Speaker 1: All right, here's a Bigfoot story by Love's Bigfoot Stories.
This is a really good one. My parents were antique
dealers when I was growing up. My mother was raised
in an outdoorsy family and my father was raised on
the streets of Los Angeles. My father had a rough
upbringing and wasn't raised to be timid or nice. He
was a golden gloves boxer. If he was ever afraid
of anything, he didn't let it show. It was Saturday,
sometime in the summer of nineteen seventy three, around four
in the morning, and Dad and I had packed the
Dodge Tradesman one hundred with banana boxes of collectibles and
antiques to take the Medford Organ to a flea market.
We did flea markets quite frequently back then, as there
was no such thing as the Internet, eBay or Etsy.
The dark early morning was clear and cool, and the
interstate was deserted. My dad drove and it was my
job to pour the burning hot liquid while jostling around
in the van at fifty five miles an hour. And
there we were drinking our black coffee straight up and
enjoying the silence, when in the distance we spotted a
large figure standing on the northbound side of the road.
What is that, Dad, I asked, pointing ahead at the
dimly illuminated, dark, hulking figure ahead of us. But Dad
leaned forward and against the steering wheel and he hit
the foot pedal to turn the headlights on to bright. Yes, kids,
that used to be a thing. Bright's on the floor,
not the signal stem. What we saw on that dark,
lonely stretch of mountainous interstate changed me and my father forever.
We watched in amazement and in stupid awe is this
nine foot tall creature with a black head to toe
fur still over the damn guard rail on two legs,
right in front of us, And it turned its massive
torso and it looked at us. Let me say that,
until you actually see one, it is difficult to explain
the feeling that it gives you. It's like everything you
ever thought you knew was a lie. All told, the
event was only about ten or fifteen seconds of life
changing revelation, But that was long enough. Dad, What was that?
I asked? He hesitated, and he chose his words carefully.
I don't know, but I can tell you it wasn't
a bear. Well turn around and go back, Let's get
another look at that thing. I said, no way, Dad
blurted out. For the first time in my life, I
heard fear in his voice. Well, we kept on driving
to our destination and talking about what we saw, and
eventually coming to the conclusion that it must have been
a bigfoot. It was that or the biggest man we'd
ever seen, and a hairy sue early in the morning,
alongside a deserted mountain highway with legs long enough that
he could easily step over a guardrail. When you see one,
your gut just knows. All of you folks out there
who have seen one know exactly what I'm talking about.
You just know it doesn't take much evidence to change
your perspective of the world. What my dad and I
saw that early morning in nineteen seventy three turned us
into knowers. We continue to fish and camp until my
father passed away in two thousand and one. We weren't
afraid to go out in the woods, but we often
talked about that day that we saw Bigfoot, and even today,
I still get goosebumps when I remember the way that
thing looked at us. Thank you for listening to my story.
I enjoyed writing it. Oh, that's the best line of
the whole story. She enjoyed writing it. I think that
is awesome. That's a great it's a and that's exactly
how I've said it a thousand times. This is exactly
how I want to see a bigfoot, even if it
just stops me, if I have to stop in the
middle of the road to look at it, and then
I will be a knower. I won't be a skeptic
or a believer, or I'll be a knower as so
many people say, which you know, that's that's one of
the big platitudes that people use in the bigfoot community.
Oh I ain't no believer. I'm a knower. In other words,
i've seen one. I sink it. I've seen one. I
get it. I totally get it. It's a if you
see something like that standing in the road in front
of you. She remembers the way it turned, the way
it looked at her and her dad. It's probably like
a video real that just replays in her head over
and over and over. I thought this was a great story.
Thank you to the writer. It was wonderful. Thanks, hey, hey,
thanks for clicking on the video. My name's Cam butner.
This is the Dixie Cryptid or what if It's True? Podcast?
If you like good stories, just good stories that just
take you away to another world. You found your people,
you found your place, and I'm glad you're here. If
you haven't listened to my latest, not this one, but
the one before this, I'll end screen it on this.
