Saved by a bigfoot

I am a Cryptozoologist, but before I tell you my story let me tell you how I got interested in the Crypto world. When I was little I would spend a lot of my summers in the Blue Mountains with my Aunt and Uncle who had a turkey farm. They had other animals, but turkeys was their main income.

I was 6 years old and it was about 4:30 for 5:00 in the morning and I was going with my Uncle out to take care of the animals and to grab a baby bunny to play with for a little while. My Uncle put his hand on my should and told me to be quiet and he will not hurt me all he wants is his breakfast. I was trying to figure out what he was talking about, when all of a sudden this huge hairy man stepped out from behind a massive tree and starred at us for what seemed like hours, but it was probably on a few seconds. He then reached over the fence grabbed a turkey and slung it around to break it’s neck. Stared at us for a few seconds more and stepped back behind the tree and disappeared. I asked my Uncle Jim what was that, now my Uncle was a Yurok Indian and he told me that it was an ancient human, he told me that he supplies him with food once in awhile and the ancient people let him live on their land. So I became hooked and became a Cryptozoologist.

I live in Oklahoma, one day my son and I was coming home from visiting family and we was driving through the town where I grew up. My son asked if we could go to the old Union Cemetery and see what we could hear (it is supposed to be haunted) So anyway I agree and we drive to it. By this time it was pretty dark now my son was doing an internship with the Oklahoma State Game Warden and my son had called and told them we would be out there, you have to let an official know if you are going to be in a Cemetery after dark.

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MANNEQUIN SAM (Creepypasta)

Sammy Hughs was born color blind. This was before special glasses that give folks with his condition the ability to see colors, so Sammy was doomed to never have a favorite one, or be able to pick out the different shades of a sunset. As he grew older, he realized that he was entirely isolated in his world of black and white, no one else understood what it was like to not be able to understand anything beyond gray.
And then came the day where he learned in science class about blood. He learned about the functions of the blood, the importance of it, and of course the color.
Sammy longed to see the vibrant red that his teacher described. He longed to see such a vivid, beautiful color. And that is what led him to cut off his own hands. Imagine the terror his parents must have felt, coming home to see their grinning son sitting in a pool of red, with nothing but bloody stubs sticking out of his sleeves.
“Look Mommy, red. I can see red.”
His frightened parents drove him to the hospital, hoping to get their son’s hands reattached. But Sam had used his teeth to destroy his hands to see even more red, so that wasn’t an option. The next day, Sam’s parents attached mannequin hands to Sam’s arms. They told Sam that until they received prosthetic hands, Sam was going to have to live with fake immovable hands.
But something had clicked in Sam. He was no longer the loving son they knew. Now that he had seen red, he wanted so desperately to see more. But alas, without hands, he could no longer hold a knife. And so he resorted to using his teeth, he attacked the family dog, killing him and watching the blood flow. His mother walked out of the house one day and saw Sam kneeling before the dead dog body, blood on his mouth and his arm and mannequin hands limp beside him. They immediately got a human muzzle for him. They told him that one day he would be able to see colors, and that he would need to go therapy if he didn’t stop the insanity.
And so the years went on, Sam wasn’t able to use his hands to remove the muzzle, and so it stayed on until he was 15. And that is when his hunger for red pushed the limits of his sanity. He stayed awake all night, remembering the beautiful color. How it flowed and glistened. He wished so desperately that he could use those useless wooden hands to wield a knife. His parents had never allowed him prosthetics after he had killed the dog, and for that he hated them.
One night, he sat on the bed, moaning and wheezing in his muzzle. He stared at the mannequin hands with such burning desire. He wanted them to move. He needed them to move. The whole week he sat there, not eating or sleeping. He just stared wide eyed and desperate at the hands. Until they obeyed his command, and moved. Just a twitch.
Sammy screamed in his muzzle. His excitement was immeasurable. The next few weeks he spent training his hands to move. But he never told his parents, he feared that if he did, they would take the hands from him and he would never be able to use them. So he let his mother feed him, and he let his father dress him just like they had done since he was 6, he never hinted that he now once again had the power to do those things himself.
And then, the 4th week, Sammy crept from his bed in the middle of the night. He smiled in his muzzle and grabbed a large kitchen knife.
That night, he saw red again. It flowed from his parents bed.
He donned a tight black hoodie and hit the street, forever looking for victims. He eventually traded in his knife for two staffed scythes, he loved the feeling of twirling a staff in his hands, and they were more practical for striking running targets. He never did get rid of the muzzle, he felt that it had become part of him, and in his hatred he no longer felt the need to eat.
He still lives, murdering whoever he sees fit and he never gets tired of seeing blood, it is the most exciting and beautiful part of being him.

