It was a summer evening in 2006, and he was in his early twenties, poking around the big old farm next to where he grew up in central Kentucky. He lost track of time, and by the time he noticed, it was dark. There was a full moon, though, bright enough to see by.
He was standing between two tobacco barns near the farm road when, with no warning, something large burst out of the dark on his right and shot past him in a blur, disappearing around the corner of one of the barns. It moved so fast that his first thought was a loose cow, except that it seemed far too tall.
He took a few steps toward the corner. Before he got close, the thing stepped sideways back into view, upright, facing him, maybe ten feet away. He froze.
He puts it at about six foot four. It was grey, with a long snout and tall, pointed ears. One arm rested against the barn wall as if it were leaning there. There seemed to be dark rings around its eyes and mouth, though the moonlight left a lot in shadow. It had a tail, but not a big one. He doesn't remember seeing teeth. What he remembers most is the eyes: a hard, fierce stare. It made no sound at all.
After about five seconds he turned and ran harder than he ever had in his life, and didn't stop for half a mile.
He has told very few people, expecting to be laughed at. Almost twenty years on, he says it still haunts him: the grey fur, the speed of it, and the question he keeps coming back to. It ran right past him, close enough to touch, and then simply stood and looked. Why didn't it hurt him?