It's a podcast I put up called The hat Man
the Author. It's a fictional story written by a woman
named Rebecca Lee Wesson, and she is a really good writer,
and I think the production of that podcast is pretty good.
I think you'd enjoy it. I'm going to end screen it.
I want you to go back and listen to it
if you're interested in that kind of thing. And that's
all I wanted to say. We've got three more stories
left to go in this podcast, and I hope you
guys enjoy them all. Right here we go. After listening
to your where you mentioned strange encounters in the United Kingdom,
I thought I would share the story with you. It
concerns my daughter, who was fifteen at the time, and
her stepfather, who was a police officer. This encounter took
place in rural Northern Ireland in the autumn of twenty
and seventeen, my daughter and her stepfather were returning home
with a takeaway pizza when about a mile from home,
they saw a strange creature on the road ahead of them.
They said it was the size of a sheep, but
with smooth black skin. It crossed the road and moved
into the field on the other side, and then vanished
into the darkness. Neither of them recognized the creature, and
since we all lived in the country, they were familiar
with the local animals. My daughter was upset by the
experienced and told her grandfather about it. Her grandfather was
a keen spotter of wildlife and consulted books to reassure her.
He told her it was an otter, even though the
nearest river was four miles away and otters did not
grow in the size of a sheep, Perhaps fearing ridicule.
Her stepfather admitted seeing it, but would give no more details.
I believe my daughter if only because of how upset
and worried she was after the experience. I did some
research myself and discovered the old Gaelic legend of the
dough Bart the king otter. I'm certain I mispronounced that,
but it's dB h r hyphen Cchu, the dough bart
the king Otter. It's described as a half otter and
half dog. There's a legend dating back to the seventeenth
century where a woman was supposedly killed by one in
County lytram at Glendale low Or so is recorded on
a headstone Cornwall Cemetery. Strange creatures may indeed be out there,
and perhaps some legends are true. Yeah, I have trouble
pronouncing words. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, y'all, especially to the
people in Europe who listen to this. I'm just I'm
from Mississippi in the United States, and it's just hard
to say stuff. We don't even understand each other down here,
So don't take offense to me not being able to
say some of these words correctly. I'm trying to I'm
looking at that county again, Lytrim l E, I t
R I M. I think it's lytram leatrim Leatrim maybe
and it's in Glendale Lowe. But it's recorded on her headstone.
This woman was It was recorded on her headstone in
the seventeenth century where a woman was killed by a
doe Bartu, the king Otter in Ireland. Now that is
interesting as all it out. It's a very short story,
but it's really cool. I'm looking up here where our
editors gave it the category King Otter an Irish legend. Oh,
if anyone in Ireland listens to this podcast, if you
guys have any stories from your island, I want them.
I really want those. I know the banshee is an
Irish legend or mythical creature. I'm trying to think leprechauns.
I'm trying to think of other things that I've heard
of from Ireland. Anyway, it's really interesting stuff. Thank you
to the writer for sending this. This was really good. Okay.
I did a story maybe two years ago. I think
it was about that long from a listener. It was
about a hogman. So I'm kind of setting the stage
for what's going on here. So I'm just going to
start reading his email and you'll and then you'll catch up.
He writes, I submitted a story to you once about
my encounter with a hogman. When my uncle Jerome heard
about it, he called me with his own story to tell.
It seems he encountered the same creature. Here is his story.
A long time ago, my father was making some upgrades
to their house in the backwoods of Leesburg, Florida. It
was getting late in the summer, and he had promised
my mother that he'd be near the edge of the
woods so she and the children wouldn't have to venture
into the trees every time someone had to go to
the body, especially at night. Must have been close to
the outhouse. Anyway, you need to get working on all
that outhouse while the ground is soft and warm, she'd
remind him in her sweet little church lady voice, maybe
a little too often for my father's taste. Okay, he
was working on the outhouse. I know I've screwed this
story up. I'm sorry. I'm just going to keep her eating.
