Living Among Bigfoot: Volumes 11-15 (Living Among Bigfoot: Collector's Edition Book 3): Living Among Bigfoot: Collector's Edition, #3

By Tom Lyons

The most shocking, TRUE bigfoot encounter you will ever read.

This special edition box set contains books 11-15 of the best-selling Living Among Bigfoot series from Tom Lyons, as well as brand new cover art by the talented Charles Guthrie!

Books that are included:
Living Among Bigfoot: Crossroads
Living Among Bigfoot: A Manor in the Marsh
Living Among Bigfoot: The Sinister Snickering
Living Among Bigfoot: Southeastern Simian
Living Among Bigfoot: Barnyard Brutality
 

Read it now to find out why it has become the most popular bigfoot book series ever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tom Lyons Books
• Release date: Nov 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9798224240555

Book preview

LIVING AMONG BIGFOOT

VOLUMES 11-15

A recount by:

Tom Lyons

Cover art by:

Charles Guthrie

www.CharlesGuthrieStudio.com

LIVING AMONG BIGFOOT: VOLUMES 11-15

Copyright © 2019 Tom Lyons

All rights reserved. No part of this may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior consent of the Author, with the exception of brief quotes used in reviews.

All information and opinions expressed in Living Among Bigfoot: Volumes 11-15 are entirely the Author’s and are based upon his own personal perspective and experiences. He does not purport the information presented in this book is based on any accurate, current or valid scientific knowledge.

Acknowledgments

It’s no easy task for someone to discuss their encounter with the sasquatch species. I would like to thank the many good people out there who made me feel as though my story matters. And thank you to those who obtained the courage to share their experiences.

This book is dedicated to my family and friends, as well as the believers, the knowers, and each and every individual who pushes for mainstream science to acknowledge the existence of these mysterious and elusive beings.

Contents

CROSSROADS

A MANOR IN THE MARSH

THE SINISTER SNICKERING

SOUTHEASTERN SIMIAN

BARNYARD BRUTALITY

Conclusion

Author’s Note

Mailing List Sign Up Form

Social Media

About the Author

CROSSROADS

Introduction

It goes without saying that my time spent in Idyllwild, California has irrevocably changed the course of my life. By no means is it a common occurrence to settle into a new home, only to learn two things: first that an elusive hominid species walks the earth alongside humans, and second, that there are people hard at work to keep this reality a secret. The full spectrum of reasons for this obvious concealment is something that I, as well as many others, are still trying to decipher.

Though some of my experiences were quite dangerous and worrisome at times, I’d be lying if I were to say that I don’t get some sense of satisfaction from the knowledge that I am one of the gatekeepers of this guarded truth. At times, this revelation induces mild feelings of anxiety, and at others, immense liberation. If you’ve ever had an inkling that there’s much more to this life than what most of us are told, rest assured your suspicion is correct.

As I’ve stated in the previous installments, I don’t blame anyone who doubts the truth of my recount. Believe me, before I had my encounter, I would’ve been just as dubious. All I can ask is that you maintain an open mind. There is still so much that we stand to learn about this mysterious species, and I hope that we can continue to do so together.

-Tom

Chapter 1

Horrified and in agonizing pain, I watched as an enormous set of fingertips dug their way into the terrain only twenty or so yards away from where I lay. A man in army fatigue had broken both my kneecaps and left me for dead. There was no question that the sedative from the tranquilizer dart that was lodged in the creature’s neck was still affecting its movements. Its motions were clumsy compared to the way I had seen the creatures move during past encounters. The beast clawed its way toward me, visibly dazed and unsteady, even on all fours. The agonizing slowness of its movements left me with far too much time to envision the barbaric onslaught that was headed my way. The pain in my legs was unbearable, and I found myself pleading with the god I never knew I believed in, to ensure that I would lose consciousness before I could feel much more of it. The sound and sight of the creature’s dirty nails scraping over the rough landscape were nauseating. What had I done to deserve to meet my end in this way? The digging noise grew louder and louder, closer and closer. I felt the creature’s hot, stale breath on my cheek. It wrapped one of its enormous extremities around my right shin, but I couldn’t feel anything.

