 ads heard during the podcast that are not in my voice are placed by third-party agencies outside of my control and should not imply an endorsement by Weird Darkness or myself. Stories and content in Weird Darkness can be disturbing for some listeners and is intended for mature audiences only. Parental discretion is strongly advised. Welcome Weirdos, I'm Darren Marlar and this is Weird Darkness. Here you'll find stories of the paranormal, supernatural, legends, lore, crime, conspiracy, mysterious, macabre, unsolved and unexplained. If you're new here, welcome to the show, and if you're already a member of this Weirdo family, please take a moment and invite someone else to listen. Recommending Weird Darkness to others helps make it possible for me to keep doing the show, and while you're listening, be sure to check out WeirdDarkness.com where you can find me on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and more. Coming up in this episode... The vast emptiness of Arizona can make the imagination do some crazy things, but then add to that an odd, abandoned set of dome-like buildings refeeded with 666 where dead animals are found regularly and the imagination might take you past crazy and into terrifying. Mary Harris waited outside the building where Adoniram Burrows worked and when he came out, she pulled a gun and shot him at close range, killing him instantly. She then walked off calmly, as if she had only tossed down and stepped on a used cigarette butt. But the public was on her side once her story was told. Weirdo family member Danny Ward tells the true story of what happened to him on a camping trip that turned terrifying. But first, throughout history, we've assigned roles of harbingers of doom to various creatures and people. If a black cat crosses your path, it brings bad luck with it. If you see your own doppelganger, you're dangerously close to an untimely end. If the Grim Reaper makes an appearance, your time is up, and on and on it goes. In small towns in and around the United States and across the world, creatures lurking in the woods, sounds that could be heard at night are all signs that something terrible is headed your way. These are what are known as harbingers of doom, and there are some horrifying events that have been linked to them over the years. We begin there. Now, bolt your doors, lock your windows, turn off your lights, and come with me into the Weird Darkness. Have you ever been out on a late-night walk through the Moors, or whatever your local version of the Moors happens to be, and heard a mournful cry? Or have you been lying in your bed, restless, and heard three knocks at your door? If so, supernatural beings may be giving you warning signs about some impending doom that's coming your way. Not every dark prophecy is directed specifically at you, however. Seriously, get over yourself. Sometimes, mysterious beings from beyond our realm of understanding make themselves known in order to warn humankind about a disaster that's about to occur in our own backyards. There have been multiple sightings of creatures like West Virginia's Mothman who have predicted catastrophic events throughout the 20th century. To learn about all the ways you can spot danger by using supernatural entities, keep listening, and make sure you stay inside. There's no way around it. Harbingers of doom are the worst. First of all, no one likes to be given a creepy warning sign, and secondly, they're spooky as all get out. None of the ghouls sent to deliver paranormal prophecies are even remotely cuddly. They're all like demon dogs or hags who sleep in a river or giant headless crows that glide through noxious fumes. If you've seen any of these creatures, you may want to start putting your last will and testament in order. The Mothman may be the most well-known paranormal harbinger of doom in the world. This creature was witnessed by multiple West Virginians throughout 1966 and 67 prior to the collapse of the Silver Bridge on December 15, 1967. There's no argument that the Mothman is something that you never want to see, but there are disagreements about whether or not the creature is simply a harbinger of doom or if it actually causes the destruction that comes in its wake. The final Mothman sighting occurred prior to the Silver Bridge's collapse, leading many to believe that all of its appearances were meant to warn people about that incident. Some people have even claimed to have seen the Mothman near the bridge just before it fell into the river. Related but not necessarily the same creature, beginning in April 1986, people living near the Chernobyl nuclear power plant began to see a giant winged creature that looked like a headless man with piercing red eyes or at least piercing red dots. People who saw the creature claimed to have experienced horrible nightmares after seeing it coasting on the wind, and after the meltdown of the power plant on the morning of April 26, 1986, multiple workers who survived the initial blast described seeing a large black bird-like creature with a 20-foot wingspan flying through the noxious smoke pouring from the reactor. The bird was never seen again. Some theorists believe that the black bird of Chernobyl was, in fact, the Mothman continuing its foul work. 3. Detroit Detroit has it hard enough. Do they really need an evil sprite running around town and causing mischief wherever it happens? The name Rouge is a red, impish creature who kind of looks like what you'd imagine a cartoon devil to look like. The creature has been sighted as early as the Battle of Bloody Run in 1763 and as recently as 1996, when something in a nasty red coat was seen fleeing the scene of a cat burglary. When were the little red devils strike again? Only time will tell. According to the legend, in the 17th century, a ship named the Flying Dutchman was sailing around the Cape of Good Hope when it ran into a storm. Rather than batten down the hatches or head in the opposite direction, the captain ordered the ship to continue sailing into the inclement weather. The men were washed overboard and the captain was cursed to sail around the world forever. Now, if a seafaring person sees the Flying Dutchman while they are out at port, then they know that something terrible is going to happen to them. When it comes to spooky harbingers of doom, the folks across the pond have creepy figures that act as portents of natural disasters on lock. In Wales, one of the most objectively magic islands of the United Kingdom, the Siroaeth, which I'm sure I'm butchering the pronunciation for, is said to be a sound heard by someone or a group of people who are about to suffer a terrible fate. It means the whaling. But that's not as bad as coming face-to-face with the Siroaeth, a robed and hooded spirit. It was said that anyone who runs into this Welsh wraith will either perish or have a family member pass. If you've looked at the internet in the last hour, then you know that cats are constantly knocking stuff over and are typically complete jerks. But you know what's worse than a regular cat? A demon cat. Luckily, most of you will never have to deal with the demon cat. Unless you work in Washington, D.C., that is, and even if you work there, you probably won't see the cat unless something terrible is about to happen. The demon cat was allegedly sighted the night before the assassination of President Kennedy. Many think this spooky cat is the spirit of a feline who was brought into the basement tunnels of the Capitol buildings to hunt rats and then never left. The myth of the white deer is a twisty one, layered with conceits on top of conceits. According to the Celtic people, if you see the white heart, then something bad is about to go down. Like, not just a toe-stubbing or whatever, they were talking about imminent doom. The reputation of the white stag improved in the Arthurian age when it came to represent the moment that Arthur and his crew needed to leave for a quest. But no matter which legend you believe, it's best to stay inside and avoid any areas where you could run into an albino deer. If you see it, stuff is going to go down one way or another. Are you being haunted by members of your family that have been long deceased? If that's the case, you should