Maybe I'll get it right from here on out. It
made him pick up the paste, though, and soon he
had dug a deep black hole in the ground. He
mitered a wooden box that covered the hole and provided
us with a place to sit down when we did
our toos and don'ts, as we call them. When the
exterior walls were put up, my father was finished, and
we all gathered around and looked at the glory of
our very first pre toilet and then I spoke up
that sure is an awful big hole for my little butt,
I told my father. He chuckled and said he'd buy
a toilet seat in the morning for the little butts,
but for now it was ready to go. After supper,
we all peeled away from the dinner table. I don't
know what I was busy doing, but I was distracted,
and I missed our usual mother supervised evening potty break.
She would walk us all out, and she would wait
patiently to make sure that we were safe as we
did our business, and when we were done, we'd all
race back to the house as the sky turned purple.
Oh well, I told myself, knowing I was big enough
to hold it until the morning. Bedtime at our house
meant lights out. Since there were no TVs or lamps,
that meant all lanterns were snuffed out. It got so
dark in the house that the only light that we
got was the whites of our eyes when we opened them.
Sometime in the night. My eyes opened to a sharp
twinge in my gut, and my stomach rumbled, sending me
a message that it was time to pay for all
that extra gravy. I sopped up with the biscuits. Another
gurgle barked and gave me a good two minute warning,
forcing me to sit up in bed. I'm sorry, y'all.
Thank goodness, the stars were out that night. They shone
in through the kitchen window and helped light way as
I kept my hands out to bump into the doorknob.
I quietly went onto the porch so as not to
wake anybody up, and then I grabbed the rope my
father had tethered from the porch to the outhouse to
help us find our way when it rained or got
too foggy to see. So I scooted my hand across
that rope at full speed until I nearly smashed into
the new outhouse. I hurried myself inside bottom first, and
I sat on the big hole that was far too
big for me, and I did my best to keep
from falling into the abyss below. There wasn't yet a
roof on the outhouse, so starlight shone in around me
and provided me with a comfortable little environment to do
my business. And just as I was getting settled, I
hurt something. At first, it was just a small twig snap.
I didn't pay any mine until I heard another twig snap,
this time much closer to the outhouse, and I sat
there trying be as quiet as possible. But then a
terrible smell began to grow, and it wasn't for me.
It was coming from outside. I heard another tweak snap,
and then the distinct sound of heavy feet shuffling forward.
They were snapping and crushing the branches and leaves underfoot.
I did my best to stay frozen. I wanted to
cover my mouth, but I needed both hands to keep
me from falling into the toilet box. I tried to
quiet my breathing, but the quieter my breathing, the louder
my heartbeat climbed into my ears, and I sat there
in my awkward predicament. Silence slowly crept over me like
a thick blanket, and my heartbeat faded into the background.
This was no ordinary silence. I could just about feel
it being pulled over me. First the grasshoppers and crickets
clammed up, and then the hootiles and nightbirds shut down,
and finally the odes clammed up. I could tell there
was someone around me. It was the same feeling I
got right before one of my siblings was about to
cover my eyes and yell boot. I hoped it was
just one of my sisters trying to be funny, following
me out the back door and unbeknownst to me, setting
me up for a big scare. But I figured i'd
let her know the jig was up. Who's out there,
I said, softly, but not too loud for fear of
attracting a Cody or some other night critter. I assumed
i'd hear one of my sisters began to giggle and
to let the air out of his creepy bubble that
had inflated around our outhouse. But there was no giggle,
just complete blanketing silence. I started to panic, and I
finished up and started to pull my pants up, and
as I leaned toward the door, thinking it might still
have been one of my sisters. But I couldn't have
been more wrong. And as I picked out the door,
I heard a short, uteral grunt from above me. All
the starlight shining into the outhouse was smothered by a shadow,
showering the little space and darkness. My eyes widened like
two full moons, and I looked up to my horror,
there was an enormous figure looking down at me. The
planks my father used for the walls of the outhouse
were sticking nearly eight feet off the ground, yet this
thing was staring down at me over the edge. It
took me a few seconds to realize what I was
looking at, and when I saw it clearly, I was horrified.
