The Tennessee Wildman

Packy Northrup was used to being ridiculed.

Once he opened the McNairy County Cryptozoology Center in the storefront of an abandoned video rental store in Selmer, Tennessee, he became a prime target of derision.

Scott Adamson writes stuff. Follow him on Bluesky @scottadamson1960.bsky.social

Long a student of legendary creatures and their origins, this awkward, self-described “doofus” saw his passion for “monsters” became a career – thanks in no small part to his Nashville family’s old money. Soon, he was able to set up a research facility near the state park, and even hire a couple of assistants.

But the MCCC rarely made it through a week without being vandalized. In fact, when he drove up to the building on the following day of its not-so-grand opening, a prankster had painted “Bigfoot Was Here” across the door.

However, things had taken a more serious turn – and tone – in recent months.

While people once laughed at him and his team for chasing everything from chupacabras to giant vampire bats (a late night search for the latter ended in disappointment when the “bat” was merely a black kite caught in a tree), the “Tennessee Wildman” had become the talk of the nation.

The creature, often compared to a Sasquatch, had supposedly been around since Native Americans nurtured the land. Descriptions almost always had it standing more than seven feet tall and covered in wiry, gray hair. Its red eyes glowed in the dark, and the beast would unleash a bloodcurdling scream when closing in on its prey.

Superhuman speed and strength made it the alpha of all alphas, and from time to time residents would claim to spot “TW,” as they called him, streaking through the woods.

But teams of cryptozoologists from across the country had come to Tennessee to search for the Wildman over the last year, and none of them had returned.

The first crew, which ventured down from Indiana, featured five members equipped with the latest in “cryptid hunting technology.”

When they fell off the radar, police and rescue teams went searching. They found their equipment and campsite largely undisturbed and authorities concluded they must have drowned.

Later it was a six-person team from Texas. They went into the state park on a Monday and disappeared with no signs of bodies or bones.

There were researchers from California, Missouri, Kentucky … teams continued to enter but never exit.

In all, there were 32 cryptozoologists who had ventured into the woods to find evidence of the Wildman, and all had vanished.

It had reached the point where police and park personnel had to at least consider the possibility that TW might actually exist, adding a tragic and frightening twist to the area’s folklore.

Bobby Senta and Cindy Kim, Packy’s assistants, clocked in at the MCCC early on a Friday morning and saw Packy arranging camping equipment.

“What’s up, boss?” Bobby asked, plopping down in a rolling chair behind his gray metal desk.

“I’m going in,” Packy said, carefully laying a tranquilizer gun on the floor. “The Tennessee Wildman is real, and I’m gonna find him. And I’m gonna find the people who went after him, too. There are no tattered clothes, no blood trail, nothing. I think they’re still out there.”

Sally crossed her arms and snorted.

“Dude, they’re gone,” she said. “And you’ll be gone, too. And then all of a sudden me and Bobby are out of a job because our boss has been eaten by Temu Yeti. You really need to leave this alone, Packy. I mean, we didn’t sign up for this. We thought it’d be a fun gig, chasing shadows and all that shit, but I sure as hell don’t want to tangle with a real monster.

“I’m not asking either of you to go with me,” Packy said curtly, placing tranquilizer darts in the green duffle bag on his desk. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to prove this wasn’t a joke, and if I have to lose my life to prove it, so be it.”

Both Bobby and Sally were taken aback by Packy’s solemn determination, and neither said a word as he stormed out the door to load up his Jeep Wrangler.

Packy drove in silence for the next 45 minutes, a journey that took him to one of the primitive campground spots inside the park. With all the missing cryptozoologists and the panic among the members of the community, he doubted he’d encounter any other humans.

And truth be told, he was scared; since not one member of any of the research teams had made it out this could, indeed, be a suicide mission.

But what if he could somehow engage the creature, just long enough to get documentation? It would be like pulling Nessie out of Loch Ness or, holding a press conference near the Klamath River in Northern California – one that featured a real Bigfoot, and not a man wearing a gorilla suit.

As he wandered deeper into the woods and daylight began to fade, he decided to set up camp. He anchored his pop-up tent, proceeded to build a fire, and simultaneously hoped and dreaded that the light might draw out TW.

An hour passed – then two – but Packy remained on high alert as the sun disappeared. Suddenly, he heard a rustling sound in the woods. He jumped to his feet and clumsily reached for his tranquilizer gun, aiming at nothing and everything.

His heart was pounding as he spied a figure moving toward him through the brush. Instead of a tall, hairy Tennessee Wildman, though, it was a short young man wearing what appeared to be tan coveralls.

“You can put that down, buddy,” the man said. “I’m not gonna hurt you. Nobody is.”

As the unexpected visitor moved closer Packy thought he looked familiar, but couldn’t quite place him.

“My name’s Aiden Jones,” the man said. “I’m from the Lubbock Cryptid Society. Why don’t you follow me – and you don’t need that weapon.”

Packy realized Jones was one of the missing crew from Texas, and he was both shocked and relieved to see him alive. He reluctantly put down the gun and followed Jones, who walked to a cypress tree, placed his right hand on its trunk and pressed as though he was pushing a button.

