Speaker 1: If you've ever lived in the Pacific Northwest, the Upper Midwest,
or anywhere north of New Mexico and east towards the Atlantic,
chances are you've been snowbound at least once, trapped by ice,
cut off by drifts, watching the world outside your window
disappear beneath white silence. For some folks it's an inconvenience.
For others, it turns into math. What you have, what
you can stretch, what you can't replace. Now, imagine that
pressure out in the frozen woods, where a survival means
scavenging and stealing, and where a high hollow beneath the
pines can be the difference between life and death. This
is the story of what happens when an early winter
traps both a man and a creature on the same
piece of land and forces them into a fragile, unspoken agreement.
Winter came to northern Maine like a door slamming shut.
The calender still insisted it was late fall, but a
cold front slid down out of Canada into the night.
By dawn, the air had teeth, sleet rattled the windows,
then turned to thick, wet snow that stacked fast. In
a few days, The drifts around the tiny timbered town
of Black Hollow were deep enough to swallow fence rails,
and ice glazed the roads into dangerous glass. Two feet
of snow wasn't unheard of up here, not later in
the season, but this early, paired with ice, it changed routines.
People stayed home, kept wood stoves going, and waited for
plows that struggled to reach the outlying roads. Elliot Graves
didn't mind being alone. He lived outside town limits, where
the trees grew thicker and neighbors thinned out to nothing.
His place was modest, a small house, a shed, and
a stretch of land that ran back into spruce and
pine before tipping up toward a rocky ridge. He worked
from home, and the storm simply made the world smaller, house, yard,
woods white. After long hours at his desk, the silence
started to feel too deep, so he took short walks
around the property, bundled in layers, checking for fallen limbs
and listening to the ice grown in the tree tops.
Three days after the storm, he noticed something that didn't fit.
Behind a dense clutch of spruce, the ground dipped into
a shallow bowl. Eliot knew the spot. In summer, it
was just a low place where needles collected. In winter,
it should have been filled, filled in like everything else.
But now the snow there was thin and broken, as
if some one had scraped it away. Pine needles showed
through here and there, bare earth peeked out. Then he
saw the trash, a torn bread bag half buried in crust,
a crushed coffee can, a few shredded wraps, and snagged
in low branches, A strip of cloth hung like a
ragged flag, a bed sheet. Elliot moved closer, careful not
to slip, and the scene resolved into something worse than
scattered garbage. Stones had been stacked along the inside rim
of the hollow. Branches were woven overhead in a crude arch,
Pine bows layered on top like a roof. Inside lay
thick bedding, pine needles pressed into a matted nest, layered
with rags, scraps of clothing and torn fabric. And near
the back, half hidden in needles, were bones, small ones
at first what looked like rabbit, squirrel, maybe raccoon, But
deeper in the shelter lay a dear skull with broken antlers,
the eye sockets dark as empty pockets. Eliot backed out slowly.
The cold was suddenly irrelevant. He tried to make it
ordinary in his head. A bear, No bears don't weave
bed sheets into nests. A person squatting, maybe, But who
chose a hollow in deep snow when abandoned camps exist
farther out, and the bones saved kept like someone had
been eating here for a long time. The answer he
didn't want pressed forward anyway. Bigfoot Black Hollow had its stories.
Every main town did. Eliot had always filed them away
as local color, something to smile at politely in the
general store. Now he went home and tried to work
with the image of that hollow stuck behind his eyes.
That night, around eleven, he heard something outside, a soft
scrape along the siding, then a metallic clink, the sound
of a trash can lid being lifted. Eliot killed the
lamp and peered through the frosted window. The porch light
threw a pale cone over the yard. Just beyond the
edge of that light, a figure moved upright, hunched forward
against the cold, arms long and loose. The trash can
lid rose. The figure leaned in, rummaging. Eliot could hear breathing, slow, deep, measured,
and then a faint clicking sound, as if the thing
had found something it wanted. It withdrew without panic, slipping
back into darkness as smoothly as it came. In the morning,
he found the trash scattered, and not far from the
porch a pie tin crushed and licked clean. He followed
the marks back toward the spruce thicket and found fresh
tracks near the hollow. They weren't the huge, impossible prints
from campfire stories. They were big, yes, the size of
a tall man with an extra wide foot pressed deep
in the crust, heavy heel splayed toes an almost circus
like tight rope gait with a long stride that went
straight to the shelter. Elliot stared until his eyes watered.
Then he did something he still couldn't fully explain. He
gathered scraps into paper bags, apple cores, stale bread, a
bit of meat, and carried it to the edge of
the hollow, not inside the shelter, just close enough to
be found. Then he backed away. The next morning, the
bag was gone, no trash was disturbed, nothing near the
house had been touched. He repeated it the next night,
same result. Food at the hollow meant a quiet yard.
He started thinking of it as a boundary, a toll
paid to keep the dark at the trees instead of
at his door. Then came the day he forgot it
wasn't dramatic. Work piled up, a meeting ran late. He
answered emails, heated soup, looked out once at the blank,
white yard, and went back to his screen. The hours
slid by. The hollow slipped his mind. Near midnight, the
house reminded him. A heavy impact against the outer wall
close enough that a picture frame on the shelf rattled.
