George P. Responds to Missing Campers in Neches River Area

By Teresa Holloway
Messenger Reporter 

Oct. 23, 2017

My company sent me over here after these missing boys showed up on the wire. We look for folks in these situations, just because, well, that’s what we do.

I’ve been everywhere. From Northern Maine to the Baja, and let me tell you, rarely have I seen things stranger than the East Texas Pineywoods. Well, maybe New Orleans.

That’s the truth. There’s so much brush and underbrush here you could hide a herd of elephants from a boy scout troop in a half-acre campground.

But you asked me about the local sightings of Sasquatch going on around here for the last couple months. In an area this small and tight-knit, seven sightings is a lot.

Makes me wonder if something big is getting ready to happen.

What I mean is this; there are places on our planet where reality is thin. It’s been accepted for years despite the lack of “hard evidence”. Even such worthies as Einstein and Tesla have speculated on the causes and effects such thin places could have on accepted reality.

I know the effect – no speculation here. Things slip through. Things which have no place on this side. Ever heard of Lovecraft? People thought he wrote fiction. I’m pretty sure he was just recording things he saw.

Maybe we slip through, too. I’ve never seen that, but sometimes I wonder about the Roanoke Colony and other mass disappearances.

I have seen what comes out of the thin spots with my own eyes. I know them to be real. There’s more than one place on the other side, barely veiled by these areas. Some of the visitors are so different from one another they can’t possibly exist in the same dimension.

Some of them are a lot alike, though. Maybe even the same critter. That’s why you have Sasquatch sightings from Oregon to Maine and New York to South Mexico.

Rivers, creeks, mountains, all those places are well known to have some thin spots. I think the Sasquatch use these thin spots to travel. It’s just a theory I have, but there aren’t many of them, we know. No one ever finds a corpse and good quality photos or video is rare.

That’s probably a good thing. From what I’ve seen of some attack sites, these hairy (expletive) folks aren’t friendly. Even the Native American mythology paints them with a scary brush.

Looking for these things is my job. I’m good at it. I’ve found a few. None, so far, have understood the English language. That’s too bad, I’d like to ask about some folks from Virginia dressed like early colonists…

Not sure how I got into this field, honestly. If asked I’d have to admit I’d lost my job down at the chicken plant and took the first thing that came along.

Wasn’t advertised as a “hunter” position, of course, just the standard, “Experienced person sought to investigate various matters for a small company…” kind of thing. A background in law enforcement and military made me think I was well-suited to the job, so I applied.

Little did I know.

Surprisingly, the job suits me just fine. Being born with an overabundance of skepticism and a touch of cynicism didn’t hurt.

After 12 years of this I have developed some strange hobbies, I gotta say. One hobby in particular is sometimes problematic, but every now and then I find something strange.

I’m fascinated with long dirt roads leading into unseen places. Yep, it’s a curse. Can’t remember how many times I’ve ended up on the business end of a shotgun, having invaded somebody’s homeplace. No idea how many times I’ve been stuck axle-deep in holes, high-centered and unable to move the vehicle, waiting abashedly for a tow truck, big guy like me. Shameful.

Last year I got smart and invested in a winch. Finally. Of course I haven’t had to use it since I bought it. Par for the course.

I keep getting off track. Okay, so the ‘squatch sightings. I got wind of all these sightings from one of the local newspapers. Apparently the editor there likes her some Bigfoot, and runs a lot of reports. Probably 14 or 15 ran close together last spring. These particular seven I picked out had a lot in common and a ring of truth nobody can fake, so here I am.

It started out with some minor stuff, garbage turned over and screaming 911 calls about a big hairy guy running through the woods or peeking in windows.

Now two folks are missing down by the Neches. Game wardens are telling me there’s no bears and no panthers here, so I figure I got a clean slate to start looking.

Sure enough, first thing I find is some scratched up trees and hairs with no common DNA.

Then I find a backpack and a tent both ripped to shreds lying not too far from a busted up cheap shotgun. That gun had been fired twice, I’m guessing. Held five rounds and three were left.

Most country folk do load their weapons all the way up. Could have been city folk camping, but judging from the cast-iron skillet by the fire ring I don’t think so.

Boot treads weren’t new, either. Wore down heels, comfortable walking boots. I’m thinking somebody needed some out-of-season deer. I can’t really say the names, that’s still under investigation and you know these local lawmen are a bit ticklish about that kind of thing.

I made camp that night by the ripped up tent and about 2:30 the next morning, I picked up a trail of blood drops under blacklight. I followed that trail all the way to the river. I speculate one of the campers was being carried from a height, judging from the way the blood drops landed.

None of it was mashed down into the couple foot impressions I found, is what I’m saying. That means it was falling after the steps had been taken, like you might carry a deer haunch over your shoulder, bloody side down behind you.

The spatter had started to peter out after about 100 yards. That might be a good sign, but it also might mean that lost camper died during transit. No way to tell without chemical analysis of that blood from start to finish. I won’t tell the locals how to do their jobs, but blood changes the closer you get to dying, you know.

That night I stayed down by the river, just watching and listening.