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The Legend of Spanish moss

I have lived in Florida for all of my life and not the tourist traps and the densely populated cities of the southern end of the state. I live in the marshland outside of Jacksonville just as my family has for over 300 years, and to this day one story passed down our family has haunted me every time I look to the trees.

Down here we have an abundance of Spanish moss that grows on the trees above, blanketing the green leaves of oaks with a fuzzy coat of grey that will hang down peacefully. This was always my thought until my grandmother told me the alleged story of how it was named and came to be so prevalent.

It begins with a terció regiment making its way home from an expedtion to Santa Elena in South Carolina, this regiment was lead by a cruel disciplinarian who did not tolerate insubordination. It was rumored that he had multiple soldiers executed or otherwise harshly punished for the most minor of offenses while he was leading troops elsewhere in the Americas.

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Odd noises

I’ m a trucker. I’ve over the road for seven years now. I have put a semi in all of the 48. I have seen a lot of this beautiful country. Other parts not so beautiful or nice. This happened about 3 years ago. I was on a load to Florida and I try to avoid Atlanta, so I was running down I 22 in Mississippi. Its good road. Its quiet and I can good time. Now there is not a lot along this stretch of highway. Most of the exits have nothing at them. No fuel stops or houses just empty exits. They are good places to park if need rest and peace and quiet. The state troopers don’t run road very much since there is nothing out there. One night I decide to stop on an on ramp where there were no street lights and quiet knowing I wouldn’t be bothered. I had food in the truck and my driving time was just about up. I climb into the bunk to eat and watch a movie. I had been shutdown about an hour, when I heard something outside, a type of whistling sound thinking it was just the wind I paid no mind. You hear a lot things on the road. A few minutes I heard it again and felt the trailer rock. I got up and paused the movie and looked out the window and in mirrors. I didn’t see anything I noticed that the leaves on the trees weren’t moving. No wind. How did the trailer rock? I had 42,000 pounds of cargo in the box. I thought it odd but maybe it was a wind burst. Sometimes the wind will hit the truck all at once really hard and rock the truck. If you’re driving it can hit the truck hard enough to knock the truck out the lane and there is warning when this happens. Any way I move back to the rack and the sound again. Now I think there is someone out there messing around my truck and I’m going to put an end to it. I get my boots on a grab a large knife and 3 pound hammer I use for checking the tires and get out of the truck. I jump down in an ill mood, I’m tired and parked here to get some rest. I walk around the truck and I find nothing and no wind. I hear that odd whistling sound coming from the treeline about 50 yards away. I get in the truck and start to take my boots off. Again the truck rocks. I get back out the truck and still nothing. I’m pretty pissed now I am looking to ruin someone’s day. I walk around the truck again and has come around the side of the truck closest to the treeline I hear that whistling sound come from the treeline. Its about 11 at night and I start to take a step toward the treeline when I see a large shadow move and a fear comes over me. The whistling sound again. Now I realize that I am out here alone and there is no help coming. I freeze and ponder my situation. There is movement I can’t make out what it is. The whistling again. My mind starts screaming at me to get back in the truck. I move back around the truck and get back in and lock the doors. I here the sound again and feel the truck rock and I hear something moving along the trailer. I’m done. I crank the truck up put her in gear and get out of there. I run down the road another half hour and stop at a better lit and populated area and catch some sleep. The next morning I get up and do a walk around the truck to see if there are any issues. As I walk around the truck I notice four lines in the dirt on the trailer it looks as if someone drug their fingers along the trailer. The marks were high up on the trailer. Who or what ever was must have taller than man I had ever seen. The top of the trailer 13.5 feet tall. The mark about 9 feet up. I don’t scare easy and I don’t stop in that area anymore not even in the daylight. Be careful where you pull off the road.

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Rusting Lockers

Rusting Lockers

Log date: March 5, 2030.

Urban exploration leads you to some strange places. I’ve been to many places: houses, offices, restaurants, amusement parks, factories, a freaking airport. All of them abandoned long, long ago. It’s a fun, enthralling job, if you can even call it that. It’s not really a profession, I guess. Still, it makes me good money. All of these places have a lot of metal to salvage (all of which I sell to metal-manufacturing companies), relics, and they make for footage that desperate cowardly college students would kill for (to brag about a fake expedition they took). What I’m saying is, I love my job as an urban explorer.