probably start looking into your family's medical history or avoid any form of public transit for the foreseeable future. Many familial ghosts have been known to be a signpost for future calamities. Basically, if you've been seeing the ghost of your long deceased grandfather pointing at you and soundlessly screaming, it's likely that you're about to suffer some kind of terrible fate. Sorry. The black-eyed ghosts, or they're better known as the black-eyed kids, sometimes the black-eyed adults, anything with jet black eyes, have been reported to be a source of local misery from Texas to England. But rather than just be spooky kids with black eyes that wait around to push your car over sets of train tracks, they may actually be messengers from beyond the grave, warning you that something bad is about to happen. The ghosts have been known to try and sneak into people's houses through general trickery, but they also only show up when a personal setback is about to occur. It's safe to say that if you see something with solid black eyes approaching, you should turn and walk the other way, just to general rule a thumb. One eerie legend from Ireland states that prior to the demise of the head of the household, a pack of foxes will congregate around the home. According to Lady Gormonston in 1908, at the time Genneco William Joseph XIV viscount Gormonston was dying, foxes were seen about the house and coming toward the house for some days before. His valet who was sleeping in his room heard what he thought was a dog barking and on going over to the window found that it was a fox sitting under the window and barking. At the death of Edward XIII viscount, the foxes were also there. He had been rather better one day, but the foxes appeared barking under the window and he passed that night contrary to expectation. Thus we have the Gormonston foxes. Try not to be distracted by how adorable they are if they do show up. You'll have some affairs to get in order. Banshees might be the most underrated spooky specter in the eerie catalogue of ghouls and goblins. It's said in Irish lore that every family from the isle has their own personal banshee. I guess that would be like a terrible guardian angel that lets out a gruesome wail prior to one of the descendants passing. Usually the wailing can be heard from miles away and as the sound of the ghostly woman's cries grow louder, the moment of your demise grows closer. The Hellhound or as it was known in folklore of Northern England, the Barghest is a kind of goblin dog with giant teeth and claws that only appears in the night to those who are about to shuffle off this mortal coil. The Barghest has many variations across England, but the strangest one is named Trash. Trash haunts Lancashire and has backward-facing feet that make a splashing sound when it walks. At least it'll be hard for Trash to sneak up on you. Moving on to Burton'sland Scotland and it is honestly stupid haunted. One of the spookiest ghosts is the Green Lady of Stirling Castle whose look is said to bring death to anyone who catches her eye, kind of like a less forgiving gorgon. According to local legend, the Green Lady was one of Queen Mary's chambermaids who was charged with keeping an eye over Mary as she slept. Unfortunately, she fell asleep while on watch the night that Mary's chambers went up in flames. The girl managed to save her queen but perished from injuries in the fire. The Kaowenegg, another word I'm sure that I'm mispronouncing, is a Scottish spirit that's similar to a Banshee in that its cries signify that something terrible is about to happen, but different in that the Kaowenegg tends to stick to waterfalls, rivers and other small bodies of water. One old tale from Scotland says the creature would leave its watery home and visit the door of a family with an ailing member. The ghoul's moans would let them know that it was time to say their final goodbyes. Honestly, that's just kind of helpful. And what is it with spooky ghosts and their affinity for the number three? One of the most frightening harbingers to doom is the three knocks of death. It doesn't need a creepy monster to do its dirty work and it can happen at any time, day or night. Usually, if you hear the three knocks, it means that you or someone you know is in immediate danger. The fear of the number three seems to exist without a specific origin, but it's likely that the number three is seen as a demonic presence mocking the Holy Trinity. That might also be why we think bad things sometimes happen in threes. Coming up, Mary Harris waited outside the building where a Donorum burrows worked, and when he came out, she pulled a gun and shot him at close range, killing him instantly. She then walked off, calmly, as if she'd just tossed down and stepped on a used cigarette butt. However, the public was on her side once the story was told. But first, the vast emptiness of Arizona can make the imagination do some pretty crazy things, but then add to that an odd abandoned set of dome-like buildings, graffitied with the number 666, where dead animals are found regularly, and the imagination might take you past crazy and into downright terrifying. That story is up next on Weird Darkness. Are you a member of the Darkness Syndicate? The Darkness Syndicate is a private membership where you receive commercial-free episodes of the Weird Darkness podcast and radio show. Behind the scenes, video updates about future projects and events I'm working on. You can share your own opinions on ideas to help me decide upon Weird Darkness Contests and events. You can hear audiobooks I'm narrating before even the publishers or authors get to hear them. You also receive bonus audio of other projects I'm working on outside of Weird Darkness. You get all of these benefits and more, starting at only $5 per month. Join the Weird Darkness Syndicate at WeirdDarkness.com and exit in the middle of the desert and a turn down an endless road to nowhere. And then it comes into view, a cluster of giant white and yellow semi-hemispheric domes poking up out of the desert like a copse of giant poisonous mushrooms. Pulling to the side of the road, curiosity turns to unease. If Texas Chainsaw Massacre-style villains existed, this is the sort of place they would lay in wait. The middle of nowhere, Arizona, utterly isolated. It's clear that hundreds have climbed over the low barbed wire fence where a broken plywood sign lies face up in the dirt. It's covered in graffitied tags, but just visible beneath them all, the spray-painted words, welcome to hell. This is no haunted house or tourist attraction. The abandoned, never-completed domes of Casa Grande and our south of Phoenix were intended to manufacture semiconductors in the 70s. The domes have become a regular spot for local devil worshippers, as well as curious ghost hunters and daring late-night party-goers. The front dome is shaped like a spaceship. The others are larger, as if a chain of half-domes were joined together in a caterpillar shape. There is a white and yellow pattern on the outside where the concrete shell has been destroyed to reveal insulation beneath. Graffiti is everywhere, but in addition to the big block and grotesque cartoon faces are more pentagrams and 666s than you might expect. What looks like a no-trespassing sign, the letters are obscured by black spray paint, warns visitors away, but it is clear that nobody pays any attention. There is even an Instagram location filter here. There is trash everywhere, from lumps of concrete to used fireworks, spray paint cans and a near-universal carpet of broken glass. And then in the middle of a concrete forecourt between the two largest remaining structures, a disturbing sight, a dead pigeon with its chest cavity cut open and a half-burned matchstick poking out. Satanic rituals, perhaps? Dead animals are regularly found here, according to Adam Forner, co-founder of a small group called the Casa Grande Paranormal Investigations. Forner has visited Casa Grande four times so far, twice on formal paranormal investigations. There have been dead bodies too, he says, though I can't find any reports to support his claim. On his first visit in the dead of night, Forner says he saw a spirit that almost looked like the Grim