Elliot froze listening again, controlled, deliberate, Then a sharp crack
as something struck the siding and bounced away a rock.
He stepped to the window. In the porch light, a
stone lay fresh on the snow, dark against white. Near
the tree line. A shape shifted, partly hidden, as if
it didn't want to be seen, but wanted to be noticed.
Another rock hit, not hard enough to shatter glass, but
hard enough to make the message unmistakable. A low, breathy
exhale rolled out of the darkness, not a roar, but frustration.
Eliot didn't open the door. He waited until the sounds stopped,
and the shape withdrew. At first light, he carried food
out more than usual, like an apology. He set it
near the hollow and backed away. That night, the woods
stayed quiet, so the pact formed. Not friendly, not safe,
but consistent. When Eliot left left food, the creature kept
its distance. When he forgot or left too little, the
rocks came. Sometimes there was pounding on the siding, a
heavy fist like thud that made the house tremble. Once
he found a chunk of ice shattered on his porch steps.
Never a broken window, never a forced door, just pressure,
just accountability. As the weeks passed, the forest itself changed.
Deer tracks thinned out, birds vanished, even the coyotes fell silent,
and the hollow grew more fortified. The roof thickened, the
bedding deepened with new cloth. One morning, Elliott noticed a
towel missing from his laundry room and felt his stomach drop.
The creature could get close when it wanted. Then a
nice storm glazed everything in glass branches snapped under the weight.
That afternoon, Elliot walked out to check the hollow. The
shelter had been damaged. The roof partially collapsed under the ice.
The bedding inside was soaked. Bones were scattered, as if
something scrambled out in a hurry. Tracks led away toward
the rocky ridge, deep uneven closer together. The creature was limping.
Elliot hesitated every sensible instinct, telling him to go back
inside and let the woods handle itself. But he'd been
living with his presence for weeks, hearing its messages in
the night. He followed. The tracks threaded through thicker trees,
where snow hung heavy and the air smelled of resin
and cold stone. Here and there he saw small dark
spots on the snow blood. At the base of the ridge,
beneath a natural rock overhang, he saw movement in shadow,
a shape that shifted, then stilled. The creature stepped partially
into view. It wasn't the massive monster he'd pictured the
first time he thought the word bigfoot. It wasn't eight
feet tall. It wasn't built like a barrel. It was lean,
about six feet maybe a touch more shoulders, narrow arms,
long fur, dark and matted with snow. It looked under fed,
in the way a hard winter can do to anything
that has to earn every calorie its face sat close
to human proportions in the dim light. Deep set eyes,
heavy brow, a nose that wasn't quite ours, but wasn't
an animal muzzle either. Its mouth stayed closed, it didn't
bare teeth. It watched Elliot like a cornered thing watches
a threat, alert, calculating, ready to bolt. Young Elliot realized,
not a child, but not full grown. The lankiness had
that adolescent feel, a creature still growing into itself, surviving
without the bulk of maturity. And it was alone. Elliot
felt that as surely as the cold on his skin.
No other movement in the trees, no answering calls, just
wind and the slow creak of ice. They held each
other's gaze for a long moment. Elliot didn't raise his hands,
he didn't step closer. He simply stood and let the
distance stay. The creature shifted its weight favoring one leg.
Its eyes flickered once towards Eliot's hands, then back to
his face. There was intelligence there, not human, but unmistakably aware.
Elliott took one slow step back. The creature didn't chase,
it didn't threaten. It turned and slipped deeper under the overhang.
Vanishing into shadows where rock met pine. Elliot went home
that night. He left food at the hollow the way
he always did, careful, measured, respectful of the boundary they'd made.
The rocks never hid his house again that winter. When
spring finally came, it arrived at a slow easing rather
than a sudden relief. The snow receded in dirty layers,
waters ran in thin lines, birds returned cautiously. Eliot checked
the hollow one last time and found it empty. The
bedding remained flattened and dark. The shelter looked abandoned rather
than destroyed. Elliot told no one in Black Hollow what happened,
not because he feared being laughed at, but because this
story felt too private, like something that belonged to the
trees more than to the town. And every year after,
whenever the cold came early and the first heavy snow
arrived like a warning, he would glance toward the spruce
thicket and wonder not whether Bigfoot existed, but whether that
lone thin juvenile was still out there somewhere beneath the pines,
surviving in the hollow place of the world, Remembering that
once in a winter that came too soon. A man
may do, and so did it. You're listening to Bigfoot's wilderness.
Some stories don't end when the telling stops. They settle
in like cold air, in a low place, like a
hollow beneath the pines, where nothing grows quite right. If
what you heard felt unfinished, that's because it is. Not.
Everything leaves tracks, Not everything wants to be followed. Some
things only make themselves known by the way the woods
go still. Wherever you are to night, listen carefully. When
the noise fades, pay attention to what doesn't move. We'll
be here again when the forest decides it's time. Good night,