Speaker 1: Welcome to Bigfoot's wilderness. Tonight's story is called The Missing Hunter.
What you're about to hear is part one, the beginning
of a disappearance that left more questions than answers. The
men who hunted Slate Ridge didn't call it Slate Ridge
out loud very often, not because the name was secret,
not because anyone would stop them, but because names have
a way of turning places into invitations, and nobody wanted
to invite anything around town. They'd say, up past the
old spur, or that cut across and above the creek,
or simply up there with a slight tilted the chin,
as if the direction itself explained the rest. It wasn't
superstition in the way outsiders imagine it. No charms, no prayers,
no clumsy rituals meant to keep monsters away. It was
closer to etiquette, a kind of Backwood's respect that had
nothing to do with religion and everything to do with
living long enough to grow old. Don't whistle after dark,
don't wander from camp alone when the wind drops don't
answer sounds you didn't make, And most important of all,
when the woods go still, you go still too. People
who grew up in cities think quiet means peace. Out here,
quiet could be peace sure, an early snowfall muffling everything,
a soft fog swallowing the ridge line. But quiet could
also mean something else entirely. The woods had their own rhythm. Crickets,
wind leaves stirring, a faint creek, chatter, a distant owl.
When those things stop, the way of room stops, when
a door opens, When nature itself seemed to pause and listen,
then you knew you'd become part of the night's business.
Slate Ridge was the kind of place that could do
that to a man. It was steep in spots and
swamps in others, with a creek bottom that ran cold
even in warm months. There were old logging cuts with
saplings growing thick, and pockets where the forest felt older
than it had any right to be. The trail wasn't
much of a trail, more of a memory, a two
track spur road that started solid and turned to ruts,
then to leaf cover, then to nothing. There was a
deer camp up there, not official, not marked, not owned
by anyone except the men who came back year after year.
Canvas tents, a ring of blackened stones, a few sawed
logs that served as seats. Oil lanterns, the kind that
throw a soft yellow light and always smelled faintly of kerosene.
Coffee boiled in an old, dented pot that had belonged
to someone's father or uncle or both. They hunted deer,
They told lies. They got quiet at night. Cal Morrison
was the oldest man in the camp by the fall
of nineteen eighty three. He'd been a logger once, back
when timber companies still preferred to replant. His hands were
thick with old scars, and his eyes had that flat,
assessing calm men get when they spent years watching accidents
unfold in slow motion. Cal didn't talk about monsters, didn't
put on airs. If you asked him about sasquatch, he'd
snort and change the subject. But Cal had rules. He
wouldn't cross the creek bottom after sundown, he wouldn't let
anyone wander off alone, and he never ever answered knocks.
Nobody asked him why not any more. The first night
the camp settled in that season, the air had a
brittle bite to it, not freezing, not snowing, but sharp
enough that breath showed. The fire popped and settled into coals.
A thermist got passed around. A couple of men laughed
a little too loudly at a story that wasn't funny,
and the sound bounced wrongly off the trees. Then the
woods went quiet. It happened slowly, the way dusk happens.
One minute you're not paying attention, the next you realize
the world has changed. The wind died, the leaves stopped whispering.
Even the creek seemed to lower its voice. One of
the younger men, Rhese's nephew, a guy named Danny, shifted
and said, that's weird. Cal didn't look up from the fire.
Don't say that, he murmured. Danny chuckled, trying to keep
it light. What weird, it's banned now. Cal's eyes lifted.
They warn't angry, they weren't scared. They were simply serious.
Just don't talk, he said. Danny opened his mouth again,
then stopped, a moment later, it came shhh, a heavy blow,
like someone striking wood with wood. The amp froze s s,
same weight, same spacing. Danny's eyes went wide. Someone's coffee
cup paused halfway to their lips. A third strike deliberate, measured,
not random. Silence, No laughter now, no shifting. No one
reached for a lantern. The fire crackled softly, the only
sound that felt aloud. Danny whispered, what the hell is that?
Cal's voice came low and sharp, without volume. Don't what,
Danny whispered. Don't answer, Cal said, don't mimic it, don't
throw anything, don't shine a light. Someone else whispered, is
it a person? Cow didn't answer. He only stared into
the timber, like he was listening to something far beyond
the knocks. Minutes passed, nothing else happened. The woods slowly,
reluctantly began to breathe again, wind stirring, creek murmuring, the
night resuming as if it had simply checked in and
moved on. Men went to sleep, but no one slept deep.
The man who would later disappear wasn't in camp that night.
He wasn't even on the ridge yet. His name was Wade, Harlan.
