Back in the 1990s, Kathy lived on the Kenai Peninsula across from a neighbor who was raising homestead animals and raising several children while her husband worked away on the North Slope. Shortly after sending her kids off to school one morning, Kathy answered an urgent knock at her door from the shaken neighbor pleading for help. Walking over to the homestead, Kathy was met with a chilling sight: eight or nine farm-raised meat rabbits lined up in pristine condition with their bodies still warm and limp, but every single head cleanly removed with zero blood or sign of a struggle.
The carnage and damage across the homestead defied any bear attack. Heavy welded angle-iron rabbit hutches were effortlessly bent open, every chicken was missing without a single loose feather left behind, and a heavy 2x12 floorboard fastened with spiral-shank nails had been dragged smoothly out from the barn foundation with immense force. More terrifying were the sixteen cords of firewood stacked for winter: massive split rounds had been hurled over 100 yards into the timber with enough velocity to knock thick bark off birch trees and gouge chunks out of the wood.
The neighbor tearfully recounted that the terror had unfolded over 45 minutes of blood-curdling screaming while she hid her terrified children upstairs. Refusing to contact authorities out of certainty they would dismiss the incident, she showed Kathy where the single towering entity had rampaged before slipping back into the forest. For Kathy, seeing the sheer physical devastation and calculated destruction marked the unsettling realization that something massive and unnatural was roaming the dense woods of the Kenai.
