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I've learned in life that things don't always go as planned, and sometimes life throws

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you curveballs. Sometimes those curveballs are tall, hairy, and just a little bit scary.

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For us it came during a December storm that knocked out our power. We live outside town,

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not in the middle of nowhere outside of town, but far enough out that the road goes from

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being normal to more narrow and heavily patched. And the mailboxes along the road are spaced

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farther and farther apart, and you can't always see the houses from the road.

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It's all fields and tree lines out my way. There's a couple shallow creeks and a stretch

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of woods that's a very welcome relief from the summer heat, and a barren wasteland

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of dark tree trunks in the winter. We're also just far enough out that the power lines

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are still running above ground out to us, and power outages are not uncommon. Whereas

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the new subdivision on the other side of town has all of their power underground. My brother

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there says they never lose power. Well, all things considered, I still would rather live

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where I live.

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Not week before Christmas had been one of those weeks where the calendar is full, and everything

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moves at breakneck speed, school concerts, buying gifts, wrapping paper, grocery runs, cookie

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swaps, church plays, you know. Well, you're happy, but you're also a little stressed.

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And then the storm came in. The way winter storms can do out here. They'll make a liar out

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of all the weathermen who say it's only going to be an inch or so, and then it drops

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six to eight inches. It started as just pretty flakes just after breakfast. The kind of snow

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that makes you think, "Good, we're going to have a white Christmas." The kids pressed their

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faces up to the window glass all happy. "My wife put on her playlist of old nostalgic Christmas

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music," Rosemary Clooney, Connie Francis, "Birl Ives and Perricomo just to name a few."

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Outside the snow was gently falling. Inside my wife was baking, and the house smelled wonderful.

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We had a warm fire and beautiful music. Just a little bit, I felt like I was living in

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a postcard. But then the temperature dropped. The wind showed up by afternoon, and the snow

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was now coming down sideways with bits in it that felt like balls of sleet. They made little

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wet, slapping sounds when they hit the windows. The weather outside no longer looked beautiful

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to me. It began to look ominous, dangerous. Suddenly it felt less like living in a postcard

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and more like in a Stephen King novel. It went out and ran the snow blower down the drive,

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though the snow was still falling. As I was doing so, my neighbor Dale drove by. He stopped

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and leaned out to ask me how I was fixed for fuel for my generator. I said, "I was fixed

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good." Then he reminded me if I needed more to get it now before the storm got worse. I

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said no. I was good, and I reminded him that I always had extra fuel on hand. But at the

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same time I got his meaning. He was expecting this was going to turn into, "Well, something,"

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they hadn't predicted. Dale nodded once to me, like that soft, something important he'd

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been thinking about. Then all he said to me was, "Well, I'm guessing you just might need

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that fuel tonight." We talked a little bit more and then he drove on. I stood at the end

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of my driveway watching his tail lights go down the road. I'd lived there long enough to

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know that old Dale was right about weather stuff, probably ninety percent of the time. I don't

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know how he did it, but he did. And Dale was not a dramatic kind of guy. If Dale mentions

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fuel for your generator, you should probably listen. I grew up in another type of rural area,

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but it was a house where our power outages weren't uncommon, so they weren't a crisis. It was

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just something we dealt with. My parents handled it all like pros. When the lights went out,

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my dad would make it a fun thing. He'd tell us, "We're going to live like the pioneers

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for a while." Us kids would all go scrambling for candles, oil lamps, matches, extra blankets,

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and dad would go get the wood stove going, and we kids would race to stack up more wood

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from outside on the porch. Now then we would play board games all night, play some rounds

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of cards, and we would tell stories. Mom kept a kettle on the wood stove and we would drink

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endless mugs of hot chocolate. We kids loved those power outage nights. There was nothing

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scary for us about them. So as an adult, I kept that tradition. Not because I'm so sentimental

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— although I am more than I like to admit — but because I liked what it did to the house.

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It seemed that time slowed down for us in there. And this year, with everything feeling

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much too fast, I really wanted that. But what I didn't know was that I would also be making

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a lighthouse beacon in the middle of the woods. Our power went out just after seven o'clock.