Wade lived on the edge of town, in a rented
place that always looked like it had been abandoned half
way through a move. Not messy, just sparse, A chair
by the window, a table with the radio that didn't
work unless you held the dial just so, a small
stack of paperbacks, a coat hook with one good jacket
and one old one. He wasn't married, didn't seem to date,
worked odd jobs, hauling scrap, fixing fences, helping a neighbor
replace a shed roof. He spoke when spoken to. He
didn't try to be liked. But he hunted. He hunted
in the way men hunt when they're not doing it
for trophies. He hunted for quiet, for purpose, for the
feeling that his decisions mattered. And Wade liked Slate Ridge,
or maybe it liked him. In the diner, two weeks
before the season got serious, Wade had sat at the
counter with Cal. Not friends exactly, but the kind of
men who understood one another enough not to force conversation.
Wade stared into his coffee like it held weather predictions. Finally,
he said, you ever feel watched up there? Cal didn't
look at him. Everybody feels watched in the woods, he said.
Wade shook his head slowly, not like that. Cal's spoon
clinked once against the cup. Then don't go, he said.
Wade gave a faint half smile. That's the thing, he said,
I think it's already decided. I'm going cal didn't respond.
That season, Wade hunted alone more than usual. He'd show
up near the camp at odd hours, tray a few
words except coffee, then slip away again, as if the
firelight made him uncomfortable. He positioned himself so he could
see the tree line, not in a paranoid way, more
like a man sitting with his back to a wall
in a bar. Once a man joked about the Knox
Forced landlord. He laughed, collecting rent. Wade didn't laugh. Instead,
he said, very quietly, it's not trying to scare you.
The laughter died, and it died out fast. What's it doing? Then,
the man asked, trying to sound brave again. Wade stared
toward the ridge, checking, he said, seeing if you're paying attention.
A cold little silence followed. Some one cleared their throat
and the conversation changed. But a few men noticed Wade's hands.
He wasn't shaking, he wasn't nervous. He was annoyed, as
if being watched was an insult. The morning Wade vanished
was gray and damp. The sky hung low and heavy
like it wanted to snow, but it hadn't committed. The
forest smelled like wet leaves and cold earth. Wade parked
his truck along the old logging spur just after dawn.
It was an old truck with a bench seat and
its hool kit under the passenger side, the kind you
fixed yourself, the kind you didn't baby. The cab had
a faint scent of tobacco, even though Wade didn't smoke much.
A paper map lay folded on the dash, corners curled
from use. He shut the door, softly, shouldered his pack,
and stepped into the timber. He never came back out.
At first, nobody panicked. Hunters go long, Hunters change plans,
Hunters sit on a trail and lose track of time.
By afternoon, men came in camp and shrugged it off.
Wade was waghe but as dusk came and the woods
started to quiet again, unease crept back like a chill
col noticed. First, he stopped stirring the fire and stared
at the tree line. What someone asked, cow didn't answer immediately,
He listened. Then he said, it's doing it again. What's
doing what? The woods went still, not all at once,
just enough that everyone felt it. Danny whispered, I hate
this part. Then from up on the ridge came the
sound shh, one hit, not three. Col's posture changed, his
shoulders tensed, as if he'd heard a gunshot. That's different,
someone whispered. Col's voice came out low, Yeah, he said,
it is. They waited, expecting two more knocks. None came. Instead,
far across the creek bottoms there was a faint, answering
soun not as clear, not as close, but heavy enough
that it wasn't a branch. Then nothing. The camp sat
in silence that felt wrong in the mouth. Finally a
man said what everyone was thinking. We should check the spur.
He said he might have twisted an ankle or something.
Cal nodded once two men. He said, no one goes alone.
Danny volunteered immediately, mostly to prove something to himself. Rhyese
came with him. They grabbed flashlights and walked down the
spur road, their beams slicing through damp air. The night
was thick. Fog clung low to the ground in places,
turning the edges of trees into smudges. Their boots made
soft sounds in the leaf litter too loud. In the quiet,
Wade's truck sat where he'd left it, no sign of
struggle around it, no broken brush, no deep ruts from
a rush departure. The driver's door was closed, the windows
were up. The truck looked normal, like a man might
return any minute, and wonder why two people were staring
at it. Danny tried the door, unlocked. Inside were Wade's gloves,
an extra coat folded on the seat, a thermos, a
paper sack with two crushed sandwiches. But Wade's rifle case
was empty. His rifle was gone, his pack was gone. Wade,
Wade was gone. Danny whispered, maybe he's still out there.
Reese didn't answer. He shone his light down the spur,
then toward the trees. The beam hit trunks, branches, fog,
and then Danny said, did you see that? Reese stiffened.
See what? Danny lowered his voice like volume could attract attention, movement,
He said, right there. Reese swept the light again. Nothing.
