blues music and thinking about
the guys I had just wept all afternoon at foos Ball.
Out of nowhere, right in front of me, a jet
black dog was coming towards me in my lane. He
was as big as a German shepherd. When he saw
that I was coming fast at him, he tried to
go to his left, and he partially in front of
the car that was in front of the car that
I was passing. He almost got hit, but he jumped
back in my lane, barely escaping that other car. He
was dead centered on my grill, and all I had
time to do was squeeze the steering wheel and brace
for the impact. I saw him look straight at me.
He had red eyes surrounded by white He had white
teeth and a red tongue. I later realized that the
gate he had wasn't that of a normal dog. It
was a creepy gate like you would see in a
horror movie or something. His front legs were taller than
his back legs. Anyone who knows tractors would understand if
I said he had a road crop front end. I
squeezed the wheel and I tensed up, and I smacked
the hell out of that thing. There was no time
to do anything else. I couldn't swerve left and run
off the road, and I couldn't swerve and hit the
car that I was passing. There was no time to
hit the brakes, so I plastered the thing at seventy
four miles per hour. I felt the impact big time.
It sounded like a three hundred Winchester mag went off
in the front end of my truck. It went underneath
the truck and it rolled under there. It sounded like
it probably just tore up major stuff from the front
all the way to the back. Immediately, I looked in
my rear view mirror to see him come out, but
he never did. The car behind me never made any
kind of move, and the eighteen wheeler I had passed
never made any kind of move either. Nobody but me
even saw the thing. I slowed down and I got
over to the right lane, and I prepared to get
in the emergency lane to stop, but with the traffic
like it was that night on the Interstate, I decided
to see if I could make it to the Franklin exit.
I didn't hear any squealing, everything sounded good, and my
temperature gaze never got hot, so I just kept going. Oh,
I was miserable. I just knew that my bumper and
grill were all busted up. I was surprised that my
radiator was even working. I was surprised that the airbags
had never deployed. There was no telling how much damage
was underneath my car. I pulled off the Interstate at
Exit one eight, which is my exit. I kept heading
towards the house I live about five miles out in
the country, and when I pulled into my driveway, I
had to peace so bad. I just grabbed my keys
and I went into the house to use the bathroom.
My neighbors were standing in their front yard, Otherwise I
would have let it fly in the driveway. When I
came out of the bathroom, I sat down in my recliner.
I told my wife I had just torn up my truck,
and I explained what happened. She asked how bad it was,
and I told her I hadn't looked at it, but
I knew it was bad. She told me that we
would just get it fixed, and then she went on
to bed. I sat there for hours, remembering how this
thing happened. I realized that dogs don't have white around
red pupils. I could explain the red part by the
lights in his eyes. Maybe dogs have brown surrounding their pupils.
The big shiny white teeth, nah, maybe the red tongue.
It was the brightest red lipstick color I have ever seen,
and his face planted in the front end of my truck.
After studying the situation for hours, I was, and I
still am, convinced it was a demon sent to try
to kill me. He tried to run me off the
road or into the worst wreck of my life. The
next morning, my wife went to look at my truck
and she came inside and she told me she couldn't
find anything wrong with it. I went and looked, and
I said, Praise the Lord. There wasn't a dent, a scratch,
There wasn't anything broken, no blood or hair anywhere. It
was as if nothing happened, but it did happen, and
it should have been bad. All I know is the
God that I served saved me from an evil being
that tried very hard to hurt me that night. He
paid dearly for it, though I busted his tail with
the Honda Ridgeline doing seventy four miles an hour. I
rejoice over it today and it gives me confidence to
fight the good fight. The next day, I showed my
sister and I explained everything, just like I have here.
It really creeped her out. She didn't know what to say,
and after she thought about it some, she finally said
that she knew I was telling the truth and she
was very glad that I was okay. Every year on
Memorial my extended family would have a get together at
a park near Parkersburg, West Virginia. That's my hometown. These
were organized by my mother and usually drew about fifty people.
The park itself is huge, amounting to about three thousand acres.
We would secure the biggest spot on the grounds and
my mother would prepare the grill while guests brought in
tupperware items like salads and gas roles. We got there
early in the morning for all the preparation ahead of
the people arriving at lunchtime. It was nineteen ninety seven.
I was eleven. My friends and I like to explore
the nearby woods. The area was so vast that sometimes
we would get lost, but always managed to find our
way back. I don't think it would have occurred to
any of the adults to call for a search party
unless we were still gone by the time it grew dark. Man,
have times changed. I remember we were deep in the
woods by a pond with a circumference of fifty yards.
