Let me just preface this by saying that I am not a person who automatically jumps to paranormal conclusions. I grew up in a household that functions based on logic and reasonable decisions, probably more for my dad’s sake than my own, as he had no idea how to deal with a short, perpetually-angry teenage girl. So admitting to myself that what I saw was real – and not a figment of my imagination – is something that took me months of internal searching and anxiety attacks to finally achieve.
This encounter happened in November of my junior year, during the first weekend of white-tail season. In my family, deer season is only surpassed by Christmas and birthdays in terms of excitement. My dad, younger brother, and I begin preparing ourselves for the hunt months in advance, tracking buck movements with game cameras, making maps to plot where our stands should go, and making sure that my uncle moves his cattle to the correct pasture during the season so that deer movement is not altered. It’s been broken down to a science, and I had been learning since the age of six. To be honest, I thought that there was nothing those woods could throw at me that I hadn’t seen before. Mountain lions? No problem. Coyotes? I’ve probably killed close to a hundred.
But I was wrong. Very, very wrong.