This creature had the head of a hog. And then
it spoke to me, not with words, but right into
my head in a booming, deep voice. What are you
doing out here, brave little fella? The voice asked. My
eyes must have been about to pop out of my head,
and I felt my eyelids stretch as I stared motionless
at this beast towering over me. And if I hadn't
just done my business, I would have surely sold myself.
The hog had retreated back over the wall, but it
wasn't gone, and I felt its pounding feet making their
way toward the door of the outhouse, each step telling
me that this thing was huge. The door started to
creep open, and what looked at me from outside was
a be so tall and wide that there was no
chance I would be able to dash around her under it.
It clogged up the entire opening, and in the starlight
I could see its whole hideous figure. Its giant body
matched its giant head. It looked like a pig standing upright,
with swollen limbs and torso, and at the end of
its swollen ankles were human light feet with no shoes on.
There was no other way to describe it. It was
a hog man. I remember thinking to myself, I'm a
dead duck. I'm going to be carried out in the
woods like all the bad little boys are. I thought
of my poor mother searching and calling for me in
the woods, knowing she would never be able to find me,
and tears burned their way into the corners of my eyes.
And the hogman did something remarkable. It opened the door
all the way and stepped to the side. I'm not
here to carry you off, little boy, he said, right
into my head. But there are some things in these
woods that will. I stared at him, motionless, forgetting how
to use my voice and my legs. Now get The
hogman snarled. He stopped his swollen foot on the ground,
and I felt the earth shake around me, and I
tore out of that outhouse, pulling my breeches up with
both hands. As I went, stepping and hopping my way
to the safety of the house. As soon as I
hit the porch, all the sounds of the night flicked
back on at once, and I hurried in, and I
closed the door behind me, thinking my hasty entrance would
wake everybody up, and thinking I'd have to explain why
I was breathing so hard. I peeked out the back window,
expecting the Hogman to be looking right back at me.
But he was gone. I don't know where he could
have gone so quickly with his enormous body, but he
was just gone. Forever, I hoped. I have never mentioned
a peep of this to anyone. I didn't want to
look into anyone's doubting eyes. And here I am, all
these years later, a grandfather. Now I watched my grandson
play wild and free in the woods behind my house
where a lifetime ago, I'm at the Hogman. My grandson
is about the same age that I was when it happened,
And now the onus is upon me to ruin the
rose colored outlook. This kid still has about life because
someone has to teach him that the Hogman is out there.
Oh my gosh, what an o awesome story. I remember
this Hogman story. I've actually put pieces of it in
the in some of the little shorts that I do.
And I've gotten my AI account my AI website to
do some strange pictures. I might try to do that
for the thumbnail on this story, because I don't know.
It seems like the first Hogman's story. Oh I got
to scratch my back. I got a itch. Oh it's
itching me. Y'all ever get a itch? Wonder if you
got a tick buried in your back? That's what happens
to me, a big, old, green, full tick. I'll pull
my shirt up and let my wife look at my gross,
hairy back, and I'll say, do I have a tick
on my back? Yes, She'll go get a pair of
tweezers and pull them off. I don't know why I
thought of that. I have no idea why I'm telling
you that. But if anybody's ever had a big, green,
swellen tick on them that's been on them two or
three days, tell me about it in the comment section.
