10-12 FOOT TALL BIGFOOT Shrouded in Heavy Fog, Vanishes in Rural Tennessee https://www.phantomsandmonsters.com/2024/10/10-12-foot-tall-bigfoot-shrouded-in.html

https://www.congress.gov/117/meeting/house/114761/documents/HHRG-117-IG05-20220517-SD001.pdf

I never believed in the supernatural. Cryptids, myths, things that go bump in the night—those were for campfire tales and late-night conspiracy theorists. But that was before the trip to Darkwood Forest in Scotland. It’s not the kind of place you’d find in a travel guide. Even the locals don’t talk much about it, except in whispers or nervous jokes at the pub.

We’d gone there on a whim—a group of university friends looking for a weekend adventure. Darkwood was said to be one of the oldest, most untouched forests in the region, and we were eager to lose ourselves in its quiet beauty. But that’s not all it was known for. There were stories. Odd ones. The locals called it the home of Ealderis, "The Ancient Guardian." A massive, owl-like creature that prowled the woods, watching over those foolish enough to stray too far into its domain. Supposedly, it only appeared when humans overstepped their bounds—when they disturbed something that shouldn’t be disturbed.

None of us believed it, of course. It was just folklore, something to give the place an air of mystery. But the more the bartender talked about it, the more it piqued our curiosity. "You wouldn’t be the first to go looking for it," he said, smirking as he wiped down a glass. "And you wouldn’t be the first to come back spooked, either. If you come back at all."

We laughed it off, but looking back, I wonder if we should have taken him more seriously.

It started off like any normal hike. The forest was dense, but not unnervingly so. It was late afternoon, and the sun cast long, golden rays between the trees, making everything seem peaceful. After about an hour of walking, we came to a clearing, a perfect spot to rest. That’s when Tom found the feathers.

They were huge—easily a foot long—and jet black. At first, we thought they might’ve belonged to some large bird of prey. Maybe an eagle. But no bird around here would have feathers that dark, almost like shadows in hand. We joked that we’d found the guardian’s calling card. Tom stuffed one in his backpack as a souvenir.

That night, as we set up camp, the forest felt different. The kind of quiet that sits heavy on your chest, like the trees themselves are holding their breath. No wind, no animals. Just... silence. We sat around the fire, trying to shake off the weird vibe, and someone—maybe it was Sarah—brought up the legend again. The Ealderis. "You know, there are reports," she said, poking at the fire, "that match our description of the feathers. There was one in the late 1800s, back in the U.S. Miners in the Appalachians said they saw a creature with glowing orange eyes, almost like an owl but huge. People disappeared around that time, and they thought it was connected." She laughed nervously, but none of us joined in.

We should’ve packed up right then.

Sometime in the night, I woke up to a sound. At first, I thought it was a dream—a low, rhythmic rustling, like wings moving through the trees. Then I realized everyone else was awake too. Tom’s face was pale in the dim light of the fire, and he whispered, “Do you hear that?”

We all heard it.

It wasn’t the sound itself that was terrifying—it was what we didn’t hear. No wind. No animals. Nothing but the faint rustle, as if something massive was gliding above us, moving just beyond the firelight. Slowly, I turned my head toward the trees, squinting into the dark. And that’s when I saw them—two glowing orbs. Eyes, unmistakably, fixed on us from a low-hanging branch about twenty feet away. They weren’t the eyes of an animal. They were too large, too… human.

Before I could even speak, the thing shifted. It moved so quickly, so silently, that if we hadn’t all been staring at it, we might’ve missed it entirely. It disappeared into the darkness, just a fleeting shadow among the trees.

No one said a word. We all packed up in record time, deciding we’d hike back to the village that night. Whatever it was—owl, guardian, or something else—it wasn’t worth sticking around to find out.

As we made our way back down the trail, I kept looking over my shoulder, expecting to see those glowing eyes again. Every now and then, we’d hear that rustling sound, distant but unmistakable. Once, when we stopped to catch our breath, Tom cursed and threw his backpack to the ground. The feather—the one he’d taken from the clearing—was gone. It wasn’t in his bag, it wasn’t anywhere. Like it had vanished.

When we finally got back to the village at dawn, the bartender didn’t seem surprised to see us, though he didn’t ask any questions. It was like he already knew. Like he’d seen this before.

We all tried to put it behind us, to write it off as some strange, explainable event. Maybe it was a big owl—an illusion, our tired minds playing tricks. But sometimes, when I’m alone at night, I think about those eyes, and how they seemed to follow us through the trees. I’ve even done some research, and found other stories—like the one Sarah mentioned. Historical sightings of creatures that match the Ealderis description. The miners in the Appalachians. The knights in medieval England. Even a few modern reports from the Pacific Northwest.

They all saw the same thing: a giant, silent, owl-like being with glowing eyes. And none of them ever had proof. Just like us.

I don’t know if what we saw was real, but every now and then, I’ll come across a feather, dark as night, lying where it shouldn’t be. And I’ll wonder: what if it is?

What if the Ealderis is still out there, watching?