Reaper. It was like black, feathery flames in a cloak. On another occasion, when asking questions into the dark while listening to a spirit box, a device used by ghost hunters to scan radio frequencies for fragments of semi-intelligible audio, ghosts trying to communicate, Forner describes distinctly hearing the words get out before a dust storm blew through the dome. Whether you're a believer or not, the sight is decidedly creepy. As I walk around, in the daytime I might add, every footfall pings around these singular structures half a dozen times like a ricocheting bullet. Combined with the wind whistling through odd holes in the structures, the natural sound effects of the place are as disorienting and eerie as any horror movie score. And if the accidental acoustics lesson doesn't float your boat, then you could spend hours reading through the endless graffiti to delve into the minds of the occult, and of the far right, and the downright freaks. There are swastikas of plenty. I had some terrible things happen to me after visiting that place, says Forner. I'm thankful I spoke with Forner after my visit. I had enough chills down my spine walking around without the need for visions of feathered and flaming visitors from the afterlife. Finding that poor mutilated pigeon was more than enough for me. On January 31, 1865, Adonarum Judson Burroughs, a clerk working in the U.S. Treasury Building in Washington, D.C., was leaving for home with another co-worker when he was stopped by a woman who had apparently been waiting for him. As witnesses later reported, Burroughs exited his office to where the woman was waiting and they spoke briefly. It was then that the woman, 22-year-old Mary Harris, pulled out the gun she was carrying and shot at Adonarum Burroughs at close range. Realizing that he was dead, she then walked off in a perfectly business-like manner and made no attempt to resist when a watchman stopped her before she even exited the building. She was arrested and charged with murder that same day. When police asked Harris about her reason for shooting Burroughs, the story she told would soon propel her into one of the most sensational trials of the decade. In her statement to police, she said that she was born in Burlington, Iowa and had met Burroughs while working in a hat-making shop there. She was only nine years old at the time and he was more than twice her age, but they soon fell in love. Not only did he provide her with money to continue her education, but he also taught her how to pass in high society as would benefit the kind of cultured wife that he wanted. When Mary turned 13, Burroughs asked her to go with him when he started a new job in Chicago, but she declined. Instead, they began a seven-year correspondence during which Burroughs made repeated promises of marriage. No word on what Mary's immigrant parents likely thought of all of this. In 1863, when Mary was 20 years old, she decided that she was ready and moved to Chicago to be with Burroughs, though the promised wedding never materialized. Soon afterward, Burroughs announced that he had found a new job as a clerk in the U.S. Treasury Department and he promptly moved to Washington, D.C. Again, Mary was left to wait, though she believed Burroughs promised that he would send for her. Not long after the move, Burroughs stopped writing to her. Also around this time, Mary received two letters from someone who only gave his name as J.P. Greenwood. Though she had no idea who wrote the letters, they apparently asked Harris to meet him at a house of assignation, an old name for a brothel. When Mary showed the letters to her then employer, Louisa Devlin, it was Devlin who concluded that they had been written by Burroughs as part of a bizarre scheme to blacken Mary's reputation and to call off the wedding. Though she didn't want to believe that Burroughs would do this, she soon learned he had become engaged to another woman. According to what Mary would later tell her doctors, the shock of this betrayal led her to develop serious mood swings along with violent episodes of hysteria. She also bought a gun, though she was unclear whether she planned to use it on Burroughs or herself. In January the following year, she went to the railway station and purchased a ticket to Washington, D.C., apparently without even bothering to bring any luggage. Immediately after arriving in D.C., she went straight to the Treasury Building to confront Burroughs directly. She then shot Burroughs as soon as he confirmed that he was about to be married to another woman. While waiting for the case to come to trial, two prominent lawyers, Joseph Haversham and Bradley Daniel Voorhees, offered their services in her defense. While Mary had no money to pay them, they both agreed to work pro bono on her behalf. Though there was no question about her shooting Burroughs, her lawyers had her plead not guilty by reason of temporary insanity. To build their case, the lawyers read many of Burroughs' letters to Mary in open court, so the jury could hear about his declarations of affection and promises to marry her. The letters from J.P. Greenwood were also introduced as evidence, along with Louisa Devlin, who testified on Mary's behalf. The lawyers also brought in different medical experts who testified on their client's behalf, including Dr. Charles Nichols, Superintendent of Government Hospital and later President of the American Psychiatric Association. It was Dr. Nichols who testified that Mary had been insane at the time of the killing due to being crossed in love as well as suffering from painful dysminoria or menstrual problems. Another doctor testifying on the role that Mary's female troubles played in her crime was Dr. Calvin Fitch, who confirmed the dysminoria diagnosis and added that uterine irritability is one of the most frequent causes of insanity. But the prosecution remained skeptical about Mary's presumed insanity. Not only did she have a clear motive for the killing, but she also demonstrated premeditation by purchasing the gun before meeting Burroughs. The prosecution also brought in their own experts, including Frederick May M.D., past Chair of Surgery Columbia College. It was Frederick May who testified that Mary had shot Burroughs while she labored under a deranged intellect, paroxymally deranged produced by moral causes. Also appearing for the prosecution was William P. Johnston M.D., Professor of Obstetrics and Diseases of Women and Children Columbia College, who stated, We consider an individual suffering from hysteria as irresponsible for any act which she might commit. While they questioned the dysminoria diagnosis, the doctors did little to sway the jury and it was hardly a surprise that the jury only needed five minutes to declare Mary not guilty. Despite her acquittal, Mary Harris still had to deal with the notoriety from the trial. Not only was she forced to travel under an assumed name as she returned to her hometown, but she also had to deal with rumors about her relationship with her defense lawyer Joseph Bradley, despite his being twice her age. Not only had she openly kissed Bradley after the verdict, but he carried her out of the courtroom since she was too overcome to walk on her own. One wit wrote that Bradley would be in imminent danger of being shot himself if he refused to marry his client. Whether due to the adverse publicity or the guilt of killing Burroughs, Mary soon returned to Washington and became an inmate at St. Elizabeth's Hospital, where she would remain over 12 years. Though there are no records remaining concerning her time in the hospital, the few newspaper stories covering her post-acquittal life suggests that she wasn't under any real constraint and was considered a low-risk inmate. She was even allowed to leave the hospital for months at a time, often visiting family or staying nearby resorts. It likely helped that both of her lawyers were politically prominent and continued to have an active interest in her welfare. Finally, Joseph Bradley, who had become a judge by that time, managed to secure Mary's release from the hospital. To the surprise of all his friends and colleagues, not to mention the children from his first marriage, Bradley married his former client not long