He Met Bigfoot in 2014. The Warning It Gave Him Is Terrifying
He Met Bigfoot in 2014. The Warning It Gave Him Still Haunts Me
My name is Arthur Panhallagan.
I was sixty-eight years old when I learned that monsters don’t hide in the woods.
They hide in boardrooms.
I spent my life underground, breathing coal dust so long it tattooed my lungs black. I mapped the veins of West Virginia like a second circulatory system, watching men dig wealth out of mountains until the mountains were hollowed corpses. When the mines closed, they called the land “reclaimed.”
That word is a lie.
Reclaimed means the world was skinned alive, and someone tried to glue the hide back on before the blood dried.
By 2014, my job was simple: walk the perimeter of the Blackwood Tract, thirty thousand acres of broken hills and poisoned creeks, and make sure no one wandered where they shouldn’t. I knew every sinkhole, every gas vent, every place the earth could swallow a man whole.
What I didn’t know was that someone else had been living there far longer than I had.
It started with a missing survey marker.
A three-foot steel rod, driven into solid bedrock decades earlier, was gone. Not broken. Not rusted. Removed. And the hole was filled back in so carefully it was invisible unless you stood on the exact coordinates.
That alone was unsettling.
Then I found where the marker had been moved.
It was embedded sideways into a cliff face seven feet off the ground, woven into a barrier of snapped oak and hickory branches—thick, wrist-wide limbs broken by brute force and interlocked into a gate.
Not a nest.
Not a dam.
A warning.
Warm air breathed out through the gaps, carrying the smell of deep stone and something alive. I realized I was staring at an old mine vent—one that should have been sealed for fifty years.
Someone hadn’t just found it.
They were guarding it.
I set up cameras.
Two weeks later, one image erased forty years of certainty.
A massive figure stood at the vent, shoulders level with an opening seven feet up the rock face. Nine feet tall. Broad as a truck hood. Covered in dark, soot-matted hair.
Not a bear.
Bears don’t stand like that. Bears don’t have shoulders shaped for lifting steel. Bears don’t move with intention.
This thing did.
I didn’t send the photo to anyone. I printed it and pinned it above my desk, next to old mine maps yellowed with age.
I went back not as a surveyor, but as a neighbor.
I left apples. A block of mineral salt. I spoke aloud so whatever lived there could hear me.
“I ain’t the company. I ain’t the law. I’m just Arthur.”
Three days later, the food was gone. In its place sat a lump of anthracite coal, polished and chipped open to reveal a perfect fossil fern—three hundred million years old.
A gift.
A trade.
That was when I understood something that chilled me to the bone.
These weren’t animals surviving despite us.
They were surviving because of us—hiding inside the ruins we left behind.
I called him the Collier.
He was the patriarch, the shadow that moved through coal seams like smoke. His family lived in the abandoned mine tunnels, using geothermal heat to survive winters that killed deer on the surface. They traveled underground, emerged miles apart, hunted, and vanished back into the earth.
The mountain was their fortress.
And I was standing on the roof.
The first time I saw him in daylight, across a retention pond poisoned red with acid runoff, he didn’t threaten me. He didn’t roar.
He just watched.
When I raised my hand, palm open, he inclined his head.
An acknowledgment.
A line crossed.
The warning came two years later.
Coal prices ticked up. Apex Energy came sniffing around Blackwood again. Young men in white trucks talked about “seismic testing” and “remnant recovery.”
Explosives.
If they detonated charges on that ridge, the sound would roll through the mine shafts like thunder inside a coffin. The Collier’s family wouldn’t flee.
They would fight.
And if they fought, they would be discovered.
Discovered meant studied. Studied meant hunted. And hunted meant erased.
I tried to stop it with lies. Fake hazard reports. Radiation signs. Paper barriers.
They laughed.
So the Collier warned me the only way he could.
The night before the drills arrived, I went to the vent.
I struck the rock with a hammer.
The mountain answered.
He stepped out of the darkness, close enough that I could see the cataract clouding one eye, the scars on his chest. He was old. Tired.
Like me.
I pointed to the valley. Mimicked trucks. Explosions. Then I swept my hands down, miming collapse.
Go deep. Go down.
He understood.
He gathered his family—his mate, a juvenile, an infant clinging to fur—and retreated into the earth.
Before he vanished, he touched the stone, then his chest.
This is my home.
Then he pointed at me.
You close the door.
That night, I became the thing the news would later call a madman.
I rigged the old mine pillars with ANFO—simple fertilizer and diesel. Not to kill, but to collapse. To seal the mountain so completely no drill would ever touch it again.
At sunrise, Apex Energy rolled in.
I gave them one last warning.
They ignored it.
So I pulled the plunger.
The mountain folded inward like a dying animal. The ridge collapsed, swallowing the drilling rig whole. Trucks flipped. Roads buckled.
No one died.
But the anvil was gone.
The vents were sealed.
The fortress closed.
They arrested me. They called me a terrorist. A lunatic. The Mad Miner of Mingo County.
Let them.
Because somewhere deep beneath that shattered ridge, in warm, silent tunnels untouched by drills or cameras, a family still lives.
The Collier’s warning wasn’t about himself.
It was about us.
He showed me what happens when you push a species to the edge with nowhere left to run.
They don’t beg.
They don’t hide.
They dig in.
And if you force them into the light, you won’t like what comes back out.