My name is Kla Youn. I am a Thailandish male, age 22, who learned English as a first language. Sure made growing up in Thailand quite difficult. That’s not important, though. What is important is my most recent urban exploration. My job requires a lot of traveling, so I pretty much live on planes and in airports. Having wealthy parents has its benefits. Hopefully they wouldn’t be too disappointed. Anyways, after investigating an abandoned restaurant in Ripon, England, I was underwhelmed. There were no relics, I couldn’t get any good footage, and there was an excruciating lack of metal to salvage. It was a waste. Not to mention, I booked a really fancy and hotel that night, so I pretty much flew to England and wasted money on said expensive hotel for nothing.

When I got to the hotel, I turned on TV, but just for some extra light. By default, it was on a news channel. I then proceeded to mute it, as I needed a minute to think. I entered a half-awake half-dazed state. I don’t know for how long I was like that, but I was clearly awake enough for my eye to catch something on the news channel: “Jones Middle-High officially shut down, as of March 5, 2030,” read the headline.

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Skinwalker at my house!

Just to give you some background my name is Logan and we just got out of School for summer break, and at the time I was only 17 years old and I’m a pretty big man who plays football. One night my parents decided that they would go out for a while for a week and I had the house to myself so I invited my friends over to spend the night and well played games and would play truth or dare. After a while my friend suggested that we should go outside and try to scare ourselves, and at the time it seemed like a good idea. So we grabbed flashlights and went out, and after a while my friends started hitting trees and scaring each other. After a while we stopped, and then we here a crack!
I asked my friends if it was one of them and they all looked at me as I heard my one of my friends say stop fucking around dude. I said what do you mean I’m not and we all looked around as we hear another crack and then a ear piercing scream. We all ran home. After we got outside I grabbed my shotgun thinking it was just a coyote, but I was just making sure that I was being safe. We heard my parents voice a few minutes later. Something didn’t feel right though there voice was a little demonic sounding like TV static and my parents voice saying “Logan dear were home we forgot something can you let us in, but at the time I was just gad to hear there voice. I said sure come in please, and as I said this I heard the doorknob turn and then someone enter the house and go up the steps and when this happened I smelt something like a dead person rotting in the house it was so bad that me and my friends all gagged and almost puked.
As I saw this creatures head I shot and I did nothing as the thing didn’t even flinch we all realized that the only way out was the window that was about 10 foot high. As we all started to try the window we heard a blood curling scream as that creature came rushing towards the room my friend rushed to the door and slammed the door he said go without me, I couldn’t look back as I jumped out after my friends I hurt my leg really bad but I guess I was to scared to pay attention. I heard my friends scream coming from the house and a horrid ripping sound and tearing flesh I felt my face start to tear up while ewe rushed to our neighbors house. When we got there we called the police and when they got there they had found my friend dead and ripped apart and much more and they said they couldn’t find anything else after this night I never stay home without someone else and never unarmed. I did some research on what I saw and I think it was a skinwalker.

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listen to the wise

A young man kicks an old half deflated football around the well-manicured lawn of his grandparents’ country estate. Yuma had asked to come stay with them over the summer holidays because as a small child he was never invited to stay, neither did they make any effort to visit him. The only contact he had ever had from his estranged relatives was through cards at birthdays or Christmas with polaroids of them and the beautiful views of the forest from their house. To his youthful eyes, the acres of trees which stretched in every direction looked like a playground ready to be explored. However he had always been told that it was “a dangerous area” for a such a little boy like him. Finally, at the age of 16, he had convinced his mother to let him drive up to his eccentric, native-american, hippie grandparents’ estate in rural Utah to surprise them. Yuma not only wanted to finally speak to his grandparents face-to-face for the very first time, but he was also keen to learn more about his heritage and they were the only ones in the family left that grew up following native-american traditions. Once his mother was born, they moved into a modern house and slowly drifted away from their roots. As soon as Yuma’s mother had gathered enough money from working odd-jobs in the nearby village, at aged 17 she moved away all by herself to California. This caused her parents much heartbreak and soon communication between them ceased. It was only when Yuma was born they began to send each other the birthday or christmas card. Despite being pleased the family was finally coming together again, she was hesitant to let him go alone, her excuse was that it was easy to get lost on the road up the hill through the woods but after much persuasion she caved and let him set out on his long-awaited adventure.

Once he managed to navigate the never-ending, winding dirt tracks, that his poor 1967 Morris Minor convertible was definitely not designed for, Yuma finally caught sight of the house. To say it politely he was very disappointed. He had severely underestimated just how off-grid the place was and as he stood in front of the dilapidated mansion, he took in the spectacle that was the once white crumbling stone walls. A woman that looked to be in her late seventies came racing around the corner of the building with a hunting rifle pointing straight at him. He recognised her as his grandma, Enola.

