BWBS Ep:124 Coon Hunters Kill Bigfoot
This episode contains one of the most haunting encounter stories we've ever featured on the show. Fair warning: this isn't your typical campfire tale about mysterious footprints or distant howls in the night. This is a confession, carried in silence for thirty-seven years by a man named Frank, about what really happened on a hunting trip in October 1988 that destroyed four lives and left a trail of tragedy that echoes to this day.Frank and his three lifelong friends—Earl, Tommy, and Roy—had been running coons together every Friday night for over twenty years in the ridges above Copper Creek, Tennessee.They knew the local folklore, of course. Everyone did. Stories stretching back to the 1890s about hunting parties vanishing, about doors torn from cabins, about children glimpsing a "hairy man" by the water. The Carver family incident of 1952, where something too tall for the ceiling walked through their home. The two boys who disappeared in 1963, their trail going cold at the same clearing where searchers found bones arranged in patterns. Luther's claim that he'd shot one in 1985, only to watch it run away on two legs despite blood loss that should have killed anything.They knew these stories, laughed at them over beers, and kept hunting those ridges anyway. After all, they'd each had their own strange experiences up there—tracks that didn't make sense, deer cached impossibly high in trees, nests lined with pine branches and dark hair too long for any bear.But talking about those things would make them real, and it was easier to look away.That October night started like hundreds before it. Six dogs eager to run, four men who'd known each other since grade school, and a perfect autumn evening for hunting. For two hours, everything was normal. Then the dogs' voices changed from the musical baying of a chase to something else entirely—confused yelps escalating to screams before cutting off one by one like someone pulling plugs.What followed was an encounter that lasted perhaps ten minutes but destroyed four lives completely. Frank's account describes creatures that stood seven feet tall, covered in dark hair, with faces almost human but not quite. Hands with five fingers and opposable thumbs. Eyes that reflected yellow-green in the flashlight beams. And intelligence—clear, undeniable intelligence in how they moved, how they communicated with clicking sounds, how they herded the men toward a narrow trail where escape would be impossible.When the largest creature blocked their path—an old male with a twisted left leg from some ancient injury—Earl raised his rifle and fired.The bullet struck, blood flowed, but the creature didn't fall. Instead, it crossed twenty feet in two strides and swept Earl off the trail with one arm. The sound of Earl hitting trees on his way down the slope, then silence.In the chaos that followed, Frank and Tommy shot both creatures—the injured male and a female who charged when she saw him fall. But the female, Frank realized too late, had been nursing. Somewhere in those dark woods was an orphaned infant.They buried the bodies deep, concocted a story about Earl slipping in the dark, and carried their friend's broken body out at dawn. The lie held. The funeral was well-attended.Frank gave the eulogy, standing in his only suit and lying about how Earl died doing what he loved.But the real dying had just begun. Tommy crawled into a bottle and never climbed out, dead in a Memphis flophouse two years later at thirty-nine. Roy fell into religious mania, convinced they'd killed angels or demons, eventually disappearing into some compound in Idaho to wait for the end times.And Frank? Frank spent thirty-seven years researching, mapping sightings, understanding too late that what they'd killed weren't monsters but something parallel to us—intelligent beings with their own culture, their own families, their own art. He still keeps a river stone he found clutched in the female's hand, marked with deliberate patterns. A mother carrying something beautiful she'd made, perhaps for the baby she'd never see again.Frank's confession carries the weight of understanding that came too late. These creatures had names he'll never know, burial rituals that were interrupted, others who mourned them. The old male's sad eyes in that final moment before the killing shots—not angry anymore, just resigned to how it would always end between their kind and ours. Frank is seventy-nine now, hands too shaky for a rifle, knees too weak for mountain trails, but still hearing that roar of loss when the male saw his mate fall. Still knowing that somewhere out there, if it survived, is a creature his age who grew up without parents because of what happened that night on Copper Creek.The stories about that area have mostly stopped now. Development has pushed through with gas stations and subdivisions where ancient paths once ran. The young people don't know the history, and the old-timers who remembered are mostly gone. But Frank knows they're still out there in the spaces we haven't reached yet, teaching their young to fear us, to run rather than stand their ground. We won that night, he says, but what did we really win? The right to pretend we're alone? The comfort of not sharing the world with something that shows us what we might have been?This isn't a story that asks for forgiveness or understanding. It's a confession of something unforgivable, a truth that needed telling before it destroyed the last man carrying it. Earl didn't die in a hunting accident. Tommy didn't become a drunk for no reason. Roy didn't lose his mind from nothing.They killed two beings that might have been the last of their kind in those mountains, orphaned a baby, and covered it all up with lies that poisoned everything they touched afterward.Some encounters change you. This one destroyed four men as surely as those bullets destroyed two creatures who had the misfortune of crossing paths with humans on a dark mountain trail. It's a reminder that sometimes the real monsters in the woods carry rifles and flashlights, and the things we fear might have more reason to fear us.If you've had an encounter that's haunted you, whether for years or recently, reach out to Brian at paranormal world productions dot com.Every story adds another piece to the puzzle of what shares our world. Some stories thrill us, some mystify us, and some, like Frank's, remind us that contact between worlds doesn't always end with wonder—sometimes it ends with the kind of regret that follows you to the grave.
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