Approximately 10 feet from the tree, a portal that resembled a glowing sinkhole opened in the ground.

Jones walked to its edge, looked back at Packy and smiled.

“Wanna take a leap of faith?” he asked, extending his left hand.

Packy crept closer to the portal, gripped Jones’ hand, and before he could form another thought, found himself standing in a lush forest covered by clear blue skies.

As he looked around, he saw researchers going about their business – as well as several creatures who fit the description of the Tennessee Wildman. They were all mingling. One of the TWs was pointing to a tree and gesturing with its long, hairy arms as three people looked on with great interest.

“Not what you expected, huh?” Jones said. “This place is called Asthenos, and those guys we used to call the Tennessee Wildman when we were up top are natives to this interior part of earth. They don’t speak, but after a few days you’ll find you can communicate with them through a form of telepathy. It’s pretty wild.”

Instead of being traumatized by his fantastical situation, Packy felt … happy.

“It kinda seems like I’m supposed to be here,” he said.

“You are,” Jones said. “We all are. I’m guessing the police are out looking for all the researchers who came here, but they won’t find us because they won’t be invited in by the Asthosians. When they sent me out looking for you, I knew you were one of us. So many people think we’re kooks, but we’re kooks who stumbled into paradise. Everything you see on a tree is edible  and delicious. There are other creatures here – cryptids – beyond your imagination running through the woods, and soon they’ll be running up to you to get a bite of your buska berry. A buska berry, by the way, is kinda like a cross between a sweet apple and tangerine. And the Asthosians? They’re guardians. They’ll occasionally go up top to get leaves and berries for some of the special foods they prepare, but they aren’t attacking people or animals. They don’t want to harm anything or anybody.”

Jones handed Packy a buska berry and he took a big bite, chuckling as the juice rolled down his chin. He didn’t fully understand what was going on. Hell – he didn’t understand at all. Regardless, he was completely at peace. He wanted to interact with the Asthosians and learn more about them. He couldn’t wait to see the other cryptids. Mostly, he longed to explore this new world.

And while he was also curious as to how he got here – and how he could get back to the park – those were questions that could be answered another day.

Then again, maybe he already had his answer.

Why would any cryptozoologist ever want to leave?

He took another bite from his buska berry, and smiled.

Couples therapy

Minnie Milton fidgeted nervously on the couch, occasionally glancing up at the colorful, abstract artwork on the wall across from her – but rarely looking Dr. Nelson in the eyes.

It was her first time to attend couples therapy with this particular counselor, and she was having difficulty getting comfortable with a new face in a new space.

Scott Adamson writes stuff. Follow him on Bluesky @scottadamson1960.bsky.social

“Mrs. Milton, I realize we don’t know each other well, and I can certainly understand how it might be difficult to open up,” said Nelson, leaning back in his leather chair. “But listen … we have a full hour for this first session, so let’s just ease into things, OK? No pressure, no expectations.”

Minnie said her husband, Carl, refused to attend the first meeting, which was part of their problem.

“Any time I tell him we need to see someone about our issues, he always has an excuse,” she explained. “Usually it’s work, and he’ll tell me it’s something that’s time sensitive and has to be dealt with right then. When I say work can wait, he’ll say things like, ‘the car won’t pay for itself,’ or the ‘house won’t pay for itself,’ … things like that.”

Dr. Nelson scribbled on his notepad and nodded.

“Let’s put all that aside for a moment,” he said. “Just walk me through a typical day – a typical work day.”

“Well, we get up around 5 a.m., and neither one of us are much on breakfast so usually we just drink coffee. Whoever gets to the kitchen first makes the pot and we have two cups each. And then I’ll sit on one end of the couch and he’ll sit on the other, and we’ll play word games on our phones for, oh, about an hour or so. Then after that we both go to work. We’re both involved in acquisitions.”

The doctor added a few more notations.

“I see,” he said. “And I’m guessing since you two are in the same line of work there’s likely some competition, and competition sometimes causes friction in a marriage. When you get home from work, do you compare notes? And by that I mean, do you discuss what you accomplished? I’ll bet more times than not you find yourselves trying to one-up each other, even if you don’t realize it. Sometimes that can be fun, but over time it can become unhealthy.”

Minnie sighed.

“You know, you could be right. We’re both very focused on our jobs, and really that’s our main problem, I think. We both want to be successful in the working world that sometimes it affects our personal life. We don’t really argue much at all, it’s just that at the end of the day we find that we haven’t made enough time for each other.”

Minnie was feeling more comfortable with Dr. Nelson, and the rest of the session seemed to fly by. By the time the hour was done, she was laughing and thanking the counselor profusely for making her feel better.

“I think we made a lot of progress in a short period of time,” Dr. Nelson said. “But the key is to get your husband to come with you to one of these sessions. Any chance we could do that same time next week?”

Minnie thought for a moment and shrugged.

“I don’t know, doc,” she said. “I’m not sure he thinks there’s a problem. And truthfully, with our jobs, it’s hard for us to get things lined up at the same time. Just let me call your office and try to arrange the next meeting. I’m not sure it’ll be next week, but I’ll be in touch.”