It was still dark when I opened my eyes. The pain in my legs had miraculous disappeared. I blinked twice, but the darkness remained. Perhaps this is death, I wondered to myself. But if so, would I be trapped in this black nothingness forever? I reached around in the dark and felt the comfortable familiarity of the heavy, corduroy drapes. I peeled back one of the curtains to see that my elderly father was shoveling fresh snow from the driveway. It seemed he was almost finished as only the corner closest to where I lay remained covered with the powder. I quickly realized that this was why the digging noise had been getting louder and louder. I swiftly glanced at the nearby alarm clock, which was illuminated with 4:54 AM in big red block numbers. A deep yawn escaped my lips as I mustered the courage to depart from the warm sheets to throw on my robe and slippers.

It was the middle of December in Appleton, Wisconsin, so the heavy snowfall was anything but out of the ordinary. My father had always had a bit of an OCD about the snow; he would frantically run out and start to shovel at even the slightest suggestion of a flurry. Nothing worried him more than facing an overwhelming accumulation if he left it for too long. Every year come October he’d unearth the snow shovel from the confines of a crate in the garage and lean it against the coat rail by the front door. For whatever reason, he was adamant that he would never fork over money to the local township to have his lot plowed. He took great pride in the fact that even into his late seventies, he was still able to look after his property. There’s no question that everyone has their quirks, and my dad was no exception. This particular quirk had led to quite a few extremely early wakeups during my youth. Back in the day, it was an assigned chore, and once a week, he would force me out of bed to shovel. I think he hoped to pass on that very same sense of pride that he felt about his property.

Nowadays, I try to take over whenever I see him make for the shovel, mainly out of concern that he could slip on black ice and break something. It had become a ritual of sorts. After ushering him inside, I would have no choice but to stay out there, freezing my ass off until the rest of the driveway had been shoveled; otherwise, he’d head right back outside, all the while muttering something about the ‘youth’ these days being afraid of hard work. Never mind that it had been decades since anyone would have considered me a ‘youth’. Mom never even bothered getting out of bed to try and convince him otherwise; a marriage of nearly fifty-five years to the world’s most stubborn man had taught her it was no use.

Old age had only made his stubbornness more acute, and so on this cold December morning, he gave me his standard greeting; No, no... I got it, he said as he saw me approaching. He persistently scraped away at the light snow-coated blacktop. Dad, you’ve been at it long enough; it’s time for my shift, I replied, gently removing the tool from his frail grasp. Even though it was a very routine occurrence, the way he stubbornly protested every time would make anyone think otherwise. I couldn’t help but smile as I watched the old man totter back into the warmth of his home. His shuffling feet were barely visible under the hem of his coat, which now looked far too large for his shrinking frame. 

While there’s no denying that being back with the family for the holiday season was nice, it didn’t come without its own set of challenges. Though I had explained that I was home because my Idyllwild house had fallen victim to a wildfire, it was more difficult than I had expected to avoid disclosing what had truly gone on out west. My father, for the most part, left it alone and didn’t pry, but my mother was the more curious of the two. There was no doubt that she intuitively knew I was withholding more than a few details about why I drove all the way back to the Midwest so suddenly. If it weren’t for all the years of knowing her son to be an easygoing and very responsible type, there surely would’ve been more of an interrogation.

Even if I thought that anyone in the family would believe my recounts, there was no way for me to discuss it without mentioning that government personnel was involved and that I wasn’t exactly in the best standing with them. Was I morally obligated to brief everyone close to me about potential visits from police or other uniformed individuals? I just wasn’t prepared to do anything that might make my family question whether I had lost my mind or if I had legal troubles. But aside from the fact that I couldn’t be anywhere near honest with my parents, or the rest of my extended family who lived locally, there was something paralyzing about not being able to discuss the magnitude of my experience. Sure, I suppose I could’ve gone to a therapist or something of the sort; after all, I hadn’t broken the law, so I’m pretty certain that the shrink wouldn’t be obligated to alert the authorities. However, was there honestly any chance that I’d be taken seriously? I did not doubt that a professional would attempt to convince me that my recounts were little more than tall tales that I had concocted to deal with some deeper trauma.

When folks would curiously ask me about my plans, I casually replied that I was still trying to figure everything out; at least that was one thing I’d said that was completely truthful.

I had been back in the Midwest for multiple months and still hadn’t spoken to anyone who I had met during my fairly brief stay in California. Having switched over to an entirely new email portal for my work, I hadn’t accessed my primary email address even once—the one to which the cryptic messages had been sent suggesting that I vacate the region. Unfortunately, this was the only address that I had used to correspond with my pal, Lyle. I had also purchased a new cellphone through a different service provider, and to say it was a relief to toss the previous one in the trash would be an understatement. Though I yearned for updates on how everyone was holding up—especially Lyle and his family—my gut instinct told me that it was wise to sever any communication for the foreseeable future.

