The golden hour of that mid-October evening was perfect. Too perfect. The air was crisp, the sky was a clean, fading blue, and the sea of soybeans around my tree stand was a rustling gold. It was the kind of evening that makes a bowhunter’s heart ache with anticipation. My buddy Tim was set up about a quarter-mile away, on the other side of the same massive bean field, split by a thin treeline, a silent partner in our shared pursuit of a whitetail.

My phone buzzed against the metal of my tree stand, a jarring, artificial sound in the organic symphony of the woods. I glanced at it, annoyed. It was Tim. The message was just five words, all caps.

MIKE, COME GET ME NOW.

(Me, Mike Hartman)

I stared at the screen, my first reaction a prickle of irritation. Did he shoot a monster and need help already? Did he forget his release? I texted back, "What's wrong?" No reply. A minute passed. The sun dipped lower, and the shadows in the field grew long and distorted. Another buzz.

GET THE TRUCK. DRIVE TO ME. NOW.

A knot of unease started to form in my gut. Tim wasn't a panicker. He was a seasoned hunter, steady as a rock. For him to want me to get the my truck, a beat-up 4x4 S10—and drive out to his stand was unheard of. We were on MWCD land; you don't drive in the fields.

I packed up my gear, the magic of the evening hunt evaporating into a thin, cold mist of concern. I made my way back to the small gravel lot where I parked. I expected to see Tim walking out of the woods, but there was nothing. Just his my old Chevy sitting there. I was about to call him when the final text came through.

I'M NOT KIDDING. DRIVE ACROSS THE FIELD. I'M NOT GETTING DOWN.

That's when real alarm set in. Something was very wrong. I fumbled for his keys under the floor mat, fired up the S10, and without a second thought, I pointed the nose of the truck toward the soybean field and hit the gas. The little truck bounced and groaned, the chest-high soybean stalks scraping and slapping against the doors as I carved an illegal path through the farmer's crop. My headlights cut a shaky tunnel through the fading light.

I could see his tree stand now, a stark silhouette against the deep purple sky. As I got closer, I saw him. He scrambled down that tree faster than I'd ever seen a man move, practically falling the last few feet. He ran to the truck and wrenched the passenger door open, his face pale and his eyes wide with a terror I’d never witnessed in him before.

"Go! Just go!" he yelled, throwing his bow in his lap and jumping inside.

I slammed the truck in reverse, spun around, and tore back across the field, not caring about the crop damage anymore.

"What the hell, Tim? I asked, my own voice shaky now.

"I have no f###### idea."

He finally got the phone to cooperate and shoved it in my face. The picture was awful—grainy, pixelated from him being zoomed in all the way, and washed out in the dying light. But it was unmistakable. Looming just above the golden sea of soybeans was a head and a massive set of shoulders. The creature was tall, jet-black, and broad. You could see the conical shape of its head sitting directly on its shoulders. It was just standing there, a dark, hulking shape where the field meets the creek. It was easily eight feet tall to be sticking out of chest-high beans like that.

I stared at the image, then at the wild fear in my friend's eyes, and a cold dread washed over me. We weren't alone in those woods. It wasn't a man or a bear. It was the Ohio Grassman of MWCD, and Tim had seen it with his own two eyes.

The Howl at the Creek

The last of the sun bled out of the sky, leaving the Ohio woods in a deep, bruised purple. For Fifteen-year-old Jake, this was the golden hour. The catfish at Wills Creek started biting just as the day-trippers and their noisy boats went home. He was alone, just the way he liked it, with only the rhythmic plink of his sinker hitting the water and the chirping of crickets for company.

A twig snapped in the dense brush behind him. Loudly.

Jake froze, his hand tight on his fishing rod. A deer, probably. He told himself that, but the woods suddenly felt different. The air grew heavy, and the familiar chorus of crickets and frogs seemed to die in their throats. All he could hear was the gentle lapping of water against the muddy bank and the frantic thumping of his own heart. He felt a primal prickle on the back of his neck—the unmistakable sensation of being watched.

He slowly reeled in his line, pretending to check his bait, while his eyes scanned the dark wall of trees across the creek. Nothing. He was about to dismiss it as nerves when the smell hit him. It was a thick, gag-inducing stench, like a wet dog that had rolled in garbage and left to rot. It clung to the humid air, making his eyes water.