My friend and I were fast walking. He rushed past
me and put a little distance between us. We were
on an incline, so I aimed my eyes downward and
started walking faster. And I stumbled into him a few
yards up the trail, not expecting him to be standing
stock still in the path. He directed my attention to
something on the other side of the pond. It looked
like a person, but it had a lot of hair,
and it wasn't wearing any clothes. I didn't even know
what to think. I'd never heard of a thing called
bigfoot or sasquatch. Up until this point, I'd seen the
movie Planet of the apes on cable, and that's what
I was thinking as both of us stood staring at
this thing that was staring back at us. It wasn't
much taller than my friend, who, if I was to guess,
was five foot without shoes on. This thing had light
brown hair all over, with none on its face, which
looked like something more like an eight but less like
a human. Its eyes were brown, and it just looked
at me with no expression. Then it let out a
yell and bounded away from the pond. We started running
for the safety of my mother and our get together,
scared out of our eleven year old minds. After some
hardcore sprinting, it occurred to us that we hadn't a
clue which direction we were heading. We were lost. Out
of fear, we started arguing, it's this way, now, it's
this way. At that point, I let out an expletive
and just started running. My friend reluctantly followed behind. We
emerged from the woods in a totally unfamiliar part of
the park. Unfortunately, there were some people picnicking there. Me
being the more extroverted of the two of us, I
walked over to them and told them that we were
lost and asked if they could help us. It took
thirty minutes of driving around the park, but we pulled
up to our picnic site. We'd been gone for hours,
but we hadn't been missed. My friend liked to tell
the story of our encounter more than I did. No
matter how serious or straight faced we were, people laughed
it off, while I responded to the ridicule by dropping
the matter altogether. My friend turned the whole thing into
a comedy routine. If you believed his version, the thing
we saw became the little brother we never had. I
guess it's not an easy to believe story. I never
really heard of bigfoot sightings in West Virginia up until then.
Maybe in the two thousands that all changed. I guess
some just keep what they know quiet because no one
takes it serious. In the late nineteen nineties, the Internet
wasn't a huge thing, especially for someone my age and
had cell phones. Pictures and videos just weren't happening. It
makes me wonder how many people saw things, but the
technology didn't allow for them to record the evidence and
proved that they weren't out of their minds or were
just a couple of eleven year olds too stupid to
find their way out of the woods. So I was
raised in central Louisiana. As a kid in the nineteen seventies,
I had the typical childhood of a boy with access
to miles of undeveloped land that surrounded my home, which
meant I spent most of my time fishing, hunting, and
exploring that land. When I was a teenager, my parents
built a new house and we moved. By then, my
interests were changing to the kinds of things teenage boys
generally think about cars and music and bonfires and girls.
I was in my twenties when my dad sought a
deeper connection with his growing sons. He had a friend
with a hunting camp in north central Louisiana who invited
him to join, and we did as a family. It
was a great place that included a thousand acres of
piny hills and hardwood bottoms, and a creek along the
north end of the property that would flood in the winter.
It allowed me to reconnect with my first love being
in the woods. The camp house featured a big porch
for relaxing and cooking. We spent a lot of time
out there, combing every inch of the property, building stands
and brushing blinds, and planting food plots and scouting for
the best hunting spots. I got familiar enough with the
place that I felt comfortable on evening hunch to walk
out without a flashlight, especially if there was even a
hint of a moon. I bagged my share of game
that way. It was late in twenty ten, during the
rifle season when I decided to take my climber to
the backside of the north food food plot, where a
strip of hardwoods bordered a pine thicket. I sat twenty
feet up in an oak tree and I watched as
the sun began to set. It was quiet, and it
made me uncomfortable. I scanned the area, but I didn't
hear anything. I had a half hour left, but I
couldn't shake this weird feeling. The next five minutes seemed
like an eternity. A few leaves rippled, and then there
was silence. That weird feeling was growing inside me. I
started moving and looking around to the point that I
knew any deer that might have been in the area
were spooked. But I couldn't stay still. I just wanted
to get on the ground and get out. Of there.
On the other hand, I was so unnerved that I
didn't want to lower my rifle to the ground, and
I debated for a few minutes before finally deciding to
climb down. I told myself that I was being ridiculous
about that feeling, and that I had ruined the hunt
with all the noise I was making. There was no
point in staying anyway. Now. I lowered my rifle and
climbed down as quickly as I could, and I packed
up my stand. I made a lot of noise, and
I didn't care. The sun was setting fast, and now
I felt like I was being watched. It was getting
dark in that strip of woods. I crossed the food plot,
stopping three times to check behind me, and I told
myself it could only be a hog or a bobcat.
But I knew something was out there and it was
watching me. At the other end, I used my scope
to scan the tree line. I couldn't see anything. I
rode the three wheeler back to camp a little faster
than normal, and I breathed a deep sigh of relief
when I reached the camp house. I didn't say anything
to the other men. I just ate supper and my
dad fixed and I loaded up my gear and I
went home. I thought about those last thirty minutes in
that tree stand for a long time. I had my
rifle with me. I was no rookie in the woods.