after her release. Despite his literally being twice her age, he was 80 and she was 40, and being in poor health, the marriage was apparently a successful one and they remained together until his death in 1887. As to what became of Mary Harris Bradley after that, I haven't been able to determine. So why was Mary Harris able to escape being convicted for Adoniram Judson Burrow's murder? For that matter, why was the plea of temporary insanity accepted by a jury who might have otherwise been justifiably suspicious of medical experts invoking terminology such as painful dysminoria? Though the insanity defense continues to be controversial even today, it was especially controversial during the late 19th century, as courts tried to grapple with the monoton decision in the U.K. and how it might apply in the American justice system. Though there were numerous cases in which the insanity defense was used, almost all of them involved male defendants who were more easily dealt with by the courts. Given that Mary faced the death penalty for her crime, being a woman may have well worked in her favor, especially considering no woman had been hanged by the U.S. federal government up to that time, and the crime being committed in Washington, D.C. gave it a federal jurisdiction. Considering the reluctance of the court to hang Mary Harris, there is a certain irony that the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln took place while her case was still coming to trial, and another woman, Mary Surratt, went on trial for her role in the assassination conspiracy. But there was no acquittal for her, and she was hanged just days before Mary Harris is acquittal. Perhaps Mary Surratt's lawyers should have gone with the dysminoria defense. When Weird Darkness returns, Weirdo family member Danny Ward tells the story of what happened to him on a camping trip, a trip that turned terrifying. It's a story called, I Just Wanted to Go Fishing. If you or someone you know is struggling with depression, dark thoughts, or addiction, please visit the Hope in the Darkness page at WeirdDarkness.com. There, I've gathered numerous resources to find hope and solutions. For those suffering from thoughts of suicide or self-harm, there is the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline, as well as the Crisis Text Line. Both have trained counselors at all hours to help those in need, and the page even includes text numbers for those in the U.S., Canada, United Kingdom, and Ireland. Those struggling with depression can get help through the Seven Cups website and app, and there's information for anyone to read more about what depression truly is and how to identify it through our friends at ifred.org. There are resources for those who battle addictions, be it drugs and alcohol or self-destructive behavior, along with help for those related to addicts. The page has links to help you find a therapist or counselor, to find help for those who have a family member with Alzheimer's or dementia, help for those in a crisis pregnancy, and more. These resources are always there when you or someone you love needs them on the Hope in the Darkness page at WeirdDarkness.com. I'd like y'all to know, before we go any further, that this is 100% a true story. And to the best of my ability, I'll share what happened that day without embellishing and without bull. Besides, truth is stranger than fiction sometimes. My name is Danny. I'm 46 years old now, but at the time of the incident, I was only 18. It had been a beautiful summer, hot and hazy, with afternoons spent in my little 1985 Honda CRX traveling around in a big triangle from my town, north 40 minutes to my buddy Rick's place, then west to the beach and girl watching. But only watching. We unfortunately for us grew up in a rather stuffy congregation whose elders were converted Mennonite and one Amish gentleman. Needless to say, if time was spent with them, there was little to no fun to be had if you didn't like baseball or working for fun. Rick and I made ourselves incredibly scarce. I had a small two-door two-seater car that was absolutely useless for going door-to-door. I would have denied it to my dying breath, but I bought that car just for that reason. I didn't have to worry about elders hounding me for my car. It didn't seat enough people. July 23, 1993. It was a Friday. Hot, humid, stick to your back kind of weather. I was stuck under an old Ford pickup, 64, I think. It was two-wheel drive, had a 351 Windsor, was flat black, and went like stink. It was my girlfriend's father's truck, and we were just finishing up with the linkage on the new to him transmission that he installed earlier that week. Rick and my girlfriend, Shelley, came out to the open shop to see us, smiling faces and cold beers in hand. They, of course, sat down on old wooden chairs in the shop around the old Ford and supervised, cracking-wise and generally not helping in the least to button up this job any sooner. We go into the beach, Rick, I asked. Back then, I was a big guy, about six-foot-four and 270 pounds, give or take. So this question came out as a bit of a strained grunt as I pulled myself out from under the Ford. It was dirty, sweaty, and over-hot. On my ginger, so I'd do it about as well when the heat as a Klondike bar does in the sun. Nah, man, but I don't have the cash for the beach. We got 20 bucks till I get paid on Monday. How about your place? Go hang out with your mom? Rick asked sincerely. Sincerely. My mom is awesome. All my friends know it, too, but it was a really hard time for us as a family. My father had just died. It had been a few months at this point, but a few months versus the 21 years of happy marriage did nothing to assuage her grief, of course. Nah, I don't think so. Mom's neighbor Marie has having her over for dinner tonight and a movie and wine tomorrow. They're going to watch chick flicks and get drunk, I imagine, I stated lightly, smiling at the thought. Very glad my mom had another female friend around to talk with. Myself, I was a selfish little jerk, as 18-year-olds tend to be. My father and I did not get along. He may have treated my mom like gold, but when mom left the room, or she went to work, well, yeah. I was enjoying my freedom. No more anger, no more violence. I spent that summer almost entirely with my friend Rick and his family. I avoided home at that point. There wasn't a thing I could do for her. Well, there were hugs. I'm the best hugger ever, apparently, but they only salved the wound for so long. Hers was a deep hurt, a deep sadness, a sadness that back then I didn't understand at all. Scared me a little, and so my time was spent with the wrong fam for a while. I wouldn't mind doing some fishing, Rick. You know any decent places around here? I asked, wiping my hands on a rag that rivaled my hands and grime. I realized this halfway through and tossed it aside, the rag being the very definition of utility. Well, I know a place, not sure if the fishing is any good, but it's a great spot to camp in, I'm told. Rick shifted his lean to the other leg. Shelly said nothing. I already knew that if we were going away camping that she wouldn't be able to go with us. She already had plans with her mom for the weekend, and boys weren't invited. And well, no chaperone, so no Shelly. Myself, I was happy it was just the two of us. You see, Rick and I were the baddies of our congregations. So when we got together, we had fun. We played rock music. Rick would buy us a single Mickey to split between us for the weekend. Yes, just one. Don't judge. We were kind of lame, but we still felt like we were bad. We had a band. It was a 50s, 60s band, but it was a band. Yes, that was the extension of our rebellion. We were like angels compared to the worldly kids we knew from school. But well, the elders didn't know the guys from school, so that logic did nothing to strengthen our case. Sounds good to me. Where is it? I asked, scraping oil from under a nail. The blade appearing to paint the inside of the nail white as the grime scraped away. Over in Walkerton, down this old road that turns into a single track laying, we can get the car back there. No problem. We can pack everything into the Honda and drive right into the site. Easy peasy. There's