That happens to me about twice a year. And I
don't have any diseases lime disease or Rocky Mountain fever
or anything. I guess I'm lucky. But anyway, back to
the story. It seems like the hogman was mean in
the other story, like it was trying to get to
this guy he was in a deer stand, and I
think it pulled the deer stand down. I don't know,
I have to look it up. But this was a
good story. It was really well written. And man, I
was sitting on the edge of my seat the whole
time I was reading this. But I appreciate the man
sending it the second story I've done for him. I
think I've had this about a year. It was so
good I wanted to get it up, So thanks to
the writer. This is a ghost story, really good, really
a good ghost story, So hang on. Some people call
me a ghost doctor. Others call people like me intermediaries
or middlemen. Some have called me insane, and I can't
argue with that. I suppose, after all, you'd have to
be a little crazy to want to delve into my
line of work. I helped ghosts find their way home
with the help of folks on the other side. It's
a rewarding profession, though, and I admit it can be
downright terrifying at times. Two decades ago, I was in Florence, Italy,
visiting what used to be an herbal apoth apothecary apothecary
Apo t h e c a r y apothecary run
by monks who acted as early versions of physicians, and
in the dim ornately wood panel waiting area were two ghosts.
Both wore what in modern times we would consider old
style clothing, yet neither was aware of the other. They
both passed away in the waiting area, a hundreds of
years before and many years between each other. Now I
should have known better, but I couldn't resist, and I
said to them, the doctor will see you now. Well,
this alone is proof of how bad my sense of
humor is. Then I helped them cross over. The most
number of ghosts I have encountered at one time was
in a large hospital. Perhaps sixty five or so of
them were clustered near the drive up entrance, waiting for
their rides back home. None of them knew they had died,
and each waiting for their family, for their loved ones
and the people dear to them in their life. If
I had helped but one of them cross over, the
rest would have seen the light it produced and swarmed
to me. So instead I called in help from the
other side, which seemed to help get them crossed over. Mentally,
I scanned the rest of the building for more and
I found perhaps ten or twenty walking down the hallways
or just stalled in an odd corner here or there,
holding their rack with an IV drip on it. We
helped them crossover one at a time, and we called
it a day. Two months ago, a train running through
my small town hit and kill someone. That someone must
have known what they were doing, because it is hard
to get to the tracks and very obvious when a
train is coming. I don't like dealing with suicide ghosts,
but I find satisfaction in doing so. They are in
a place that looks and feels like a hurricane at night.
It's pure chaos and confusion and a reflection of what
drove them to the end of their life. It is
a good advertisement to seek help rather than assume that
ending one's life will end at all. In this instance,
I reached out in meditation to see if there was
a ghost remaining from the train fatality that we could
support and their crossing over, and I could not find one,
but I did myself. Caught in a main road about
a block over, it was dark. There were no traffic
lights flashing in the distance, and no street lights filled
the deep woods and the trees were more dense. I
realized then that I was seeing a view from the
perspective of the ghost. Next to me was the town cemetery,
which your audience may find interesting, is usually absent of spirits.
On my other side, in the darkness was a quiet
and unanimated ghost. I knew what god drenching emotions awaited
me if I channeled into this person's situation, so instead,
I respectfully kept my distance and I called in help
from the other side. The ghost was quickly swept away,
connected with the remains of its spirit. My viewport was
then swept up into the next intersection, where there was
another ghost caught in a geological energy. It was an
older man, and he knew he was deceased, which was
not always the case with ghosts. He refused any help
in crossing over because he was waiting for his wife,
who had passed away nearly twenty years ago. After her death,
he spent the rest of his life mourning waiting to
be reunited with her. But when he died, he carried
with him the pain he felt from her passing, and
though she was already on the other side, there he
was trapped in his heartache and waiting for her. Still,
such was the devotion of his love. In fairly quick order,
I asked for help from the other side, and his
wife appeared, and after an indescribably beautiful and joyous reunion,
they both vanished. A wonderful imagery came into my mind
of the two of them sitting side by side on
the porch of an old farmhouse, and they were holding
hands and enjoying the ambience in view of a lovely
late spring day. Cups of lemonade sat beside them. The
air was sweet, and there was a perfect light breeze.
It was their personal sense of heaven. But my work
that night wasn't over. I could see another ghost down
the road a few blocks. I supposed it to be
a ghost because it looked like a human crouching down.