We'd been members of that hunting club for several years
by then, and I'd hunted that same spot repeatedly, and
I've hunted it since. But that day I felt insecure.
I've never had that feeling since. In the summer of
twenty fifteen, my dad and my daughter and I went
to look at our family land in north central Mississippi.
My uncle, who lives nearby, met us and rode around
the property with us. We rode our four wheelers over
the entire eighty acres for many hours. When we got
back to the trucks, I suggested we ride down to
the old store and show my daughter, who was eleven
at the time. It was one of those old time
mercantiles where my great grandparents used to buy their goods.
We poked around for a while, examining the artifacts, before
heading across the road to the old house where the
stor's former owned once lived. Back then, they were considered
well off. The house stood back from the road, with
trees and bushes growing up in front of it. It
was a big, well constructed wood frame, single story that
had managed to weather the years. We weren't sure of
the integrity of the inside floor, so my daughter stayed
at the four wheeler with my dad while my uncle
and I went inside to explore. It was typical of
an abandoned house. Debris littered the floor and some of
the windows were broken out. We were standing in the
kitchen that ran the back of the house and my
uncle was explaining the cistern to me when I noticed
a sound coming from a small opening on the opposite
wall that went up to the attic. Neither I nor
my uncle knew what the opening was for. My uncle
suggested it might be a vent. I asked him what
the noise was, and he didn't know. Maybe it's just
the wind, he all. As we stood there and talked
for a few more seconds, I noticed the noise getting louder.
It was too regular to be the wind. It sounded
like breathing. It sounds like something's up there. Uncle Jake said,
maybe it's some kind of animal. We continued to talk
until the breathing got so loud it interrupted our conversation.
It was deep and harsh and getting louder by the minute.
It felt aggressive, and again I asked what it was.
I don't know what that is, he answered, maybe it's
a panther. My uncle, Jake was a big man who'd
worked hard all his life and spent a great deal
of it outside. As I looked at him now, I
could tell that that noise had him shook up. Let's
get out of here, I said. My dad noticed immediately
how disturb my uncle was, so we asked if anything
was wrong. I told him something was in there and
we didn't know what it was, so we were getting out.
We explained everything to my dad and daughter. Once we
got back to the trucks, my uncle reiterated that he
didn't know what it was. He was clearly still visibly shaken.
I'm not really afraid of anything, not even death, well,
taxes maybe, but that was one of the most frightening
experiences I've had in my life. I would never have
made the connection to an animal with that lung capacity
if not for listening to your channel and hearing other
stories about heavy breathing and powerful vocalizations. We never saw it,
and I'm glad we didn't. All I know is from
the volume of the air that was coming from behind
that wall. It had to be something big or supernatural
or both. Whatever it was, it did not want us
in there. When I married my current wife, I was
blessed to have a new family who loved the outdoors
as much as I did. My father in law is
a life long outdoorsman and a biologist who owned several
tracks of hunting land in northern Louisiana, most of it
as parcels from their old family homestead. The Friday after Thanksgiving,
my daughter, now twenty three, and I were on an
afternoon hunt. It was a warm day, but misty and
a little foggy. My father in law put us on
a box stand on a power line. The lane was
fifteen yards wide and two hundred yards long, and it
stretched from a small rise down to a creek. Facing
the crete and to our left was a twenty acre
cutover with young pines, and to our right was a
strip of cutover that went into hardwoods and then into
the creek bottom. We were right in the middle of
the lane, the perfect spot to catch a deer crossing
over from feeding to bedding. It was peak rut season,
so we were expecting to see something and hopefully take
one home. With forty five minutes of light left, Brooke
and I were intently watching the edges of the lanes
for movement. Out of the bottom of the hardwoods, we
heard a loud, distinct knock. It sounded like someone took
an axe handle and hit an old, hollow tree with
all their might. It was solid and resonant and dry
and woody. The echo reverberated through the timber behind us.
It was a tree knock. My daughter looked at me
with a mix of surprising concern with a slight smile.
She asked, did you hear that? Yep? I said, Well
what was it? She whispered, is that a bigfoot? Well?
How do you answer that? We had watched a lot
of television shows over the years, from MythBusters and ghost
Hunters to the show with the team stomping through the woods,
yelling and beating on trees. It all seemed silly and
it was made for TV. They all talked about wood knocks,
and my daughter was fully aware of what she had heard.
She put her theory together instantly. This was really happening, well,
I told her I think there's a house through there.
Maybe they're cutting firewood or someone missed the lit. She
gave me a doubtful look that said, okay, Dad, if
you say so. There was a trailer house nearby, but
it wasn't in the direction we heard the knock. We
returned our attention to the hunt. Two minutes later, a
second loud knock came from the same place. Maybe if
it is a bigfoot, it'll push them deer in our direction.