a big ring of sand there where people park to fish or roll a doobie. Lots of dirt bike trails to explore too. Lots of pan-sized cats to catch. He smiled, trailing off. A bit of a wolf's grin briefly played across his face. He was trying to sell this idea to me. I understood. I had been there. He was broke, and this was his best, cheapest alternative to the beach, and more importantly, to our much sought-after freedom. Catfish, come in. I pumped a fist and winked at Shelley as I passed, brushing her fingertips with mine as I passed her. Have fun with your mom, Shell. She smiled at me, blue eyes sparkling in the sun and turned to walk to the house. I gotta head in and wash up. I have to head home to pick up the tent and my stuff. I looked down at my watch. I could get home, pick up all my stuff, stop at the grocery store and be back in an hour or so. That puts me back here at noon, half hour drive there. Oh yeah, I'm Canadian where we always seem to use time as a measurement of distance rather than miles or kilometers in our case. Anyway, back to our regularly scheduled internal monologue. Half hour to set up camp, walk the river a bit. Nice. All said and done, by the time we set to enjoy our day, it'll only be mid-afternoon. The drive back to my mother's house was uneventful. I remember the heat that day. I knew that unless we found a deep hole in the river that afternoon, we were going to be eating the hot dogs Rick's mom packed instead of catfish that I wanted. On a side note, I love to fish. I love being out there in the sun, basted in sunscreen, bobbing on the water with a rod and reel in hand, cold bottle of water in a cooler with you. Heaven. Unfortunately, what I just described is fishing as an adult. This was fishing as an 18-year-old kid whose entire paycheck went to fuel insurance and music in that order. The gear was old, the tackle older than I was, and I was worried that anything over three pounds might destroy my rod for good. In my tackle box, I had a small assortment of hand-me-down lures from my grandpa that would be useless for catfish, but I realized I only had a few hooks and sinkers, no bobbers for my preferred relaxed fishing style, no river-style weights on my side. Well, this isn't going to last me long. I grumbled out loud, finally sitting down since arriving and unpacking the car. In truth, I had forgotten a few things, but this kind of thing I just liked worms, but I had gone a different way to get cheaper fuel along the way and forgotten to stop and get the preferred nightcrawlers. Well, I did have my little latrine shovel. Looks like I've got some digging for bait to do. We had the tent up, fire pit set up, gathered a bit of wood from around the site to tidy it up a bit, and parked the car on the far side of the clearing already. I grabbed my shovel and a margarine container I had my matches in and went out in search of bait. While I was gone, Rick dragged in arm load after arm load of driftwood that had been left high and reasonably dry by this time in the spring flood area. A low, wide section of dogwood and river grass, cattails and pussy willows that was long since dried up by this time of the year, dry tinder and old dry bark-stripped limbs lay everywhere off the many trails. So, because this was a large, roughly round area that we were in, and this will become very confusing both to read and write down, I'm going to go ahead and describe things like a clock. 6 o'clock is where the river is and the trail to it. 9 o'clock is the narrow access lane we came in on in my Honda. There are single track trails at 11, 2, 3 and 4 o'clock. All the trails were sand and created by dirt bikes, evident by the deep grooves cut into soft spots and the inside of corners. Trail 4 angled back to what was the high side of the old dam. It was little used. The trees partially covered the trail and in spots, Hawthorne reached across the path to snag you as you walked. Enough said, just google Hawthorne Thorn. You'll understand why I or anyone else sane wouldn't ride a dirt bike in sand next to those. I want to say for the sake of dramatic storytelling that the place was creepy, but in fact it was really pretty. Follow 6 o'clock down to the water and you came to what used to be the bottom of the dam. It was a wide, flat area choked with Manitoba Maple and Willows. It was mostly dead fall though. Few adult trees left standing, really, just the odd one. Broken trees everywhere. Your regular old shoulder height, wild grass and cattails and a lot of Fragmites and invasive species in Ontario that grow just huge. Where we were, they were hitting about the 7 foot mark this time of year. They grow thick and dense and have a rather pretty feathery top that is filled with seeds, thus the problem with them. Once they take a foothold, watch out native flora. On the other side of the river, it was all conservation land that bordered farmland, so it was all natural. Because of the conservation allowance on either side of the waterways here in Ontario, it creates natural pathways that species use to navigate around the large open swaths of farmland. Around this old power dam where we were fishing and camping was a large reserve that covered all the area the dam had needed to function in the past. People had been using it for hiking, biking, dog walking and dirt biking for years. Down by the water, it was very peaceful. There was the sound of water gliding over the ever-top old spillway, liquid sheets of flowing water cascading down an old pitted concrete slope, brilliantly green with moss on the edges and algae coating the whole of the spillway, all the way across. It was very striking with the old stone, the brilliant blue sky and the shimmering layers and textures of greens, but it was hot and it was going to get sticky. The wind seemed to be picking up a bit, but I suspected hot and muggy with a side of mosquitoes. Yes, I thought, swinging randomly and wildly around me, chasing away deer flies as I walked back to camp to get my things to fish. It would be an exercise in relaxation today, not catching dinner. It's too hot, I muttered out loud, and trailed off as a cicada started its telltale, it's too hot for gingers out here, drone, screaming its heart out to attract a mate, and smack. Bias. Deer flies. Deer flies during the day and mosquitoes at night. Welcome to Anywhere in Ontario, yours to discover. The quickest way to a home hardware, home depot, and hit up the sporting aisle for some must-goal. I rethought my previous assessment, today would be a good day to sit and sweat and smack bugs, and it was. About an hour in, I gave up. I didn't get a bite, I didn't even get a nudge. Rick was nowhere to be seen and this Klondike bar was done. I got up, threw decency to the wind, and pulled off my damp shirt. I waded out into the shallow river, loving the cold water. It was about mid-calf out in the section I walked up river to. I sat down and cracked a can of soda. The water was belly high and perfectly cool on such a hot day. I could feel my temperature start to lower already. Nice. I sat there and enjoyed my coke, loving the sounds around me as I literally sat there apart of it. Eventually, I got up and made my way back to the campsite. It must have been out there a lot longer than I thought. The sun sat about a hand span distance over the treeline. I ditched my watch in the car hours ago. I hated watches. By the time I made it back to the site, with fishing gear in one arm and dry wood under my other, Rick was already there. He too had added more wood to the pile and we both had a laugh at the pile we ended up with. It was enough for a roaring bonfire, not the small campfire we'd planned. In the years that followed, I would often think of this. How much wood we had and how we were so very glad we had every stick of it later. Rick had been skunked as well. But really, what would we expect? Midday, hot, sunny, might as well have packed a full cooler and hung out in the river all day. Inner tubes and maybe a six pack for a change. That would be nice. I made sure everything in the tent was ready to go, nothing worse than trying to get into a sleeping bag in the dark in a small tent. I like to give myself a turn down service and make sure everything is set