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I've been fishing the same bend of little mill creek since I was a teenager.

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It's a slow meandering stretch of water that runs several miles from where it leaves

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the Mulberry River, where I go its remote.

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Most people don't have the patience to get there, and that's why I like it.

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Out there, the only sounds you hear are the water rolling over the gravel and the cicadas

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buzzing around in the heat.

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It was a scorcher the day I'm remembering.

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Mid-July, with the kind of humidity that makes your shirt stick to your back on the short

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walk from your front door to the truck in your driveway.

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I parked my old Silverado where I usually did, and then hiked in with a small tackle box,

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a can of worms, and a cooler slung over my shoulder.

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My plan was simple.

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I had to catch a mess of smallmouth, maybe a cat or two, and then camp the night on the

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gravel bar or just inside the tree line.

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I'd done it dozens and dozens of times before.

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The creek there was low from a dry spell, and that made the deep bend perfect.

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Dark pools undercut banks were the fish like to hole up.

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I spent a good two hours pulling them in, one right after the other.

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As it got later, the sun dropped behind the ridge just right, turning the water in front

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of me into pure gold.

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It was one of those afternoons that just feels right.

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You know the ones I mean.

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The kind that you're going to pull out of your memory when you're really old, and when

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you do, you will feel it all over again.

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Knowing this, I breathed deep and watched the gold ripple on the creek water, just drinking

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it into my memory.

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After a little bit, I did start thinking that maybe it was time to set up camp, and that's

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when I noticed something strange.

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I walked up and down the creek a little bit, looking for where I wanted to set my camp.

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I usually did not set camp up first thing because, well, sometimes the best place I find

31
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for my camp is not near the best place I find to fish that day.

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I did that one time, and I came back to an almost empty campsite, as unlikely as it

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had been.

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Someone had found my camp, assumed it was abandoned, I hope, and they decided to take everything,

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my tent, my bed roll, everything.

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Down to the kindling I had split.

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So I go walking, and about 30 yards downstream, where the creek shallows out into a wide,

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pebbly stretch.

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I saw a strange mark in the gravel.

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At first I thought maybe it was just where a log had been washed up and shipped it around.

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But the more I looked, the more what I saw didn't sit right.

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It was a drag mark.

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Two of them, actually.

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Deep furrows cutting across the gravel bar and then disappearing deep into the tree line,

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and whatever had made them, had been very heavy.

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We're not talking about some deer carcass tumbling downstream.

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These were steady and deliberate marks, as if something had hauled a very big weight

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against the flow of the creek.

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Curiosity got the better of me.

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I crouched down beside the marks.

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They were about three feet apart, with odd little crescent-shaped gouges along the edges.

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Almost like claws or fingertips had been dug down into the stones, as whatever it was,

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dragged its load.

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The tracks led straight off the bar, deep into the tree line, where the ground there turned

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soft and dark.

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Now, I grew up hunting and trapping, like a lot of other men in the area.

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I know the sign of coyotes hauling a kill, or a bear dragging a deer.

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This was not that.

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It was too neat, very deliberate.

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I told myself it was probably just a hog or a big cat.

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Still, I couldn't shake the itch in my brain about it.

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Something was off.

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The grass was starting, and the light was fading fast, and I knew I didn't have much

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time.

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So, like an absolute fool, I grabbed my flashlight and followed the trail into the woods.

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The canopy there swallowed me up fast.

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The further I went, the quieter and the darker it got.

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No birds, no frogs.

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Even the creek noise faded behind me into silence.

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But the drag marks kept going.

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A pichello incline across a mat of pine needles, and into a little hollow that was maybe 50 yards

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from the water.

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That's when I smelled it.

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It hit me like a rotten punch straight to the face.

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It was a mix of carrion and damp, moldy earth.

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I gagged a little, clamped my hand up for my nose, and I swept the light way ahead of me.

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That's when I saw the clearing.

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It was maybe twenty feet across, ringed with young pines and littered with bones.

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Not just deer bones either.

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There were ribs, femurs, and skulls from all kinds of forest critters.

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I saw raccoon, possum, possibly even some coyote skulls, and what looked like a hog.

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All of them were piled and scattered around like some kind of weird feeding ground.

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But what stopped me cold was a femur, half buried near the base of a stump.

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That was much bigger and thicker than any deer leg I'd ever seen.

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It looked human.

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I felt the hair on my neck rise.

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That was the first woman I thought I should leave right now.

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I turned to go back the way I came.

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And that's when I heard the splash.

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It was distant, faint but unmistakable.