That's when the scream started.

It wasn't an animal he recognized. It was a deep, guttural roar that ripped through the silence, then climbed into a high-pitched, siren-like wail that seemed to vibrate in his bones. It was the sound of pure, raw power, a territorial declaration that said, you are not welcome here.

Jake's blood ran cold. He dropped his rod and scrambled backward, his boots slipping in the mud. His eyes darted to the source of the sound, and in the last vestiges of twilight, he saw it. Standing just inside the tree line on the opposite bank was a massive, dark figure. It was impossibly tall, broad-shouldered, and covered in shaggy, dark hair. It was perfectly still, a hulking silhouette against the dying light.

The creature let out another scream, this one shorter, angrier. It took a single, heavy step forward, and the ground seemed to shudder. That was all it took. Jake didn't wait to see more. He turned and ran, crashing through the underbrush, not daring to look back. The terrifying howl chased him all the way to his ATV, a sound that would echo in his nightmares for years to come.

The summer of '84 had been a hot and sticky one in Delaware County, the kind where the air felt heavy and stories grew taller with every telling. For weeks, the talk among the farms and small businesses scattered around Galena was about the old abandoned Miller barn, the one sitting derelict at the edge of a fallow cornfield just off Sunbury Road. Teenagers looking for a scare and a few old-timers out coon hunting had come back with tales of strange noises—guttural groans and heavy thuds coming from inside, long after the owls had started their nightly calls.

Frank Miller, whose family had owned that land for a century, didn't put a lick of stock in any of it. At sixty-seven, he was a man of calloused hands and firm beliefs, and he believed in tractors, droughts, and the price of soybeans. He did not believe in spooks.

"It's kids," he'd grumbled to his wife, Helen, over dinner one evening, pushing mashed potatoes around his plate. "Or a family of raccoons the size of hogs. People get jumpy."

Helen, however, wasn't so sure. She'd been listening, too. The hushed tones at the feed store, the wide eyes of their neighbor's boy. She believed there was something happening, even if she didn't know what. "Maybe we should just go have a look, Frank," she'd said quietly. "Just to put your mind at ease. Put everyone's mind at ease."

Frank finally agreed, mostly to put an end to the talk. So, one evening, as the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long, orange fingers across the fields, they climbed into his dusty Ford pickup. The air was thick with the scent of cut hay and impending twilight.

They rumbled down the dirt lane leading to the barn, the truck's headlights cutting through the growing dusk. The structure loomed ahead, a dark silhouette against a bruised purple sky. Its roof sagged in the middle and the great double doors hung slightly askew, like a broken jaw.

Frank killed the engine, and the sudden silence was immense, broken only by the chirping of crickets.

"I'm staying right here," Helen said, her hands clasped in her lap. She wasn't afraid, not exactly, but a deep sense of unease had settled over her.

"Suit yourself," Frank grunted, pulling a heavy Maglite from behind the seat. He slammed the truck door, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet air. He was going to find a raccoon, maybe a barn owl, and the whole silly business would be over. His boots crunched on the gravel as he made his way toward the yawning entrance of the barn, his shadow stretching long and distorted in the truck's headlights.

The air grew cooler as he approached the entrance, carrying the musty smell of decay and old hay. He swept the beam of his flashlight across the ground floor, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air, a rusted old plow, and piles of rotting timbers. Nothing.

"Hello?" he called out, his voice gruff. "Anybody in here?"

Only silence answered. He took a few more steps inside, the flashlight beam now aimed up at the great, gaping hole of the hayloft above. He could just make out the edge of the loft, piled high with ancient, straw-like hay. This was where the kids said the noises came from. He shook his head, a wry smile touching his lips. He was about to turn and declare the place empty when the world seemed to stop.

It wasn't a sound that alerted him, but a sudden, instinctual sense of presence from above. Before he could fully process it, a colossal, dark shape launched itself from the hayloft.

It didn't climb down. It didn't fall. It leaped.

For a split second that stretched into an eternity, Frank was frozen, his flashlight beam catching a nightmare in mid-air. It was a giant, man-shaped creature, covered from head to foot in thick, dark hair. It was impossibly large, its limbs thick with muscle as it sailed through the air, passing directly over his head with an eerie silence. It landed on the ground behind him with a soft, heavy thud that seemed to shake the very earth.