out and ready for bed. Rick had a nice sized fire going. Bear, silver driftwood burning merrily in the ring of large, smooth river stones that surrounded the fire pit. I walked down the six o'clock trail a ways and cut two long willow branches to cook our hot dogs and later some marshmallows that I'd brought. It was a gorgeous evening. The sky at this time was the color of a deep sapphire, gradually lightening down to where the last of the sunset turned peach and dipped below the horizon. The frogs sang and crickets creaked. Bats flew low overhead, a dozen of them maybe, swooping and twisting over the river chasing and devouring the insects swarming there, and I hoped more than a few of the mazis buzzing around me. I remember at the time, being young, I had an apprehension to walking alone in the dark in wild spaces. I wasn't too far from the river and I wasn't too far from the camp, yet my pace quickened when I realized it was getting hard to see either place. There was a creepy vibe out here at night. It was the long grass that sighed in the wind, the dead branches that reared up out of that grass like the gray ribs of some long, dead twisted beast. I half trotted back to camp, glancing over my shoulder as I went. Yep, dang creepy when the sun went down. The fire burned bright and hot for about an hour. We added some good, dry hard wood, maple it looked, to the fire and waited for it to burn low. While we waited, we snacked on jerky and drank cold pop we had chilled in onion bags in the river. I popped the hatch on my civic and turned up the car stereo. We probably had some rock on. We were both fans of bands like AC DC, Led Zeppelin, Eric Clapton and Stevie Ray Vaughn. I was a guitarist and Rick played drums and that night as we waited for the wood to turn to a cooking fire, we played air guitar and hand tapped knees along with the loud music. And I have to admit to a couple of purposefully loud and off key sung crescendos in the mix as well. The fire dropped a little lower still as we finally broke out our little bottle of rebellion, a Mickey of Johnny Walker red label. Rick cracked the ceiling ring on the bottle and we each had a sip. It's funny, looking back, I grew up to like a good scotch. Despite that first blended bottle of crap, always go with a single boot. Rick put the bottle away as we got things ready to cook. Rick had ended up bringing homemade burgers that his mom also sent along. She could cook too. There were two homemade patties and buns to go with them, as well as a pack of eight huge hot dogs with buns and condiments. I'd brought us some salads, the orange macaroni stuff that I'm not a fan of, but Rick liked it, and I'd also brought a nice potato egg salad that I did really enjoy. Honestly, I had a good system worked out with Rick that his mom agreed with. I paid for the gas and did the driving and Rick provided food and beverage. I just wanted some potato salad too. The burger patties were almost two inches thick and five around. I think the deal was still patted in my favor. We placed the cooking grate over the fire and let it heat up before we threw on the burgers and a couple of hot dogs each. I got the buns ready to toast and set to the side. The burgers smelled amazing. What in five minutes till the smells of beef and pork with garlic and onion sizzling over a bed of maple coals could be smelled and my stomach did a big ol' flip and growled. My mouth watered as those patties hit the bun and then my plate. Dinner was mostly silent. We hadn't eaten much since lunch, so it didn't take as long to destroy the food. Soon there was nothing left but mangled napkins and crumpled, soggy paper plates. I got up to get the garbage bag we'd brought. I tidied up and threw the bag in the hatchback. I tossed another couple of small sticks onto the low fire. It was proper dark now. The moon that night was a waxing crescent. Bright in the night sky, but giving a little light this night. I can't say how long we sat, staring into the fire, music still playing, but quieter now, almost like we were still inclined to obey some noise law. We had another sip of whiskey then packed up the rest of the food into the back of the car for the night. It was when I was walking back to the fire, back to the ring of light, that we heard the first out of place sound. Rick and I had just walked up to each other. Rick had inhaled, filling his lungs to speak, and was interrupted by what sounded like the crack of a rather thick branch some distance off. Rick quit what he was about to say and stood quietly, listening, as I was doing myself. The sound was crisp and clear, but a hundred feet off to my right in the dark, angling out towards the river. We both stood, still as statues listening in the night, just outside of the ring of firelight. Nothing. We walked back to the fire and sat down. I got back up and turned the stereo up a bit, popping the hatch again. Maybe the music would scare off any raccoons that were out there. Or maybe a porcupine, I thought. I hadn't seen one of those yet. Honestly, those were the animals I was most afraid of coming into camp. Coyotes were few and far between. Wolves and bears were non-existent. This was southern Ontario. I had only ever seen a handful of foxes in my lifetime even. We sat talking back and forth about music mostly. We both wanted to branch out from the 50s and 60s music and start playing some of this grunge stuff we were just getting here in the country. We knew we could get the gigs if we changed up what we were playing. Seriously, we were only getting congregation gigs and anniversary dances. Not very exciting. There was a crash in the brush. The sound came back from where the original snap came from and brought my mind back to the present as well. It was the sound of something pushing through brush and grass. It sounded like three big sounds. Deer. Almost definitely a deer. It sounded a good size. Moved fast in the three big jumps. Scared the heck out of us. You think it's a deer come down to drink? I asked. Side by side with Rick, looking off into the dark. Rick didn't say anything. That was really loud. We could hear that easily over the music. I walked back to the car and leaned in the open window. I turned off the radio. I left the keys in the ignition and rolled up both windows before dropping the hatch and returning to the fire. By the time I got back from the car, Rick had stoked up the fire. He threw on more dried driftwood and more tinder, getting the flames high and hot. The bright fire made me feel better. It took away some of the shadows that pop up so willingly in the minds of 18-year-old boys alone in the woods. A few minutes went by. Enough time that I had relaxed. I was just about to sit down when the sound ripped through our little camp. It was like the bottom limb of a large tree had been cracked right off, pulled down and broken. The volume of the sound made both of us start and half duck down, but it was followed by the sound of something bounding again away from the sound, but at the same time, toward us. We'll continue with the second half of the story I just wanted to go fishing when Weird Darkness returns. The song White Christmas used to be one of my favorite holiday tunes until the year of the ice storm. One December, Robin and I heard a loud crash outside. Not only did the ice cause a large tree to fall onto our house, but it ripped out the power lines. We were suddenly in sub-freezing temperatures with Jack Frost nipping at our noses thanks to zero heat or electricity. Talk about baby it's cold outside. If this happened today, I'd be hooking up my Patriot Power Generator 2000X. This solar-powered monster can power your lights, TV, medical equipment, like my CPAP machine, even keep your refrigerator running, and possibly root all snows, although I can't vouch for that last one. Plus, it's expandable and comes with a free solar panel, so you can begin using it immediately. And because it's solar and portable, you can use it indoors without having to worry about deadly carbon monoxide fumes, and you don't have to spend money on gasoline to power it, because solar power is free. That's something even Ebenezer Scrooge could smile at. 4Patriots.com has a ton of great gift ideas, and they're