In September of 1988, a chilling feral person encounter in Appalachia left two friends questioning what really lives in the dense Kentucky woods.
I was 28 at the time, working part-time at a feed store in Somerset, Kentucky. My buddy Mike, a tough Vietnam vet and skilled mechanic, often joined me on long hiking trips. That year, we planned a three-day backpacking adventure deep into a rugged stretch of Appalachian wilderness. Locals had whispered about strange happenings in that area—moonshine stills, missing persons, even tales of wild men. I never paid much attention to those stories… until that trip.
We hit the trail around 10 a.m. under a cool September sky. Around lunchtime, near an old logging road, we noticed the first odd thing: total silence. No birds. No squirrels. Not even wind through the trees. Mike muttered, “Feels like the woods are holdin’ their breath.” That uneasy quiet stuck with us.
That night, we set up camp near a familiar fire ring. Around 2 a.m., I woke up to use the restroom. That’s when I heard footsteps—heavy, humanlike footsteps—just 20 yards away. Mike was still asleep in his bag. I froze, listening, until the sound stopped. Sleep didn’t come easy after that.
The next day, we pushed deeper into the forest. Along a creek bed, we found massive barefoot tracks—size 14 or 15 at least, pressed deep like they belonged to someone weighing over 300 pounds. Mike glanced at me and said, “That ain’t no hiker.”
By nightfall, the unease grew. Strange moans echoed through the woods—low, almost human, but not quite. We built a large fire, weapons at the ready. Neither of us felt alone out there.
Sometime past midnight, a scream jolted us awake. It wasn’t an animal. It was a guttural, choking howl that ended in a bizarre clicking growl. Flashlight beams swept the trees. That’s when we saw them—eyes glowing in the dark, rising from a crouch to stand tall.
What we saw looked human… but not. Mud-caked, hair down to his shoulders, a long beard, and completely naked. His face looked blank, almost wrong. Mike hurled a rock, shouting, “Hey!” The figure hissed, then bolted away at an unnatural speed.
We packed up and left at first light, cutting the trip short. Back at the ranger station, I reported what happened. To my surprise, the ranger didn’t laugh. He pulled a folder from his desk, filled with decades of reports from the same region. All described the same thing: tall, thin, barefoot, humanlike figures locals called “The Howler” or “The Wild Man.” Some claimed they were remnants of isolated mountain clans. Others believed they weren’t human at all. The ranger’s only warning: “Don’t go lookin’.”
I’ve never returned to that stretch of forest, not even after all these years. Mike, before passing in 2007, made me promise never to forget what we saw. “It was real,” he said. “Don’t let anyone tell you it wasn’t.”
If you ever find yourself deep in the Appalachians and the woods suddenly go quiet—don’t ignore it. Some things out there are older than our maps, and they’re still watching.
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