Sure enough, I hear some grunts and gutteral growls and a couple of snorts. I didn’t think too much of it, there’s wild pigs everywhere around here like cockroaches.

But far as I know, pigs don’t do wood knocking. That caught my attention.

I, ah, borrowed a pair of NVDs from my old unit back in the day, they aren’t the latest version, but they do alright. I dug those out and went for a little greenlight stroll, followed that knocking to where I heard it.

The edge of the river is pretty clear walking because of recent flooding. I found some fair heel impressions that were only about a day old.

The prints lead up to the marsh just on the other side of the bridge, so I lost the trail there. I went back upriver to backtrack. I followed those prints and some older ones about a quarter mile, I guess.

I found a couple of old caves, dirt washout holes really, but clayed up and smoothed out a little. Lots of hair and spoor and prints in there. Lots of bones. Animal bones and some long leg bones. Cow, maybe, or deer. Looked like some people bones I saw over in Syria, but I’m not a coroner, so I can’t swear to it.

My sometimes hunting buddy is down in Florida, looking for an ape. I can’t find anybody local to go with me, but tonight, I’m headed back out there to lay up in a hide and watch those caves for a while.

With any luck, I’ll find one or both of those campers tonight. I’m hoping they’re okay, but I’m not going to put any money on it.


Robert groaned and tried to roll over. Every part of his body hurt and the pulse pounded so hard in his head his vision blurred.

Cursing, he tried again, more slowly this time, to roll from his back to his side. It was dark, too dark to see where exactly he was. Bringing his left hand up to his face, he tried to clear his eyes.

Something crusty and flaky had dried on his face, his eyes felt clotted with it and he could tell by the feel neither of them was open all the way.

Trying to raise his right arm caused him to bite down on a full-out scream. The pain was incredible and he felt his consciousness slipping. “Breathe, breathe,” he muttered aloud.

He soon discovered full indrawn breaths were impossible without retching. The pain was just too intense.

“Busted ribs,” he whispered. “Broken arm, three places, head injury … definitely a bad head injury,” he thought, taking stock of his pains and bloody spots.

Over the smell of his own bile-laced vomit, he could smell a deeper, rotting stench and the unmistakeable smell of dirt. “I’m underground, with something very dead,” he realized, shuddering.

Left hand shaking too hard for good control, he fumbled in his jeans pocket for his lighter. Finally grasping it, he mouthed a silent prayer. Robert feebly sparked the flint once, twice, and the lighter caught on the third try.

Holding the lighter aloft, he could barely make out a small, dirt cave surrounding him. As the flame wavered left, he spotted Mark along the edge of the narrow cavern. He and Mark had been out looking for a few late season deer for the freezer when something attacked them in the darkness.

With his brain still foggy from the concussion, he strained to remember … yeah, he’d fired his shotgun at the gorilla or whatever it was!

Mark had stood up to run for the tent and his .357, but he didn’t make it before the gorilla picked him up like a 10 pound sack of beans and threw him headfirst into a tree.

“Oh God,” he moaned, “Mark, Mark? Are you okay, man?” he whispered.

Trying to control his lower legs was impossible. They simply would not move on his command. He could feel them, and they hurt like a semi had run him over, they just wouldn’t move.

Using his left arm and shoulder, he dragged himself toward Mark, still unmoving along the cave wall. “Mark, hey buddy, wake up. We gotta get out of here before that thing comes back,” he whispered hoarsely.

Reaching his hunting partner’s side, Robert leaned back on the cave wall and reached for Mark with his left arm. Carefully, he rolled him over into the light of the lighter.

He immediately wished he hadn’t. Mark’s entire face and most of his scalp was gone, ripped off like bad wallpaper. Both arms were missing below the elbow and his entire torso was drenched in blood.

His remaining left eye stared blindly at the light, his facial muscles and teeth reflected dully back into Robert’s stunned expression.

He dropped the lighter. It smothered itself out in the wet, bloody dirt.

Robert screamed. Without shame and without qualm. The scream started somewhere in his lower stomach and shrilled into the cavern for an eternity.

As his shriek tapered into hitching sobs, he noticed a quiet shuffling noise to his right, followed quickly by a throaty voice.

“For Heaven’s sake, man, shut up! You gonna bring them big hairy killers right back in here. Now shut up and let’s see about getting out of here before suppertime, cause you don’t want me to tell you what’s on the menu.”

“I know you can barely move, but we gotta get to squirming out of this pantry,” the voice continued. “I can’t move my legs real good, I think my back’s tore up, but i can drag myself. Can you?”

“I work for a company that hunts these things, and there’s more of them here than I’ve seen in my entire 12 years doing this. My name is….”

The hunter’s whisper was choked off, suddenly, as a deep growl filled the cavern. “Lay still, play dead!” he whispered to Robert. “Don’t make any noise!”

Two fiercely yellow eyes gleamed at the petrified men as they lay without moving. The musky stench of the creature threatened to gag Robert yet again as it approached them slowly, nostrils dilated.

From the front of the cave, a smaller, humanish crying could be heard over the big creature’s low rumble.

It’s eyes moved from Robert to the hunter, and back again.