Frank stumbled back, spinning around, his heart hammering against his ribs. The beam of his flashlight caught the creature as it straightened to its full, towering height. It took two powerful, ground-eating strides, clearing the barn's entrance and hitting the open field. It ran not like a man, but with a fluid, animal grace that was terrifying in its speed and purpose.

From the truck, Helen saw it all, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle a scream. The hulking silhouette crossed the headlight beams, its long arms swinging as it sprinted across the overgrown field. It didn't look back. It just ran, a force of nature heading for the dark, concealing line of trees at the edge of the property. In seconds, it reached the woods and was simply gone, swallowed by the night.

The humid August air hung thick and heavy in Killbuck Swamp, smelling of mud and decaying leaves. Seventeen-year-old Leo, swatting at a mosquito that had designs on his ear, wished he was anywhere else. But his younger brother, fourteen-year-old Caleb, had been obsessed with landing a monster catfish all summer, and this was supposedly the spot.

“You see that?” Caleb whispered, his voice cracking with a mix of puberty and excitement. He pointed a shaky finger across the murky, black water.

Leo followed his gaze. About eighty yards out, where the dying light of sunset struggled to pierce the dense canopy In the beyond, something was moving. It was dark, bulky, and partially submerged. “It’s a stump, Caleb. The current’s pulling it.”

“No, look,” Caleb insisted. “It’s… walking.”

Leo squinted, his initial annoyance giving way to curiosity. Caleb was right. The object wasn’t drifting aimlessly; it was moving with a slow, deliberate cadence against the gentle current, heading from one thicket of trees to another. It was too steady to be a log rolling on the bottom. It looked… alive.

“What the hell?” Leo breathed, lowering his fishing rod. The thing was massive, wide as a refrigerator. The top of it was gnarled and dark, just like a waterlogged stump. They watched, frozen, as it methodically plowed through the water, creating a V-shaped wake that lapped softly against the muddy bank where they stood.

“Maybe it’s a bear?” Caleb suggested, his voice barely a whisper.

Leo shook his head. “A bear would swim. It would have a head, ears. That thing… it’s just a big, dark lump.”

As it reached a shallower section, more of its form emerged from the water. The “stump” was actually a massive, rounded back and a set of incredibly broad shoulders, covered in what looked like dark, matted hair that shed water like a duck’s feathers. Then, it took a step up onto a slightly higher patch of ground, and the illusion shattered.

It wasn't a stump. It wasn't a bear. It rose up, water cascading from its form, and for a terrifying, heart-stopping moment, it stood in profile against the fading light. It was a creature of impossible size, at least seven, maybe eight feet tall. It had long, powerful arms that hung almost to its knees and a thick, muscular torso. Its head was conical, sitting directly on its shoulders with no discernible neck. They couldn't see a face, just a dark, hulking silhouette that defied all logic.

The world seemed to go silent. The drone of insects, the croak of frogs—it all vanished, replaced by the thumping of Leo’s own heart in his ears. This was no animal they knew. This was something from whispers and campfire stories.

The creature took two long, fluid strides, covering the shallow ground in an instant, and then melted back into the deep shadows of the treeline on the other side of the waterway. It didn’t make a sound. One moment it was there, a giant, impossible figure against the twilight, and the next it was gone, as if the swamp had swallowed it whole.

For a full minute, neither brother moved. They just stared at the spot where the thing had disappeared, their fishing rods forgotten in their hands. The normal sounds of the swamp slowly filtered back in, but the familiar world felt alien now.

“Did…” Caleb started, his voice trembling. “Did we just see…?”

Leo couldn't finish the thought. He just nodded, his eyes wide. He was the older brother, the one who was supposed to be rational, to have an explanation for everything. But there was no explanation for this. He felt a primal fear he’d never known, a cold dread that seeped into his bones. They weren't just two kids fishing anymore. They were two kids who had seen something that shouldn't exist, something that had looked at the world through ancient, unseen eyes.

“Pack your stuff,” Leo said, his voice low and urgent. “We’re leaving. Now.”

They scrambled to gather their gear, their hands fumbling, their eyes darting nervously towards the opposite bank. They didn't speak a word on the hike back to their truck, the crunch of their boots on the gravel path sounding unnaturally loud in the growing darkness. The secret of what they saw hung heavy between them, a silent, shared burden. They knew no one would believe them. They barely believed it themselves. But the image of the walking stump that became a giant was burned into their minds, a memory that would haunt the edges of their reality for the rest of their lives.