always offering special deals, and we've set up a special page for Weirdos just for that purpose. Visit 4Patriots.com slash Weird. That's the number 4 Patriots.com slash Weird. Just like the holidays, though, these deals never last long, so you'll want to check this daily to see what the latest special deals are. That's 4Patriots.com slash Weird. I was just about to sit down when the sound ripped through our little camp. It was like the bottom limb of a large tree had been cracked right off, pulled down and broken. The volume of the sound made both of us start and half duck down, but it was followed by the sound of something bounding again away from the sound, but at the same time, towards us. It stopped whatever it was, about 40 feet out and well out of the circle of light from our fire. Without saying a word to another, Rick ran back and threw more wood on the fire while I ran back to my car and grabbed two things out of my camping pack, my machete and my shingling hatchet, a tool with a knurled hammer face on one side and a toughly tempered hatchet blade on the other, used for splitting cedar shakes or splitting cedar shingles. Mine was a Stanley, I believe. I tossed the hatchet lightly to Rick. He fumbled with a leather wrist strap a bit before it settled comfortably into his hand. I held the machete easily by my side, having owned the thing since I was 10 or so. That familiarity was not making me comfortable, however. I could hear it in the dark, breathing, not out of breath, but long, great, deep breaths coming from the shadows somewhere just behind the curtain that was the Fragmite. The Fragmites formed the south wall of this circle we were camped in, with the south trail coming off the 7 o'clock area, directly south. The Fragmites nearest the edge were the shortest, ranging up in size to 7 feet tall in this area. It felt like ages, waiting for something other than that breathing. I swear it's getting quieter. Stopped? Then we heard footsteps, heavy steps getting louder, maybe 4 steps in total, 4 steps 40 feet. I turned and gave myself some ground at the first hint of a sound. Rick did the same, both of us standing side by side at the back corner of my civic. We looked up, just in time to see shoulders disappearing into the shadows, through the 7 foot Fragmites. It went in just far enough that we almost missed it crouching down and disappearing in the grass. Almost. Insert Shaggy's big swallow sound in a Zoinks Scoob. Here, please. This was big. It just kept running through my mind. I saw shoulders and neck. It looked like a hairy stump. I had missed its face. I had still been in the middle of turning around. I'm glad I missed it. It was so tall and wide. Oh my gosh, head and shoulders over that grass. I realized Rick was talking to me from somewhere outside of my nightmare musings and I tuned back in. In the grass. There, you hear it? I think I can see the grass still moving. Rick whispered loudly, the hatchet out in front of him pointing. I shook off my thoughts and concentrated towards where he said the grass was moving. Yeah, maybe. Yes, there was definite movement. That shouldn't have been there. It was still sitting there. Why? What was that? We just stood there, not daring to make a noise or move at all. I felt paralyzed. It was unlike any feeling I've ever had in my life. All the experiences, the footsteps, I can't even describe the way those footsteps sent the hair up my spine bristling and tingling with terror. That breathing. I grew up with livestock. This was the same sound as listening to a bull breathing, deep and rumbling. And those frightening realizations only proceeded the absolutely confusing and mind-reeling sense of terror, watching something that night with those big shoulders and a head disappear into the grass and shadows only feet away from us. You always hear people talk about the feeling they get in these circumstances. The fight or flight reflex? Well, I can tell you, I haven't read a single author who described it right yet. As I heard those big, heavy steps coming close, bipedal steps, I flushed. My temperature went through the roof. My heart was thudding hard and fast. The worst part? There was this feeling that came over me when I saw that shoulder and neck. When I saw the bulk of it, the seven-foot reeds ended mid-shoulder blade. I've read most describe the feeling as dread, but it isn't. I didn't feel dread. I felt certainty. Certain that I was lower on the food chain. Certain that should it decide to stand back up and walk slowly out to meet us, we would die there that night. I knew it, too. I have no idea how long we stood there, watching and listening, straining to hear anything at all that might tell us what the thing was up to. We could hear it doing something finally. The weapons in our hands came up fast towards the sound. Seconds later, there was another sound of movement behind us. Rick turned to face that direction, leaning over and throwing more wood on. Somehow, naturally, I imagine, we had slowly moved away from the car and closer to the fire. Another deep thump and crash could be heard again behind me and in front of Rick somewhere off in the shadows. My God, are there two more? I could hear the first thing, moving deep in the grass, the tops of the Fragmites moving slowly at times, but jigging at others, their movement exaggerated by the weighty feathers on top. It was moving. I was zoned in on that swaying grass, watching for any hint of movement. How was it so quiet? Anyone that has been in the woods and tried to move quietly through brush or grass knows that to be silent and not show your quarry, whether that be a deer, an enemy soldier or a dude at the paintball range where you are in your environment is dang hard to do. It takes experience and practice and a bit of luck. There was a crash off to my left that made both Rick and myself turn panicking towards it. My machete cut left at the sound, striking out blindly as we both fell over ourselves to both turn and meet whatever was coming in from our left, while also moving back around the fire for its added defense. I could see the tip of my blade jittering along with my heartbeat, its dance almost distracting me from looking past it, to the dark and now quiet scrubland in front of me. I could see nothing, I could hear nothing, aside from my pulse in my ears and, dang, even now the steady hum of mosquitoes. I was so hot, adrenaline pumping in me, I felt like I had just run the 200 meters while sporting a good ginger sunburn. There wasn't a sound to be heard, just our panting and anxiety and fear as we stood there back to back next to a roaring big bonfire now. All the wood Rick had added in panic was now lit and being gently fanned by a moderate breeze that had popped up. Did you see anything, Rick? I asked shakily, my voice strained with fear. There's nothing, I don't see a thing. They're crashing around and you should see something. Rick almost poured out the words, they came out of him in a rush tinged with anger and sincere confusion. I didn't say a thing. Not only did I understand how he felt, but something else had stolen my attention. And as I had listened to Rick's panicked musings, I glimpsed something outside the ring of firelight behind the Hawthorne in front of which our tent now sat bobbing in the breeze. The wind had been slowly increasing during the evening. It was now enough to bend the grass and move the limbs of the small trees around our chosen campfire. The treetops swayed in the winds above the canopy while sounds of heavy sighs reached down from the branches far above and away from us. The fire whipped up and it lit the whole of the clearing, the tent, my car, and us next to the fire in the middle of the clearing. I tuned out Rick entirely. There was a dark mass, a big dark mass slowly moving out from behind that Hawthorne. It had come out of the grass. It was so dark back there though, the only way I could see it was to look past it and watch it move so very slowly out from the concealing grass and into the cover of darkness from my periphery. It moved barely perceptible onto the path behind that swaying Hawthorne tree. Rick had fallen silent by this time. What's wrong, Danny? I heard the sound come out of him, a voice like