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You might think your house is quiet, but you find out different in a power outage. The

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fridge stops humming. The heat pump quits. The almost imperceptible humming of dozens and

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dozens of things plugged in and around the house all comes to a stop. That's the silence.

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I looked up surprised. The room almost dark already with the winter storm blowing outside.

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The kids cheered like it was time for fireworks. "All right, my little pioneers," I said.

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"Let's do it the old way tonight. You ready?"

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"Of course they were. I got the candles. My wife got the lanterns. And my kids ran around

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collecting blankets like we were planning to build a huge winter snow fort with them in

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the living room. And for a while, it honestly was great. We ate dinner by lantern light,

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leftovers and ham, and the last of the Christmas cookies that someone had dropped off.

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And of course, we had hot chocolate after dinner."

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My wife pulled out the board games, and the kids went straight for the one with the most

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pieces, because of course they did. And just like that, neither the storm outside nor

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the power outage were the main thing in our house anymore. We were just a family pretending

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we were doing it, like the old pioneers, and having a good time doing it.

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Somewhere around 8'30, the house started cooling. I always feel at first around my feet and

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ankles. The storm outside was getting worse. The wind was rising. Snow and ice tapping

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on the windows like someone was out there asking to come in.

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"I knew we'd be okay for several more hours, but I also knew the way these outages could

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go out here. Sometimes it's just an hour. Sometimes it'll go all night."

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We have a generator, but I don't like running it unless we absolutely need to. It's loud,

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and it's a magnet for every nosy creature within a mile. Still, with the temperature dropping,

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with the house full of kids, I decided to at least go out and make sure everything was

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ready.

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"I'm going to go check the generator and get it ready," I told my wife. "She nodded.

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Be careful. I grabbed my coat, hat, gloves, and a flashlight, then I stepped into my boots

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out by the back door. When I opened the door, the cold hit me in the face like a prize fighter,

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it hurt. The porch light was dead, of course, so the only light was the candlelight behind

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me spilling through the kitchen windows. The snow was coming down hard now. I walked the

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short path to the shed where we keep the generator. The shed is about 30 yards from the house,

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near the edge of our yard where it starts turning into fields. And beyond that field is

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the tree line. And beyond that tree line? Well, that's where you have to admit you don't

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have control of anything. Not the land, not the animals, nothing. It's wild, and we all

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know it."

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I got to the shed, brushed no off the latch, and pulled the door open. Cold air rushed

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out, smelling like old gasoline and old wood. I swung my flashlight inside, checking

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the generator, topping the fuel, and checking the other fuel cans. Everything looked normal.

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I walked back out of the shed, turned to latch the door back, and that's when I felt it.

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As a sensation you get when you know you're being stared at, I don't have to explain it.

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I know we've all felt it. I stepped back, and stepped around and shined the flashlight

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down both sides of the shed, but saw nothing. Then I turned my flashlight toward the tree

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line beyond the shed, and panned it all around. At first it was nothing but snow and tree

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trunks and shadows. Then the beam caught a shape that did not match the trees. A very vertical

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silhouette. Two broad was shoulders. Two tall were the head. Darker than the darkest tree

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trunk out there. It was standing just inside the woods. I actually blinked hard and swung

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the light away and back, like my eyes were glitching, but the silhouette didn't move. That's

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what made my throat go really dry. Because the deer will move, coyotes will move, even a

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bear will shift on its paws. But not this silhouette. It was perfectly still.

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The snow gusted again in the tree branches sway, dropping snow in swirls. For a moment

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the silhouette blended into the swirling snow, just bits of darkness showing through.

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Then the wind eased, and it was still there. Same spot, same height. My flashlight being

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trembled slightly. I told myself, "It's just a tree trunk. It's some kind of weird branch

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sticking out. It's just the nerves getting to you with the storm."

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But then the shape turned its head. And as it did so, I caught eye shine. It didn't reflect

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any when my light was directly on it, but when it moved its head to the side, it flashed,

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and I saw it. It was red eye shine.

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The movement was small, but it was enough for me to confirm it was a living thing that

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moved. And that's when my brain stopped trying to label what I was seeing as a tree.