“Who in the hell are you and what are you doin’ on my property?!” She shrieked. Once he explained she lowered the gun and took a closer look at his face, she apologised for her rude welcome, saying something about how there is bad things out here on the mountain. He noticed her word choice of things rather than people, he thought that was strange. She hugged him tightly and ushered him inside, shouting on her husband to come downstairs. She smelled of lavender and pine and home baking. Once inside the house the boy felt safer but there was still something off about it. A thick layer of dust coated every surface and there was a strong scent of mold which tarnished the torn floral wallpaper. The house didn’t look lived in at all. Half of the windows had been boarded up, his grandmother explained that some kids from the local farm like to throw stones and that they even had the cheek to return to spray paint their names onto the chipboard like an artist signing their work.

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The Woods

It was a rainy cold day, and as unusual as it may seem, my favorite kind of weather.  As usual my little brother had all of his friends over, so seeking for refuge I went to a nearby school that had woods in the back.  Upon arrival I could see the could of fog engulfing the woods.

Keep in mind that this was a very small forest, taking little under a minute to run through.  Furthermore the forest consisted of a swamp area, a small portion of paved forest, a very dark compressed part, and a large T shaped field.  This story takes place in the swamp and paved forest.

As I walked through the woods, instilled with curiosity of how dense the fog was, when I saw something in the dark compressed portion of the forest.

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The man in the orchard

This story has been haunting me for a long time. However, just typing this is making me feel better. Anyways, this took place when I was thirteen. I’m fourteen (almost fifteen in September) now. I’m a girl who still enjoys listening to horror stories and creepy shit like that. Now, I’ll just get to the story and stop boring you with facts about me.

it was around May, I think. It had been a colder and wetter day, and after school let out, I was dreading the walk home. It was drizzling and the roads were foggy. It looked like a scene out of The Walking Dead, if I was being honest. The smell of wet cement was my only comfort. Don’t ask. I’m weird. Anyways, I wrapped my jacket tighter around my shoulders and stepped outside the school grounds, shivering. The wind was picking up, causing leaves to skitter across the ground like animals fleeing from a hunter. I looked up at the grim sky and began my cold walk home.

I have to walk through an orchard in order to stay away from the main roads, and I was usually in my element there, surrounded by trees. But today, I was a tad bit jumpy for no real reason. Mist was swirling at my feet as I walked, and I couldn’t see barely three rows ahead of me. I let out a yawn as I hefted my backpack higher on my shoulders. Damn weather, I thought angrily as the drizzling slowly became a downpour. I flipped up the hood of my gray jacket and I picked up the pace, hating life at that moment.

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Miss Baron

trigger warning: suicide)

Life throws us off balance sometimes. Things happen, and we hit rock bottom. That’s what I went through. My parents split up due to my father’s alcohol problem, and my brother, Dylan, and I agreed that we both wanted to stay with my mother. My father made not objections, I don’t think he wanted to waste the money on a court case. He just wanted to sit in his little apartment and drink. So, after the divorce my mother, my brother and I had to find a place to live. We were able to find cheaper housing in a small town rather than living in the big city. It was your usual run down place. The whole town was very traditional and dull. I don’t think I had ever seen the sun whilst we lived in that town. Within the town were your usual things: police station, restaurants, library, a few cafes, a bus station where I had never seen any buses, a gym and, of course, a school. The school is the main setting of this story.

It was a grey building, made by metal and not brick. The doors were automatic, and their playground was just a strip or tarmac in the back of the school with a few benches. I would have complained to my mother about the school, but I didn’t want to make her more stressed than she was. She was already working 2 dead end jobs, and barely got time to herself between me and Dylan needing fed. Therefore, my brother and I sucked it up and went to school.

I stayed on the edge of society in my school; sitting alone at lunch, sitting at the back of the class, not really talking to people. However, one day, I met a girl in the cafeteria. I hadn’t noticed her before, but when I did, she entranced me. Now, being a lesbian in a small town is a big no-no. So, I pulled my eyes away from her and looked down at my unappetising lunch. I pushed food around my plate and she sat down across from me at my table. I look at her. She was dressed in dark clothing; a Panic! At The Disco shirt and black ripped jeans. She had her hair dyed blue, which matched her eyes and stood out from her pale complexion. She was gorgeous, and my breath hitched in my throat.

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