It felt unnatural. It felt evil.
In the summer of 2015 he lived alone in a small one-storey ranch house outside a Montana town of about two thousand people. His nearest neighbour, a farmer, was a mile away. Right from the start he understood why the previous owners had left in such a hurry. At night the woods behind the house were full of screams and growls. He read that raccoons and bobcats can make some unearthly sounds and told himself that's all it was. But the woods always felt wrong, like he was being watched.
About two weeks after he moved in, a thunderstorm kept him up. Around two in the morning he got up for a glass of water at the kitchen sink, under a small window facing the yard and the tree line. A flash of lightning lit everything up for an instant, and there it was, a few steps into the yard from the trees.
His first thought was bear, but it was standing on two legs, facing the house. The legs were shaped like a dog's, with that backward-bending hock clearly visible. Dark fur. The upper body was massive, a broad torso and arms that nearly reached the ground, so big it made the legs look small. He stood frozen, waiting for the next flash. When it came, the yard was empty. He bought a gun the next day and slept with it within reach.
Weeks went by with nothing. Then one night his satellite reception kept cutting out. He didn't like going outside after dark, but it was a quick fix. He took the rifle and a flashlight. The first thing he noticed was the silence. On a summer night those woods are usually alive with sound. There was nothing.
As he was adjusting the dish, a stick snapped to his left. He swung the light toward it and met a pair of eyes, red as blood. The head looked like a deformed German shepherd's, with a long snout and pointed ears. He hates using the word, but it looked like a werewolf. Its black fur was shaggy in patches, and it was hugely muscled. It was crouched half in and half out of the trees, about twenty feet away, and even crouching, its head was level with his. He's six feet tall. Standing, he figures it would have been eight.
The rifle never even crossed his mind. Looking back, he thinks it would only have made it angry. He backed away slowly, never breaking eye contact, then turned and ran harder than he ever had, without looking back. Inside he locked every door and window, closed every blind, and sat against the wall holding the gun until morning. He barely slept for days.
He doesn't live there anymore. People talk about Sasquatch like it's a peaceful part of nature, and maybe seeing one would be more awe than fear. This was different. It felt unnatural and sinister, like it had been stalking him and playing with him. He believes it would have killed him.