Danny swallowed. I don't like this, he said. Reese clicked
his light off. Danny hissed, what are you doing? Reese
leaned close. If there's something there, he whispered, the light
just told it where we are. Danny's heart hammered so
hard he could hear it. They stood in darkness, letting
their eyes adjust. Shapes emerged, tree trunks, the faint line
of the spur, fog like pale smoke between branches. Then
they heard it. A breath, low, slow, close enough that
it raised the hair on Danny's neck. Not a growl,
not a snort, not a dramatic movie sound, just breathing.
Danny's mouth went dry. He wanted to run, He wanted
to shout Wade's name. He wanted to turn the flashlight
back on so the dark couldn't hold secrets. Reese didn't
do any of that, very calmly, barely above a whisper,
We're leaving, he said. They walked back toward camp without speaking.
They didn't run, because running in the woods at night
gets you killed faster than fear ever will. But Danny
could feel something behind them, not charging, not crashing through brush,
just present following. They reached camp, pale and quiet. The
others read their faces and didn't ask for jokes. Cal
listened to the report, then said, we search At first light.
A deputy from the sheriff's office arrived late the next
morning in a brown truck with a light bar that
looked like it had seen better days. His name was Finch,
Harold Finch, though most just called him Deputy Finch. He
looked tired before he stepped out of the vehicle, the
way small town deputies often do. Too many calls, too
few hands. Finch took statements he wrote in a small notebook,
flipping pages with a thumb stained by ink. He asked
sensible questions. Where was way last seen, what was he wearing?
What time did he leave? Any medical conditions, any enemies.
Then he asked the question everybody avoided? Anybody see anything unusual? Silence?
Men shifted, cleared throats, looked away. Finally, Cal said we
found tracks. Finch raised his eyebrows, human tracks. Cow looked
at him with flat seriousness. No, he said. They walked
down to the creek bottom, where the ground turned damp
and dark. The smell hit them halfway down, musky, heavy, wrong.
Finch wrinkled his nose and tried to hide it. What
is that? He asked, Cow didn't answer. Near the water's edge,
Prince marked the mud, big five toes, no claws, deep heel.
Finch crouched and stared. He didn't speak for a long time.
Finally he stood and said, could be a hoax. Cows
gave didn't move. Then who made it? He asked. Finch
looked around at the men. Someone wanting attention, he said.
Cal's voice stayed level. Then why didn't they make a trail,
he asked. Finch glanced back at the mud. That was
the part that didn't fit. The Prince didn't continue. They
came to the creek and stopped. No crossing, no exit,
no chase, just prince facing the water as if something
stood there for a while, looking down into the cold,
moving dark. Finch's pen hovered over his notebook. He wrote
something anyway, but later when men asked what he wrote,
he didn't show them. As the search spread out that day,
dogs refused the creek bottom. They'd whine and plant their
feet and pull away, eyes fixed on the trees across
the water. Handlers cursed and tugged and coaxed. Nothing worked.
Near midday, a man found Wade's hat hung on a
low branch, like it had been placed there. Not torn,
not bloodied, just hung. Could have fallen, someone said, cow
shook his head. Not like that, he muttered. The woods
shifted around them as the day went on. Sometimes it
felt normal. Wind would pick up, leaves would chatter, birds
would flit. Then, without warning, everything would pause again, the
unnatural stillness would settle, and men would stop talking mid sentence,
as if they'd all heard the same thing, the same warning.
Late afternoon brought the noox again, three hits, this time
from up on the ridge. Men froze. Finch looked sharply
toward the sound. His jaw clenched across the creek. Faintly,
there came an answering three. The men didn't speak, They
didn't laugh, even Finch. Deputy Finch, the sensible man with
his note book, stood still as a fence post. When
the woods finally resumed breathing, Finch exhaled as if he'd
been holding air without noticing. Cal watched him. You hear it,
Cow said quietly. Finch looked over eyes hard, I hear something,
he said, Coal nodded once. Yeah, he said, that's enough.
As the sun dropped and the light turned blue, the
search paused. Men gathered back at camp, cold and frustrated,
staring at the trees as if they might suddenly open
and return Wade. But Wade didn't return. All that returned
was the feeling, thick as fog, that something in those
woods had already decided the outcome. Not a deer, not
a bear, not a man, something that watched, And that,
more than anything, was what Cow couldn't shake, because if
something had been watching the whole time, then it had
seen Wade disappear. And if it had seen it, it
also knew who did it. All right, That's where this
chapter ends for now, but the story isn't finished. In
chapter two, the past comes back louder, clearer, and closer
to home. What once felt ordinary begins to reveal something
else entirely. Stay tuned. Chapter two is coming next week.
Have a great night,