that of a small boy wanting to know what's wrong but desperately wanting to be told everything is okay. I remained very silent. The lower limbs of the Hawthorne moved up and down in the wind, bobbing lightly. My eyes had never left the shadow we mound, I knew to be that hulking thing we saw step into the grass. I kept my machete blade up and then a guard position. I had no idea how to use a blade for combat but figured it was best to have it between me and him with the pointy bit facing his way. Those limbs moved slowly, up and down. It was almost hypnotizing. Right up to the light reflected off its big eyes, its big red eyes once, twice. By the third flash of eyeshine, my heart had cranked right back up again. My forehead was streaming and very shakily. I told Rick to go open the hatchback while I covered him. My eyes never left that mass as I heard Rick make it to the car and pop the hatch. While he was still at the car, I called out, watch my back and walked toward the tent. It was only ten or twelve feet away but it felt so far but more terrifying is it felt too close, too close to the grass. But I was protected from that thing by the Hawthorne. There might have been something big and nasty on the other side of that tree but I knew it would think twice before trying to get me through the inch-long barbed branches of that tree. I grabbed the tent in one hand and pulled. I wrenched it clean out of the ground from its pegs and backpedaled fast to the car. There wasn't much in the tent but it was all we'd brought so I figured it was a smart move. Pack it all once in seconds and get out of there. I did just that. I backpedaled to the car so I didn't trip on the trailing tent. Then I turned and just started stuffing as much down behind the two front seats as I could. Rick, standing behind me, staring off under the Hawthorne watching my back, there's a shadow back there. That's all Rick got out before I yelled, get in! And ran for the driver's door like it was a Le Mans style start. Slammed door, punchlock, clutch and turned the key. 1.5 liters of public menace zinged into burbling life. I threw it into reverse, dumped the clutch and dang near backed into the Hawthorne. I slammed it into first, kicked the go button to the carpet and peeled out of that clearing. I had that car going as fast as I could. Safety be damned. I remember hitting fourth gear on a road that was no better than a once well-graded logging road. There was a section to this track that narrowed to almost a width even my little Honda couldn't make it through. I had to stop and pull in my mirrors on both sides to even come close. I'd finally spared a glance to the side mirror and saw that I had moved it in. I then remembered the narrow spot to the trail ahead we had crossed the day before. Just in time, I was able to slow down for those two trees ahead, hogging the edges of the already narrow trail. I concentrated on getting my car lined up just right and I was through. Rick and I screamed at the same time. Rick looked out the back window as I glanced in the rear view. It was the kind of scream that makes your voice crack and slip into another octave or disappear altogether. In the red hellish glow of my car's brake lights jogged up legs, just huge legs. It's all we could see from the vantage of the low slung hatchback. Objects and mirror did not need to be any freaking closer. I'd like to thank the engineers of Honda at this time. I beat the crap out of that thing the last half mile through the bush to the road, slamming through gears, hitting holes in branches and something else that tore my air dam off. I didn't stop when we hit pavement. I worked it through all five gears till I ran out of road just outside of Walkerton. I pulled off to the side just short the stop sign to the highway going into town and parked the car. What the hell was that, Rick? I asked, genuinely wondering. We didn't say another word. We sat a couple more minutes, doors and windows still closed and locked. I drove Rick back home that night, deciding I'd stay there and see if I could salvage sleep from this messed up night. His mom came into the living room where she heard us come in the door. Although I loved his mom, I sensed that she wouldn't understand this experience we'd gone through. Rick and I stopped hanging out together shortly after that. Would have been about six months or so. I think we just spent too much time together, got to arguing a bit a lot of the time and it wore us down. For years I didn't know what to make of the encounter. It wrinkled my mind and haunted me. You could still see those shoulders and that neck in my mind's eye clear as day, but I could still feel that animalistic fear it gave me in the pit of my stomach and loins. The literal shrinking of your manhood in the face of something primal and way bigger than you. I got to have a flashback of that fear years later at the Toronto Metro Zoo when a large silver-backed gorilla decided he didn't like the look of me and charged the fence, pounding on the chain link and tearing me back to that night in the bush in an instant to paralyzing fear. My wife at the time wasn't sure why I had been so shaken. As the gorilla walked slowly away, almost with a strut of machismo, I saw those big shoulders of his flexing and pictured his larger cousin stepping into that long grass in the light of the fire. That face, those eyes, if they were red? They have fueled nightmares since. I haven't camped in a tent anywhere but a camp site in a populated area since. For years my machete hung next to the door of my camper trailer because what if? It didn't seem to like blades. The fear was ridiculous. Knowing now that there was most likely only one creature that employed the use of throne stones around us to scare and distract fits with the behaviour that's described in many Bigfoot encounters. To us, in our terrified state, it just sounded like more things, more creatures coming in. Not once was there any sort of vocalisation, not a grunt, and we were upwind of the thing to get a noseful of its characteristic offensive odor but, yeah, I think it was a Sasquatch. We actually did go back the next day. I was way too curious. I had to go. I had to see. We arrived there sometime around 2pm or so. It was bright and sunny and warm but I was cold inside. My head was on a swivel the entire time from when I stepped out of my car till I left again. We didn't find a thing. We found the path through the grass it took to get to our site. We found the limb, a good 4 inches thick of green wood snapped off about 18 inches from the trunk. We found the path into the grass behind our tent and through to the area behind the Hawthorne. There were no tracks to be seen or hairs clinging to anything. Not that we would have known to look anyway. It'd be a few years before I admitted to myself what I had seen. Honestly, because of my upbringing, I had thought demon at first. But it always bugged me. It didn't feel right. It was somehow the wrong explanation but I had no other theory at the time. Fast forward 20 years and well, that's my Sasquatch story, it seems. Since that night, I have devoured all I can find to read on Sasquatch, reports from all over the world, from people of all walks of life, from all cultures, books, movies, documentaries, fact or fiction. It was the experience that cemented my love of the weird and paranormal and also reaffirmed my fear of the dark, that gripping fear of what goes bump in the night. The case of Mary Harris is by Romeo Vitelli for Providenceia, and I just wanted to go fishing is from Weirdo family member Danny Ward, also known as the Happy Heathen. Weird Darkness theme by Alibi Music. Background music in this episode provided by Midnight Syndicate and is used with permission from the artist. Weird Darkness is a production of Marlar House Productions. And now that we're coming out of the dark, I'll leave you with a little light. Isaiah 61 verse 1. The Spirit of God, the Master, is on me because God anointed me. He sent me to preach good news to the poor, heal the heartbroken, announce freedom to all captives, pardon all prisoners. And a final thought. Stars can't shine without darkness. I'm Darren Marlar. Thanks for joining me in the Weird Darkness.