Given everything that had taken place at the ‘Whistling Meadow’, Doris and Vern were more than understanding when I informed them that it would be a while until they heard from me again. At times, I questioned whether this was all that necessary, but considering what I had unintentionally involved them in, it truly seemed for the best.

Furthermore, I had sort of resolved to disregard the subject of the creatures altogether. It wasn’t that I had lost interest, per se, it was simply that the more thought I put into the species, the more desperate I became to find answers. So, I did everything I could to move on, all the while knowing that one day I’d recommence sasquatch research from the cozy interior of a home, or somewhere I knew I’d be safe. Having said that, there was still one pesky, little thing that persistently snaked its way into my musings—the folded note that Ted Carter had asked Mr. Wynter to deliver to me. When he had given it to me at the edge of the ‘Whistling Meadow’, I had presumed it to be nothing more than a handwritten message. I assumed he would be attempting to make amends for the rigmarole I had gotten involved in as a result of being the closest thing he, and his wife Jill, had to a neighbor. However, after only a glance at its contents, I quickly came to realize that it was anything but an apology. Instead, it was a list of email addresses, some accompanied by a phone number, which belonged to a variety of folks from various regions. They all had one thing in common; every one of them had spotted hominids at or nearby their residences. Under normal circumstances, I would’ve considered everything on this sheet of paper to be inspired by a band of hoaxers. But, considering everything I had recently experienced, along with the fact that I knew Ted to be a sharp guy, I had a feeling that all these addresses were real.

However, perhaps the most peculiar aspect of this note was the fact that it contained one of Ted’s own email addresses, as well as the password to log into the account. The only major question that remained in my mind was what on earth he was hoping I, an average guy, would do with this information. The more I thought about it, the more I worried whether he provided me with the material because he suspected that he might be unable to continue his work. A more disturbing thought was that this could potentially imply that he didn’t trust anyone else, including his wife. The only thing that seemed certain was that he desired for the dialogue with these contacts to continue.

A few weeks after receiving the note, curiosity had gotten the better of me, and I had logged into the account. I believe it was the very same day that I first arrived back in the Midwest. The dates of the unopened messages sitting in his inbox had made it quite clear to me that quite some time had passed since Ted last logged on. At the time, I didn’t have the heart to browse through any of the contents. I accredited this lack of interest both to being burnt out on the topic of ‘sasquatch’, and to a feeling of awkwardness that manifested from logging into an account that didn’t belong to me, even though I had seemingly been granted permission. Looking back on it, perhaps the primary reason I didn’t want to read anything, was because I was intimidated by what additional truths I may have learned.

After getting the driveway to a point where I knew Dad would be satisfied, I kicked the fresh powder from my slippers and headed back to the room I was staying in. It had been my bedroom while I was growing up but had now become an office and occasional guestroom. I folded the mattress inward, transforming it back into its daytime identity of a sofa. Quickly realizing that I was now much too awake, I decided to pour myself some coffee and to get started on work while watching the sunrise. But it felt as though the harder I tried to take care of a few tedious tasks, the more an entirely separate train of thought forced its way into my mind to distract me.

That would be the morning where curiosity would once again prompt me to access the mysterious email account.

Chapter 2

I extracted the folded piece of paper from a manila folder that I had loosely placed in a cubbyhole attached to the desk. I wasn’t at all concerned about its location due to how rarely this room was used. The only reason my parents even had this ‘office’ was that my siblings had been encouraging them to learn web browsing and emailing, but neither of them had taken to it. After carefully entering the lengthy username and password, I reclined in my rotating chair, anxiously waiting for the portal to load. I was hoping to see a shorter list of unopened messages. That wasn’t the case. The same handful of unopened emails with the same dates remained. However, there appeared to be a new, very recent email that had only been sent the previous day. I double-clicked. It read:

"Mr. Barnes, 

It has become clear as day to me that you’ve lost interest in the research opportunities that I have offered you. That is fine, I suppose; life can be busy. What isn’t clear, to me, is why you’ve ceased to acknowledge my recent documents. Is everything alright? Please let me know.

Regards,

Mason"

I wasn’t at all puzzled by the fact that the message was addressed to a Mr. Barnes. I was confident it was nothing more than Ted taking the precaution of not tossing his name out there, due to the nature of the organization with which he was associated. My gut told me that it might have even been a precaution intended to protect the identities of those with whom he was corresponding.

I consulted Ted’s list. There was a line on the sheet of paper that matched the email address. I touched the name