They were drawn to the SKINWALKER BREWERS sign behind the bar. These were bike mechanics, tattoo artists, and web developers, brought together by a singular passion. These were bearded millennials, mustaches waxed into curls. These were long-haired Gen Xers, rocking ironic flat earth t-shirts. The guests hung their jackets and I lost count of I WANT TO BELIEVE patches. I couldn’t help but smile, watching them marvel at the backlit stencils of shadow people, at the ceiling cove of UFOs, at Lauren’s crocheted cryptids. My guests settled in while the theme from Unsolved Mysteries set the tone. This was an actual theater, with a projection screen, cinema seating, and Dolby surround sound. Its nylon neck directed guests into the home theater. Here we were honeymooning at the Stanley Hotel.Ībove the frames, hung a sculpture of the Loch Ness monster. Here we were outside the UFO museum in Roswell New Mexico. Here we were touring the cemeteries in Salam Massachusetts. If our passions weren’t clear, the family photos made them obvious. The tracks wound through cases of roadside collectables: Fresno Nightcrawler travel tumblers. Once inside, guests were encouraged to follow the Bigfoot prints. Almond eyes peeked out from the tree, through Lauren’s lilacs, and the railing for the deck. After they parked, they might just spot the gray alien lawn ornaments. ![]() Drivers were welcomed by a 12-foot skeleton dressed like the Flatwoods Monster, with a spade-shaped hood, bright red eyes, and long flowing skirt. With my freak flag high, I turned the rest of my home into a monster museum. Image by Drew ChialĮager to impress, I strung a CRYPTID COALITION banner across my garage door. I never imagined that that decision would bring the paranormal to my front door. I mentioned that my home theater had a wet bar and hosting duties fell to me. Ryan asked where we should screen the footage. I’d sprung for thermal imaging sensors and was eager to see what they picked up. We trekked back to the lot, collecting our cameras as we went. ![]() Just deer, the last thing any of us were hunting. We spent the weekend combing through the woods, but we didn’t find anything. I wanted to ask if the creature left foot prints, if he took photos of the blood trail, or the claw marks on his truck, but I knew better than to question Jameson’s recollection, especially since I’d yet to have an encounter of my own. Jameson narrowed his gaze at the young web developer, who had no clue of the trouble he’d stepped in. “You didn’t see the Beast of Bray Road.” Ryan said with a mocking sing-song tone. It turns out 100s of people have seen this thing, from the 1930s until now. “I got home, booted up my laptop, and opened a dozen tabs. Jameson jerked an imaginary wheel and leaned back on his log. I backed all the way up into the driver’s seat, locked my doors, and peeled the hell out of there.” He locked his jaws and dragged the deer into the dark. The trees shook, the nighthawks fluttered, and the squirrels scattered, but the creature didn’t flinch. I damn near pissed myself, thinking, ‘That’s one way to tag a kill.’” He stood on one leg, kicked the other out into the road, and urinated all over the carcass. Long ropes of slobber streaked through his teeth. “He stood as tall as a grizzly, with the hind legs of a wolf. Jameson tilted his head back as if he could see it now. ![]() First the glowing green eyes, then the muzzle dripping with viscera, and the claws as long sickles.” Jameson’s shoulders rose as he took a big theatrical breath. I cast my spotlight on the road and found a trail of blood leading toward the woods.” Something powerful enough rip my tailgate right off. I reached for my shotgun, stepped out of my pickup, and gave it a wide berth. I heard a sharp screeching, like nails on a chalkboard, followed by a gong, and a hard wet splash. Satisfied, I hopped back in, turned the ignition, and prepared to turn. Then had to shift his antlers so they couldn’t hurt the other drivers. “The buck was so big, I had to use a winch to get him in the truck. ![]() He’d noticed a spike in calls around the Kettle Moraine State Forest, right where we’d pitched our tents. “I was driving down Highway 11 when I saw a rack of antlers in the middle of the road.” My place was to suck my hydration tube and listen. Even if my orthodontist practice paid for all of our gear. As a rookie paranormal researcher, I knew better than to hog the campfire.
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