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My heart started beating harder, not from exertion, but from the sudden understanding

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that I was out there was something that didn't belong on that postcard I had been living

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in earlier that day. I really wasn't sure it belonged anywhere.

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I backed up one step. My boots crunching in the snow.

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I kept my eye on the dark silhouette. It didn't move. It stood there, and I think it was

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watching the candlelight glow coming from the house windows. It was like that light meant

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something to it, or maybe it was drawn to it.

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I raised the flashlight higher, and now the light caught part of it better, and I saw

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dark hair clumped with snow and ice, and then I saw the edge of a face, enough to know

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I was looking at something very real and very solid.

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I retreated back to the house, fast and quiet. Inside, when I walked in, I had just a moment

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of deja vu, the candlelit living room with the board game and pieces on the coffee table,

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the mugs of hot chocolate sitting around. It all looked exactly like my childhood memories,

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and for just a part of a second, I felt safe.

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My wife looked up at me. "You okay?" "Yeah," I said, lying, because the kids were right there,

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and I wasn't going to turn Christmas pioneer play-fun night into Christmas screen time.

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I shook the snow off my coat and set my flashlight on the table.

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"Did you start the generator?" she asked. I said, "No, not yet. It's fine for now, I think."

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I sat down with them, and I tried to slip back into the game, but my brain kept going back

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to the tree line. Soon enough, the kids were arguing again about the rules of the game.

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My wife was mediating, and outside, the wind that had started up again and earnest was

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now pushing snow against the windows and soft bursts.

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The candles flickered, shadows moved across the walls, and the part of me that was still

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a kid thought, "This is really perfect." Then the adult part of me thought, "Our windows

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looked like beacons in the darkness."

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Around 930, our dog started acting weird. He's a good dog. He's big and steady. He's the

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kind that barks at delivery trucks and squirrels, and sometimes the neighbor's cat. But he also

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calms down pretty quick, too. But there was no calming him down, though. He stood by the

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front window with his body stiff, ears forward, making a low rumble in his chest.

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My wife noticed. "What's he doing?" she asked.

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"I don't know," I said, trying to sound casual. "It's probably a deer out there."

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I said it, but I didn't believe it.

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Our dog's nails clicked on the floors he shifted. He sniffed the air hard like he was pulling

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scent from cracks around the window frame. My daughter said, "Daddy, what's he looking

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at?"

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"Probably nothing," I said. But I walked over and looked out, keeping my face calm. All

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I could see was snow in the yard and the dark beyond. But then the wind gusted. The candle

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light reflected in the glass, and I saw my own face staring back at me. And then, behind

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my reflection, something moved. Not out in the yard, farther back, along the edge of the

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field near the tree line. A dark shape gliding between the trees.

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I stepped away from the window immediately, not because I didn't want to see it, but I

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didn't want my kids to come and look out, too. Because you know, kids noticed everything.

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My wife was watching me. "What's out there," she said.

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Nothing I said, just a lot of snow. My wife didn't buy it for a second, but she didn't press

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me right then. She knows me. She knows when I'm holding something back, and I know by her

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look when she knows I'm holding something back. I went to the hallway closet, grabbed the

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bigger flashlight and checked my phone again. Still, no service. Of course not. And of course,

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we had gotten rid of the landline a couple years before because now we had cell phones and

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fiber optic internet. Who needs a landline? So we got rid of it. Of course we did.

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In time the storm got louder. The house creaked in the wind. The trees made that slow,

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rustful sound as the storm battered them around. We all stayed in the living room together.

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It was the warmest there, and I felt better keeping everyone together. I read them several

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books, and then they asked for their favorite, the night before Christmas.

