BWBS Ep:162 Monsters Aren’t Real

He wasn’t inexperienced.

He wasn’t impressionable.

And he wasn’t looking for monsters.A t thirty-two years old, this machinist from Lufkin had spent nearly his entire life in the woods. Twenty-five years of hunting experience. Countless nights alone in East Texas backcountry. He’d tracked deer through tangled briar and swamp, crossed paths with black bears, mountain lions, and javelinas, and faced every known predator the region could throw at him.None of that prepared him for the Big Thicket.

In November of 1994, a solo five-day deer hunt into one of the most remote and biologically diverse wilderness regions in North America became something else entirely. What began as a routine trip for solitude and game turned into three nights of escalating fear—an encounter that permanently altered his understanding of what the wild is capable of hiding. It began with a footprint.Sixteen inches long. Five clearly defined toes. Pressed deep into creek mud by something far heavier than any known animal in the region.

Then came the sounds.Deep, resonant vocalizations that didn’t just echo through the trees—they vibrated through his chest. Low, rolling howls. Multiple voices calling back and forth in the darkness. Communicating. Coordinating. That first night, something circled his camp. By morning, tracks were everywhere. Whatever it was had walked within twenty feet of his tent while he sat by the fire, rifle across his lap, convinced he was prepared for anything. He wasn’t. When he killed an eight-point buck and hung it two hundred yards from camp, he thought he’d salvaged the trip. 

He was wrong. Whatever watched him from the tree line wanted that deer. The rope—rated for four hundred pounds—was snapped clean, as if it were thread.The final night brought rocks. Not random. Not accidental. Thrown with intent. Accurate. A clear warning delivered in stone.Then came the whispering. Multiple voices. Just below comprehension. 

Talking about him. Deciding something. And finally… he saw it. Eight feet tall. Possibly taller. Covered head to toe in reddish-brown hair. Shoulders nearly four feet wide. Arms hanging past its knees. Built like something out of a nightmare—thick through the chest, narrow at the waist, legs like tree trunks.But it was the eyes that stayed with him.Intelligent. Calculating. 

Eyes that were weighing a decision.It let him leave. But not before destroying his tent.
Not before making the message unmistakably clear. This is our land.

You don’t belong here.

Don’t come back. He understood. He’s never returned to the Big Thicket.