Yet the figure was just a flat black void. Its
dark shape had a thin outline of bright yellow light,
so I supposed it had a little energy left. It
was stuck at the edge of the parking lot, caught
on some geological energies. My view carried me closer to
it and when it sensed me it attacked. I was surprised,
to say the least. It was the ghost of a
large cat, and all I could see were the claws
and the fans going from my face and neck, and
the spots covering its body. It was jaguar spots. They
say every second with a jaguar is sixty stitches, which
at the moment was easy to believe. So I called
from help from the other side, but they seemed reluctant
to assist because this was not a human ghost. I
tried to make the point that the ghost was the
recording of the life of a sentient animal and might
therefore have some interest to spirit, which is where all
ghosts end up. With my argument, they took the ghost
of the jaguar away, and in hindsight I suspect the
jaguar having a ghost at all was a mistake. Formerly,
their natural range was about where the California Oregon border lies,
but a jaguar without a map to consult could have
wandered off over one hundred years ago without competition and
become disoriented. I'm not going to say it was good
to meet it, but I did learn something I have
come to find that ghosts are fragments of a person's
spirit that feel they still have something to do. Ghosts
tend to see things as they were when they were
alive and are often reluctant to leave. But getting even
the toughest of ghosts crossover is doable with the right head,
a good heart, and help from the other side. I
have helped hundreds of ghosts cross over through the years,
though lately I deal with fewer of them. There is
often a heart wrenching or brutal story behind their death,
and knowing too many details can make it difficult to
stay objective, which is critical in my line of work.
Some of the ghosts' history comes across as physical and
emotional pain, and even though I know it's not mine,
there is a limit to how much I'm able and
willing to take. So I try to show love and
compassion to the ghosts for what they have been through.
Is doing so eliminates the conditions we were dealing with.
I also try to love everyone living, though I have
to admit I'm not at all good at that. One
thing I've learned from the many encounters I've had is
that your actions in life every good and bad deed
you've ever done, every time you apologize or decided not to,
every time you helped or looked the other way, all
seemed to carry over in one way or another to
the other side. There is a good lesson in that,
try to be a good person. It may get you
further in the afterlife. Warm regards, and she signs off
on the email. I don't y'all may have heard me
say this before, but I don't believe in ghosts. I've
never seen one. I know people like this writer claim
they engage them all the time, and that's fine, and
that may be the truth. I've just never seen anything
like this, nothing at all. And some people might say, well,
you're not open to it, You're you're not clairvoyant. Is
that the word clairvoyant? Anyway, I'm not a medium. I'm
just stupid. And I believe in one God, one savior.
That's my belief system. And I believe we're either here
or there. We're either here or there, We're nowhere in between. However,
this channel is and there are a lot of people
in the audience who believe the same way I do.
But there are a lot of people in the audience
who don't and I don't have any problem with this
woman's email at all. Heck, I just read it to
you because it's an interesting story. I mean to me.
I mean, if you just distance yourself from your belief
system and open your mind to what other people experience,
not accept that is the truth, but just open your
mind and be willing to hear other people's experiences, they
become great stories. And that's all this channel is about.
So I read them all. There's been a couple that
I haven't read because they were just too These are
people who had really really hard childhood things going on,
and it did not belong on this channel. But it
had to do with ghosts, but it had to do
with some terrible abuse as children, and I just could
not put it on here just because it just wasn't decent.
It wasn't a decent story. It's a story they need
to tell a professional so that they can get help
with what they're doing. But just these generic ghost stories. Heck,
I learned something here. People who believe in ghosts now
they believe in animal ghosts, Like animals are on the
same level with humans in their mind. That's cool. I
don't have any problem with that. This was a really
good story and that's why it's in this podcast. So
thank you very much to the writer the Ghost Doctor.
It was really a good story and I appreciate it.
Thank you, ma'am. Thanks again for joining me on this podcast.
On your screen right now is a link that you
can click to the hat Man podcast called The hat Man.
Take a listen to that one. It's about thirty minutes long.
It's a really really good story, fictional story by a
really good author. I want you to check it out,
all right, Thank you guys for listening, and we'll see
you on the next one. Thanks.