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When I finished the poem, my son asked, "Do you think Santa can see our house without

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any lights on?" My wife laughed, "Honey, Santa doesn't need lights to find us." Then my daughter

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said, "Don't worry. He can see all the candles." That made my skin prickle because my daughter

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was right. You could see those candles out there. And whatever was out there could see

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them too. Close to eleven, there was a sound at the back of the house. Nothing loud. It

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was more of a soft tapping sound. Then there was a swoosh behind it, as if something was

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brushing up against the siding. The dog's head snapped up. It started that low rumble

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and it's throed again. There came another tap. Then a scraping sound, it was faint, like a

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hand sliding along wood. My wife's eyes met mine. And this time she didn't ask what. She

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already knew what was going on was not normal. I stood up slowly. The kids watched me,

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suddenly very quiet. "Stay here," I said to my wife. "Keep them in the living room." Her

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face tightened. "What is it?"

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"I don't know," I said to her honestly. "But stay here."

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I grabbed my flashlight, jacket and gloves, went to the back door and put my boots on

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again. The handle of the door felt too cold even through my gloves. I took my handle of

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the handle. I realized I really did not want to open that door. I flicked the porch lights

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switch out of habit and of course nothing happened. The darkness out there stayed. So I took a deep

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breath and I cracked the door just a couple inches, just enough for the flashlight to poke

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out. I aimed the flashlight all around. Snow whipped past, brightened the beam. The yard

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was empty. But the smell hit immediately. Thanked, but unmistakable if you've ever been

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around livestock or wild animals up close. Musky, wet, earthy. Like damp fur and old leaves

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and something else, something sour underneath all of it. My heart started pounding again.

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I closed the door quietly and locked it. I returned to the living room where there was an abundance

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of candles and lamps glowing all around. It was almost as bright in there as when we had

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electricity. I blew out most of the candles and all but one oil lamp, turning the wick

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down on that last lamp. The room darkened immediately. I pulled the curtains tighter and

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threw a blanket over the side window by the kitchen. My wife came up to my side, her voice

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slow when she asked, "What's going on?" I swallowed hard and then I said, "I saw something

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by the woods earlier when I went to the shed." Her eyes widened but she didn't freak out.

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She's a mom after all. You know when your kids are watching, moms become steel.

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"A person?" she whispered. "I shook my head." "No." The dog lit out one deep bark, sharp,

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a warning. Then it went back to that low rumbling sound. My son's face went pale. He looked

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at me in concern. "Dad?" I crouched down in front of him, keeping my voice steady. "Hey,

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buddy, don't worry. We're fine. It's probably just some animal checking the house out because

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of the storm." Now that wasn't exactly a lie. It was the most truthful version that I could

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give without giving them my fear. My daughter, her voice small said, "Is it a bear?"

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In winter, my wife said quickly, trying to lighten it up. No, honey bears are sleeping. But

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I saw my wife glance at the windows again because she, like me, knew. Bears weren't the only

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big thing in the woods out here. We sat together in the living room with fewer candles now,

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the light much softer and more contained. And for a while, nothing happened. The storm

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raged, the house held. The kids started to relax again, inch by inch, like they do when

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adults go back to acting normal. I almost convinced myself it had moved on.

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When, from the front of the house, there was a soft, crunching sound.

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Put steps. They weren't fast or frantic. They were slow and heavy. Moving across the snow,

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right off the porch, the dog stood up, his hackles raised. I leaned toward the front window

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without going all the way to it. The curtain was cracked just enough that I could see a

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sliver of the yard beyond. But I saw nothing. Yet the sound continued. Crunch, crunch, crunch.

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Then it stopped. My kids started a course of asking, "What is it? What's out there?" and

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I told them to be quiet, that I needed to listen. They by now had picked up on my fear and

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they went to be with their mom on the couch. After more than a minute, my wife whispered,

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"Do you see anything?" No, I whispered back. The dog's low-growl had changed pitch, like

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he was warning about something that he could smell, but he couldn't see.

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Then came a sound that chilled my blood. A sound against the glass of the big window, something

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touching or pushing on it. I backed up and I held my breath. My son very softly asked again,

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"Daddy?" I turned to the side of my children there on the couch with my wife, all of them

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with wide eyes and fear on their faces. And for the first time, I regretted being anti-2a.

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I had nothing in the house with which to protect us all.