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Something heavy had stepped into the creek.

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Then there was another splash.

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Then another.

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They were slow and deliberate.

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Coming closer and closer in a direct b-line for my position.

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Perhaps I could have went out ninety degrees deeper into the woods in a way from what was coming.

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But a very strange curiosity kept me right there.

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I killed my light, crouched low.

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My heart thudding so hard I was sure that whatever was coming my way would be able to hear it.

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Then I heard it again.

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Not the water this time, but the sound of footsteps, first on wet stone.

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Not the four-legged shuffle of a bear or a hog.

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These were definitely two-footed bipedal steps.

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Heavy, spaced apart.

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Just like a man waiting upstream.

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Only I knew it wasn't a man.

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It couldn't be.

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I crouched there in the darkness for what felt like several minutes, but was probably maybe

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twenty or thirty seconds, straining to listen.

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The splashing had stopped, and now the forest had gone completely silent again.

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And then from somewhere just beyond the tree line, where the creek gravel met the trees.

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I heard a low, guttural huff.

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It was deep and resonant, sort of like a bull exhaling through a barrel chest.

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The deep huff cycled three more times, with a long pair of seconds in between.

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That was as if it was drawing in more breath between each one.

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The huffs were measured, even, and forceful.

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That's when I knew it could smell me.

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It knew I was there, and it wasn't curious or afraid of me.

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In fact, I felt it was warning me.

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The sound of the huff seemed to hang in the air forever, deep, primal, and close.

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I'd been in the woods most of my life, and I'd never heard anything like it.

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It wasn't a bear's chuff for a deer's snort.

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This was heavier, deeper, and it was meant to let me know.

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It knew I was there, and that I was standing in a place I did not belong.

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Every instinct I had screamed for me to turn tail and run.

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But the thought of crashing through that brush blindly, and noisily, with whatever it was,

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so close, that didn't sit right either.

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I needed eyes on it.

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I needed to know what it was, and where it was before I moved.

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So I stayed there crouched, breathing shallow and slow, listening for movement.

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At first there was nothing.

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No water, no brush, not even the faintest rustle.

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Then, soft as a breath, came the sound of wet gravel shifting one step, then another

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slow, deliberate, coming closer.

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Then the footsteps were muffled, telling me it had left the creek area and was now in

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the trees.

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It came to within about ten yards of me, and came no closer.

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Instead it began to pace back and forth, just beyond the hollow area where I was crouched,

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moving parallel to me.

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I heard each heavy footsteps as it hit the ground.

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Every few seconds it would stop, and I would hear that deep huff, it would roll out into

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the darkness again.

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Low, measured, like it was sniffing and checking the air in between.

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I had left my 357 back with my main supplies.

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That's something I never do.

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I had been lulled that afternoon into the beauty and the quiet of the area.

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Yes, I do know better.

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Before you start preaching, I absolutely know better.

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But when I started walking and looking for a camp place, I had zero intention of going

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very far, and not into the woods.

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But I'm not the only man to fail to see into the future, to plan for it, and to mess

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up.

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All I had on me was a six-inch filet knife on my belt, and a mag light that suddenly felt

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more like a heavy liability than a tool.

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My hands were slick with sweat, and my heart was pounding so loud I was sure it would give

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my position away.

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After a few minutes I lulled myself into believing it must have moved on.

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I wasn't hearing the huffing or any footsteps.

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Then, just when I thought it had moved on, a branch snapped.

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I called sharp, no more than 30 feet to my left.

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My froze.

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I turned slowly to look.

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A shape moved between the trees.

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Big, too big for a deer.

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It ghosted from trunk to trunk, silent to smoke, but every so often I'd catch a real glimpse

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of it.

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A hulking mass moving in the fading light, there, and then gone again.

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Then I saw it was circling me.

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I eased backward slowly as I could, trying not to crunch the pine needles under my boots.

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My plan was simple.

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Get back to the creek, follow it downstream, and put as much distance between me and whatever

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this was stalking me as much as I could.

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But plans don't mean much when you're not the one in control.

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I hadn't thudded into the ground barely a foot from where I was crouching.

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Heavy enough to send a small spray of soil across my boots.

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I jumped back, barely stifling a curse.

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When I aimed my light, I saw it.

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A large river rock, bigger than a soft ball, it was now half buried in the dirt.

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That thing circling me had thrown it.

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And it wasn't guessing where I was.

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That stone landed just mere inches from me.

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That was a very accurate throw.

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That thing is accurate with it saying, "Make no mistake."