I tried to joke, but my daughter was having none
of it. This time. She raised her eyebrows and turned
to look back down the lane. We weren't really scared,
but it was just kind of unnerving. We stayed and
hunted until it was too dark to see. On our
way home, she asked me if I thought there was
something down in those woods, and I told her I
didn't know, but her inquisitive mind in shore senses told
her that sound was telltale evidence of something. The next morning,
my father in law directed us to a stand that
was right in the middle of those hardwoods on the creek,
a little east of but very close to where we
heard the wood knocks. We were facing the creek with
a small hill to our left and open hardwood bottom
to our right. Falling oaks from the recent hurricane provided
our cover. A front had moved through, so it was
cool and clear, which promised deer activity. We were in
the stand before daylight. At seven, the woods came alive
with birds and squirrels. The light breeze was stirring the leaves,
and we saw two dough run through, chased by a buck,
moving too fast to shoot. My father in law was
in the box stand we'd use the day before and
managed to get off a couple of shots, and I
made a mental note of how far his shot was.
It was one hundred and fifty yards. Things settled down
again by nine o'clock and at ten we were waiting
for the next session of deer activity, when to our
right we heard a whistle. Yes, that's right, we heard
a whistle. It sounded like it was mimicking a bird,
but with more air and a different tone than a
bird chirp. It was too short blast, with the second
one rising in pits like a quail. We were both
certain that it was not a bird. We were quite
familiar with the native bird sounds. Dad, that was a whistle,
Brooke said, what do you think that was? I asked,
and she raised her eyebrows and opened her eyes a
little wider, and then we heard it again, this time
a little closer, as if to make sure it was heard.
We looked at each other but didn't say a word,
and I raised my binoculars and Brooke looked through her
scope and the whistle came from fifty yards out, but
the coverage was too thick to penetrate. We sat there
for another hour, looking and listening and looking some more,
and we heard nothing but the breeze and rustling of
dried leaves. The clouds came in and it got colder.
Still nothing. There were no deer, no squirrels, just silence. Eventually,
we went back to the vehicle and we headed home,
and I checked behind us several times as we walked out.
These stories and experiences may not seem that impressive, but
when it's actually happening to you, you have some background
information and it's unnerving. Fifteen years ago, I probably wouldn't
have noticed a knock, a chirp, a whistle, or a
broken tree in the woods. I probably wouldn't have noticed
the unusual quietness. But today it's different. Have a different
outlook now. On the opening day of deer season twenty
twenty one, my wife and I were hunting another track
of family land, not far from where Brooke and Eye
had the acttivity the year before. It was early morning
and we were headed to another box stand. We opened
the gate and crossed the clear cut to the sixty
acre Northwest Corner plot, where it was still heavily wooded.
The road beyond the gate followed the tree line to
the west, and then it turned north. We were easing
down this road when we came up on a tree
that had fallen and was blocking our path. We were
only forty yards from where we normally parked, so we
got out, gathered our stuff, and walked the rest of
the way Beyond the tree. We followed the foot path
that ammeled one hundred and fifty yards down to the
box stand. It was a beautiful morning. My wife and
I sat and sipped coffee and enjoyed the view. Unfortunately,
deer hunting doesn't mean deer shooting, and by mid morning
we decided nothing was going to happen until evening, so
we headed back to get some lunch. We eased back
down the lane to the woodline, and I stood there
taking in the scene, and it occurred to me that
no other trees were broken or blown over, only that
one tree that stopped our progress, and it seemed strange.
I looked back into the woods to see if there
were any trees there that looked like they'd sustained a
recent storm damage, and I didn't see any. When we
got to the truck, I surveyed the fallen tree. It
was lying exactly perpendicular to the road. It was broken
off eight feet off the ground. The break was jagged,
but the tree wasn't lying next to the trunk. It
was several feet away, as if it had been dragged
or thrown across the road. There was underbrush growing between
the base of the tree and the bottom of the trunk.
It had to have happened in late spring or early summer.
The tree had leaves on it, so it happened when
it was in full foliage. It didn't make sense at all.
We've had a lot of hurricane and straight line wind damage,
but oak trees don't have deep root systems. When they're
blown over, they tend to uproot, they don't snap off.
It might have been a tornado but the leaves weren't stripped,
and there were no other trees down. I've heard theories
of tree breaks being markers and warnings. I've seen pictures
of saplings and trees broken off, and I've heard stories
of rocks and even tree trunks being thrown. This tree
was a foot in diameter. I went back and took
pictures of it before we cut it up. It was
neither dead when it broke, nor very old in tree years,
and it was curious how it was placed directly across
the road. I'm not saying, but I am kind of saying,
keep your eyes and ears open.