Ohio Woman Recalls 12-Year Bigfoot Encounter on Family Cattle Farm

There's something about a firsthand account from someone who lived alongside these beings for over a decade that hits differently than your typical sighting report. A recent video dropped that features exactly that kind of story, and it's one that deserves attention. A 78-year-old woman named Marlene, who has lived on the same 140 acres in the hill country of Guernsey County, Ohio since 1979, shares a remarkable tale about a tall figure that walked her family's fence line for years. What makes her account stand out isn't just the presence of the visitor, but what it eventually revealed to her family. The farm has deep roots. Marlene's husband's great-grandfather, Isaac, purchased the land after returning from the Civil War in 1865. Like many farmers in that part of Ohio during the late 1800s, Isaac dug his own coal seam into the hillside, what old-timers called a "farmer's bank" or "country bank." These small private mines were common throughout Appalachian Ohio, where seams of bituminous coal ran through the hills. Bisville and the surrounding area had deep mines all around it in the early 1900s, and many families supplemented their farming income by selling extra coal to neighbors. Isaac's bank sat in the hollow below the house, behind a spring that stained everything orange. That orange tint comes from iron oxide, a natural result of groundwater passing through iron-rich deposits common in coal-bearing regions. Locals often called it "sulfur water" because of the smell and color, though iron was usually the actual culprit. The mine was sealed up around 1897, with flat rocks stacked across the mouth and dirt shoveled against them. Sumac and multiflora rose eventually covered the entrance so completely that you couldn't find it unless you already knew where to look. Isaac warned his grandson Chester about the sealed workings, telling him about the "black damp" inside, which is exactly what miners called it. For those unfamiliar, black damp is a real and dangerous phenomenon in old mines. It's the term for air that has had its oxygen displaced, primarily by carbon dioxide, which is heavier than regular air and settles in low places. When barometric pressure drops outside, the trapped air inside old workings pushes out to equalize, which old miners called a "mine breathing." Before gas detectors existed, miners tested for it the same way Isaac did with young Chester, holding a lit match or candle near the opening. If the flame dimmed and died, the air was bad. This is why miners traditionally avoided sitting in low spots near old workings on still evenings, and why Chester's note on the gate read simply "close by dark." The family kept cattle, mostly black baldy cows (Hereford crossed with Angus), and followed Chester's habit of never letting the herd stay in the hollow pasture overnight, especially after mid-August when the air would get still and heavy. Then in 1980, coyotes started moving into the area in force. Ohio's coyote population exploded during the late 1970s and 1980s as the animals expanded their range eastward from the plains. Farmers across the state started losing calves, and the family noticed something remarkable: the tall figure that walked their fence line after dark seemed to be running off the coyotes. For years, they believed this guardian was simply protecting their pasture. They had the rest of it wrong. According to Marlene's account, one April night, the figure walked right up to their yard and stood there waiting. When Marlene and her husband Lel followed it down into the hollow, it stopped at the sealed mine entrance, picked up a creek stone about the size of a hen's egg, and dropped it into a crack in the ground. They listened as the stone clicked off rock twice, then went quiet long enough that Marlene thought it had lodged somewhere. Then they heard it hit water. They had been living on top of that sound for 12 years. So had their cows. So had their children. The old mine had filled with water over the decades, and the figure had apparently been trying to show them what lay beneath their land all along. Whether it was warning them, protecting them from the danger of the sealed workings, or something else entirely, Marlene doesn't speculate. She simply tells it the way it happened. What makes this account particularly compelling is the multi-generational element. Isaac knew something about that mine back in the 1800s. Chester carried that knowledge forward. And the figure that walked their fence line for over a decade apparently carried it forward too, waiting until the family was ready to understand what it was trying to communicate. This is the kind of story that reminds you these aren't just creatures passing through the woods. They know the land. They know the history. And sometimes, they decide to share what they know. The full account is worth hearing in Marlene's own words. She mentions she's only told this story to about six people in her life, and she's sharing it now because her granddaughter told her there are folks who would want to hear it from someone who was actually there. At 78, she's past worrying what the neighbors think. Check out the video for the complete telling. It's one of those accounts that stays with you.