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It simply miscalculated the force needed to put that throw to reach me and make contact.

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And it was just miscalculated by a few inches.

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It missed me only barely.

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I can't imagine if it had hit me, or made a headshot.

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I wasn't waiting for another one to come.

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I turned and started backing down the slope toward the water.

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My light was off, stepping quickly, but carefully.

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This was not the time to stumble or twist or break my ankle.

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My heart was racing now, and I could feel that thing shadowing me.

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Branches moving close enough I could hear them.

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I think crack of wood now and then, but always just out of sight.

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But it was close.

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When I broke through the tree line and I saw the glint of light on the creek from the slowly

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rising moon, I nearly sobbed with relief.

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I figured if I could get into the shallows and follow the water downstream, I might just

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lose that thing.

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I was halfway to the bank when I heard the sound that darn near stopped my heart.

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Two foot steps, then three, then four.

202
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There was no rush in the steps I heard.

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That thing knew right where I was and how to get to me.

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Those foot steps were coming straight for me.

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Nice bun, flicked my flashlight on and swept it across the clearing.

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Nothing there, just trees and brush and darkness.

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I swung the beam back the other way, and that's when I saw it.

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It was standing about twenty yards away, half hidden behind a sycamore as wide around

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as a truck tire.

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The light caught just enough to paint a picture that I will never forget.

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A massive barrel-chested figure, easily seven and a half feet tall.

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Its shoulders nearly brushing the lower limbs.

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The hair was dark and matted, hanging in coarse sheets over muscles that move like coiled

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rope beneath.

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And the face.

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Well, God help me.

217
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That face was not like an apes.

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It was much closer to hours.

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With a heavy brow, deep set eyes, glowing faint red in the light beam, and a mouth that

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was pulled into something that wasn't quite as snarl, but was not far from it.

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It blinked once, slow and deliberate, and it stepped out from behind the tree.

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I don't remember making the decision to run.

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My body must have made it for me.

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I bolted for the creek, stumbling over rocks and roots, splashing into the shallows hard

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enough to nearly lose my footing.

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Behind me, branches cracked, loud, fast, and closing the distance.

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I tore downstream the water, dragging at my boots, heart hammering in my throat.

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Then it all stopped.

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No footsteps.

230
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No crashing.

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Just the sound of the creek in my own racket breathing.

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I turned, gasping, and scanned the bank with the flashlight.

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Something empty, silent.

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I stood there for more than a full minute, shaking, waiting for it to come, charging out

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of the trees.

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But it didn't.

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But I know it was there, somewhere in the darkness, watching.

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And then faint, but unmistakable, came that same low, just deep huff.

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This time it wasn't as close.

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It was distant, maybe a hundred feet back.

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And that's when I knew.

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That huff was a warning.

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It was showing me the boundary, the line I was not to cross again.

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Well, I wasn't going to test it.

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I have only a vague memory of scooping up my gear.

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I didn't stop moving until I was back at my truck.

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I don't even remember the hike back.

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I barely have a memory of throwing my gear into the bed of my truck, then peeling out

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of there with the windows down, and my heart feeling as if it was trying to punch its way out

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of my chest.

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When I told this story to someone that I loved and trusted, they listened.

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Then they told me the area there is known for that kind of activity and pointed out things

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like devil's canyon trail, devil's canyon waterfalls, then Sasquatch's cave and other things

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nearby where I was.

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I mean, yeah, I had heard those names my whole life.

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But they were just names.

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They didn't mean anything to me.

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It was no different to me than something like the Mulberry River.

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I don't think the Mulberry River is full of Mulberries or has its banks aligned with Mulberry

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bushes.

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I don't think Hurricane Creek is one big hurricane or that a hurricane ever went down

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that creek.

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I don't think wire road is full of wires.

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So I never once thought that devil's canyon waterfalls or anything else was full of

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devil's.

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You see what I mean?

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But now I know it was probably all referencing Sasquatch in the area probably over the last

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century or two.

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I now pay more attention to those kinds of names for places because what happened to me

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was between those areas and the Mulberry River.

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So yeah, there might be something to it.

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I'm going to send you the Google shot of the area just so you know.

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I have never been back to that part of the creek, not once, probably never.

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I now fish on other creeks.

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Creeks that don't lead to places with the words like devil and Sasquatch in them.

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But there are times late at night when the winds write, "I swear to you, I can still hear

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that sound in my head."

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That heavy, deliberate huff.

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And I remember what it felt like to stand in a place that didn't belong to me.

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When I crossed a boundary, I didn't know was there.

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[ Silence ]