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So I said, "Let's play a game." I said it too quickly and far too bright. Let's play a quiet

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game. My son looked at me. He knew I was lying, but he nodded anyway. So we played cards,

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and we whispered. And outside, whatever it was, kept moving around the house. I was sure

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it was trying to look in the windows. It seemed to stop and pause at everyone. I wondered

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if it was unaware that glass could be broken. I prayed it didn't know.

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The dog barked once, very loudly and threw himself at the door as if he was going to go out.

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"No," I said to him sharply, grabbing his collar and pulling him back. "No, you're not going

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out." Because the last thing I wanted was my dog outside with that thing. My wife's

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face was very tight. "Honey, you've got to call someone," she said.

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I said, "I have no self-service." And that ended that. And then it happened. The moment that

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turned this from something is outside into, "This is too real and up too close." The window

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squeaked and creaked, like it was cleaning the glass and it was now squeaky, clean. I grabbed

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the flashlight, snapped it on, aiming it at the curtains. My hands shook as I reached

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forward and pulled the curtain back just two inches, just enough to see. The world outside

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was a blur of snow. But right there, inches from the window was a dark mass. And there were

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wet smears on the glass. It had been testing the glass. I really think it didn't understand

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glass or what it was. It must have seemed like an invisible barrier. And then the dark

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mass suddenly became a terrible face looking in at me through the window. It was clear

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enough that I saw the shape of a brow bridge, the flatness of a wide nose, the dark line

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of a mouth. The eyes reflected my flashlight beam, like red stones. They weren't glowing

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on their own. They were reflecting regular animal eye shine. But it was the height of them.

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A little bit more than the light of the window. It was standing right there, right in front

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of our window, looking in, looking at our candlelight, looking at our life inside this house.

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I slammed the curtain shut and backed away. My wife whispered, "What is it? What did you

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see?" I swallowed hard and I said the only thing that I could.

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My son said, "Is it the big foot?" "Stop it," my wife said, cutting him off. We had all heard

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the stories, and I know kids at school had talked about it, too. But we were not going to let

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him get voice to it. Although, my wife and I knew that was big foot out there.

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Our dog was shaking now, but still growling. Outside, the scraping sound moved along the

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wall again, slow. Then the crunch of footsteps returned, drifting away across the yard. Crunch,

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crunch, crunch. It wasn't running. It was just going about its business. Like this was

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its territory, and our house was something that it needed to investigate. Something it

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had never noticed until the night went dark, and we were lit up inside. We sat together

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on the couch for a long time afterwards, quiet and whispering. I was thankful we had brought

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in more wood, and I kept the fireplace stoked against the falling temperatures. The storm

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ease slightly after midnight, the wind dropping enough that the snow started falling straighter.

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The temperature fell with it. At around 1am, I decided I couldn't keep the house cooling

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down any more without doing something. That generator had to be turned on. I told my wife,

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"I'm going to go out and start the generator." I'll be fast. She grabbed my arm and said,

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"Don't."

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"I have to," I said. She looked at me with that expression that only a spouse has, the

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one that says, "I love you, and I hate this, and I know I can't stop you." I pulled on my

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coat and boots again and hat and gloves. I kept my flashlight being wide and low as I stepped

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outside scanning the yard. The candlelight still glowed from inside, but dimmer now that

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we had shut the curtains and snuffed out the majority of the lights. The yard looked

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empty, but the woods didn't. Strangely, the woods looked awake. I walked out to the shed

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again every crunch of my boots sounding far too loud. When I reached it, I stopped and

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listened. Nothing but the wind. I opened the shed, got the generator ready and yanked the

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cord. It sputtered for a second, then caught, roaring loudly into the night. The sound felt

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like both relief and danger like I had just fired a flare into the darkened night. As

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soon as it started, I felt exposed. The generator's roar seemed to announce. "Here we are, warmth

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and fuel and human life, come get us."

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I hurried, running the extension cord back toward the house, hands clumsy in the gloves.

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As I crossed the yard, my flashlight beam swung toward the tree line, and I saw it again.