The air in the Mohican valley was thick with the scent of damp earth and the first hints of autumn decay. For Matt, it was the smell of anticipation. The leaves were just starting to lose their deep summer green, blushing with hints of yellow and orange at the edges, but the undergrowth was still a tangled, oppressive wall of foliage. Perfect for staying hidden. He moved with the practiced silence of a seasoned bowhunter, his steps cushioned by the loamy soil of the creek bottom.

He’d chosen this spot meticulously, a natural funnel where the steep ridge squeezed wildlife down towards the water. The creek gurgled nearby, the only sound besides the whisper of the wind through the sycamores. He settled in behind a fallen oak, its massive trunk providing a solid backdrop to break up his outline. He nocked an arrow, his movements slow and deliberate, his senses on high alert.

That's when he heard the first sound that was out of place. It wasn't a squirrel chattering or a deer snapping a twig. It was a heavy, deliberate thump. Then another. It came from the ridge above him and to his right, deep in the thicket. It sounded like someone dropping a bowling ball onto the forest floor.

Matt froze, every muscle tensed. A buck, maybe? A big one, trying to intimidate a rival? He slowly, silently, turned his head, scanning the dense wall of green above. Nothing. The woods fell silent again, so silent it felt unnatural. The usual chatter of birds had ceased.

Then, a small branch, about the size of his thumb, sailed out of the brush on the ridge and landed in the creek with a soft plip. Matt’s heart began to hammer against his ribs. That wasn't natural. It had been thrown. He was being watched.

His mind raced through possibilities. Another hunter? No hunter would be this clumsy, this… confrontational. A kid messing around? Unlikely, this deep into the forest. He gripped his bow tighter, the cool carbon a stark contrast to his clammy palms.

A sharp crack echoed from the ridge, much closer this time. Something small and hard whizzed past his head, so close he felt the air move, and struck the trunk of the oak he was hiding behind. It hit with a loud thwack that made him flinch violently. He looked down and saw it lying in the dirt: a whitish, pockmarked rock, perfectly round, the size of a golf ball.

Panic, cold and sharp, began to prickle at the edges of his hunter’s focus. He slowly rose from his crouch, keeping the oak between him and the ridge. Another rock flew out of the brush, this one skipping off the water in the creek. Then another, striking a tree just to his left. They weren't just being thrown; they were being aimed. This was a warning. A very clear, very aggressive warning.

"Hey!" Matt's voice was hoarse, louder than he intended. "I'm here! I'm a hunter!"

The only response was another rock, arcing high and landing with a splash in the middle of the creek. He could hear something moving up there now, a heavy, bipedal tread that crushed leaves and snapped branches with an unnerving carelessness. It was big. Impossibly big.

He took a shuffling step backward, his eyes glued to the spot on the ridge where the movement was happening. He saw a flicker of motion through a gap in the leaves—something dark, tall, and broad. It was a shape that didn't belong, too massive to be a man, too upright to be a bear.

And then the scream ripped through the valley.

It was a sound spawned from hell itself, a terrifying, guttural roar that clawed at his eardrums and vibrated deep in his chest. It started as a low, rumbling growl and crescendoed into a deafening, high-pitched shriek filled with pure, unadulterated rage. It was a sound of primal dominance, a sonic declaration that this was its territory and he was an unwelcome intruder. It was the sound of a monster.

Matt didn’t think. He didn't weigh options. He simply ran. He abandoned his post, his bow still clutched in his hand, and crashed through the undergrowth, away from the creek, away from the ridge. He didn't look back. The sound of his own panicked breathing and the blood pounding in his ears was all he could hear, but the echo of that unholy scream chased him through the woods, a promise of violence he knew he was lucky to have escaped. He burst out of the treeline and into an open field as the sun began to set, not stopping until the familiar sight of his truck came into view. He fumbled with his keys, his hands shaking uncontrollably, and threw himself inside, locking the doors.

He sat there, gasping for air, the terrifying scream still ringing in his ears. He was a hunter, a man who knew the woods, who understood the animals that lived there. But what he had encountered on that ridge wasn't an animal. It was something else. It was the Monster of Mohican. And he knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that he would never set foot in that creek bottom again.