The two shook hands and Minnie walked out of the office, waved at the receptionist and headed for the elevator.

Once she reached the ground floor and exited the office building, she called Carl on her cellphone.

“Hey, sweetie,” she said. “How did it go?”

“Really well,” said Carl, who was driving away from Dr. Nelson’s house. “Dude had a couple of nice paintings that I was able to get into the trunk, and I found a little jewelry and more than $600 in cash. Not the best haul I’ve ever gotten but it wasn’t bad for an hour’s work.”

“Excellent,” Minnie said. “Next week we’ll try a Dr. Phillips. She lives in the Brookside neighborhood, so she should have plenty of stuff worth taking. I’ll text you her number and you can make the appointment. But this time, you sit through the session while I rob the house. Sound good?”

“Sounds great, Minnie. Love you!”

“I love you more!”

Meeting the principal

The principal’s office at Albert Bacon Fall Middle School was quite welcoming, its mustard yellow walls decorated by pictures of smiling students, colorful world maps and red and gold pennants featuring the ABF Teapots’ short and stout mascot.

Even the chairs reserved for parents were a cheery blue, and situated in front of a modest, laminate desk covered with knickknacks. So, to see the school principal – Dewey Kankle – with a serious frown on his face certainly changed the vibe.

Scott Adamson writes stuff. Follow him on Bluesky @scottadamson1960.bsky.social

Michael and Mary Smith had been called to his office to discuss some artwork rendered by their son, Michael Jr., who everyone called Mike. The youngster had been a model student since joining the school at the start of the year, making straight A’s and managing to be well-liked among just about all of his classmates whether they were in the sixth, seventh or eighth grade.

His parents couldn’t imagine what prompted the meeting – and the principal’s concern.

“Mr. and Mrs. Smith, thank you so much for taking the time to meet with me today,” Kankle said while shuffling several drawing papers. “I’m sure you’re both busy, but I just felt it was important to address this now and head off a potential problem before it becomes a full blown crisis.”

Michael, with a confused look on his face, leaned over in his chair.

“I don’t understand, Mr. Kankle. From everything we hear from Mike, things are going great here. I mean, he’s never made anything less than an A, has he? Plus, he does a lot of extracurriculars and has quite a few friends.”

“Oh, he’s a magnificent student,” Kankle said. “Smart as a whip. And according to his science teacher, his knowledge in that particular discipline is off the charts – far beyond that of most 12-year-olds. But as upsetting as it might be, you need to look at these drawings.”

Kankle handed several sheets of paper to the couple, who looked at them one by one.

“Well,” Mary said. “this looks like a pretty representative sample of what Mike draws in his spare time. He really enjoys detailing the figures, and he prides himself on making freehanded circles. Is he doing this in other classes and causing a disruption? Do his teachers think he’s not paying attention?”

The figures had large, winding horns, long, black tails and cloven hooves. The circles encased a five-pointed star.

Kankle’s eyes widened as he looked at the parents.

“Do you … do you seriously not realize what your son is drawing?” he asked, incredulously.

“Yeah, I mean … sure,” Michael said. “He’s just drawing figures and geometric symbols. He’s been doing this for as long as we can remember, and he’s getting really good at it.”

“Figures? Geometric symbols? Mr. and Mrs. Smith,” Kankle said, his voice rising, “What your son is drawing are demons and pentagrams. Now, far be it from me to tell anyone how to raise their child, but once his art teacher saw these and passed them to me, it raised a huge red flag. To you, it might seem harmless – drawing figures and symbols, as you say. To me, however, it’s planting the seeds of Satanism. Today, he’s just drawing. But the next thing you know, he’s listening to Black Sabbath, disemboweling cats and sacrificing virgins.”

Mary and Michael burst out in laughter.

“Oh, my goodness, Mr. Kankle,” Mary said. “We don’t mean to laugh – or be disrespectful – but you’ve got it all wrong. That’s not what he’s drawing. At all. Of course, now that you mention it, I could see where you’d make the mistake.”

“There’s no mistake!” Kankle huffed. “Show this to any human, and they’ll tell you what’s on that paper are demons and pentagrams!”

“Fair point,” Michael said. “Look, we might as well be honest with you, Mr. Kankle. Humans might mistake these for demons and pentagrams, but to inhabitants of Fundor – I think your astronomers call it TOI-715 b – these images represent something else entirely. The creatures you say are demons are actually Corbin Beasts, which populate a large portion of our planet. They’re also great pets, similar to your dogs and cats. Here, this is the one we have at home, Goobus Boo.”

Michael raised his right hand, squeezed his seven fingers together and produced a hologram – one which showed an image of Mike and Goobus Boo throwing an orb back and forth.

Kankle sat in stunned silence as Michael opened his hand and the hologram disappeared. The Smiths then got up and moved toward the door.

“Oh, and about the pentagram thing …” Mary said. “That’s just what the underside of our spacecraft looks like. What you think signifies demons is just a transportation symbol to us. But you can see for yourself on Sunday night around, oh, 10 o’clock … that’s when the invasion begins, so a whole fleet will be filling the skies.

”Anyway, don’t worry about Mike. He’s a good kid.”