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It wasn't close this time, though. It was standing at the edge of the woods just inside

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the darkness, watching the generator's noises and the light in my hand. It was still, tall

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and broad, with snow dusting at shoulders. It didn't move, though. And in that moment I understood

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something that made my stomach drop harder than any fear that night. This big foot wasn't

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passing through. This was it being curious about our light, about us. I did not shine the

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flashlight toward its face. I kept moving, kept my eyes up, and got back to the house.

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Once the generator was running, we got the bare minimum on, a space heater in the living

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room, a lamp in one corner, and the fridge so food wouldn't spoil. We kept the house a

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dim on purpose. We didn't want to be a bright beacon in the darkness.

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The kids fell asleep eventually, all piled up under the blankets. I guess exhaustion winds,

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even over fear. My wife stayed awake with me, sitting on the couch quietly talking at times.

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Outside the storm softened, and the howling winds died down. The world had finally gone

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back quiet again. At around 2.30, the dog finally laid down, but he kept his ears up and eyes

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on the windows. At around 3.30, I thought, just for a second, that I heard the snow crunch

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right outside by the front porch, but I went out and checked, and there was nothing there.

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After that, there was nothing, no more scraping, no more footsteps, just the generators a distant

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roar and the slow settling of snow.

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Everything came grey and bitter and still. The outage lasted until almost 10 a.m. A utility

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truck eventually came down the road, and I nearly hugged the lineman when he knocked

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on my door to tell us they were working on the lines. When the power finally came back,

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the house hummed to life as if it was waking up. Lights, heat, all the things we take for

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granted.

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The kids popped up as if nothing had happened and immediately asked for hot chocolate,

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like the night before was just a big camping adventure, and they were ready for breakfast.

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My wife moved around, cleaning and resetting the house, preparing to pick up where she

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left off with baking when we lost power.

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And me? Well, I went outside. I wasn't out there hunting for any kind of proof. I didn't

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need any. I know exactly what I saw.

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The yard was drifted over in smooth waves of wind-blown snow, but near the front window, where

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the snow had been a little sheltered by the porch overhang, I saw big depressions.

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These weren't the kind of tracks you would take pictures of. They had been blown over

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with snow numerous times and weathered to where they were barely visible. But I saw them

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for what they were.

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Most heavy, deep press marks spaced too far apart to be a person walking in boots.

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And along the side of the house, the snow near the wall was packed down as if something

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had walked back and forth, and under the windows they were packed heavily as if something had

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stood there, trying to breathe on the glass while looking in.

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I stared at the story that I was seeing around my house for quite some time.

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And I looked toward the woods where the tree lines stood quiet and ordinary and daylight.

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And I felt that same cold humility again.

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I didn't own those woods that I knew, but I had begun to wonder about the patch of Earth

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I was standing on. I wasn't so sure I owned it any more either.

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I'm sending this to you because I've listened long enough to know you're not out there to

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make people sound ridiculous, and you're not turning every story into some kind of evidence

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and you're not forcing square pegs and around holes to make your own personal theories

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work.

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I know what was out there that night.

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Wasn't some fable or some kind of magic, and it wasn't a prankster.

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And there was nothing paranormal about what I saw.

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And although at times it felt like one, I wasn't in a monster movie.

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There was a winter storm with a long power outage, and that made the whole county and beyond

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that county very dark.

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And I figured that's prime time for something like a big foot.

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To go where it wants to go, where it normally stays away from lights, those lights are out.

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Good night to go checking on things.

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That's my thought anyway.

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And our house, it was just a lighthouse beacon in the darkness with the candles and the oil

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lamps.

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And it drew something big and dark, something curious about the light that it was seeing,

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and the humans that were inside.

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It stood there in the darkness, watching us the way we watch animals in a zoo.

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Later the next year we got a wired, whole-house, general-act generator that was hooked up to

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the gas line.

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I never have to go out into the darkness for the generator again.

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I have looked on many others, no-we evenings, for what I now know was a big foot.

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I know it beyond a shadow of a doubt.

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But I've not seen it yet.

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And honestly if you want the truth, I hope I never do see it again.

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Please keep me anonymous.

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Thank you.

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You've been listening to The Buckeye Bigfoot podcast.

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Find more stories, hundreds more, over on our YouTube channel.

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Just look for Buckeye Bigfoot.

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