The Thing Beneath Tuttle Bottoms

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They went searching for a legend in the swamps of Illinois.
They found proof it was real.
And it found them.

Intro (Nightly Storyteller):
"There are stories whispered around campfires that don’t stay put…"
The Nightly Storyteller leans closer to the candlelight, the flame dancing in his dark eyes.
"Sometimes, curiosity doesn’t lead to discovery—it leads to disappearance. So, if you ever find yourself chasing shadows through the backroads of Illinois… be careful what you wish for. You just may get it."

Story:
Two monster hunters—Eli and Morgan—had chased cryptids across the country for years, filming shaky YouTube videos that earned more ridicule than views. The latest rumor led them to southern Illinois, near Harrisburg, where the legend of the Tuttle Bottoms Monster supposedly lingered.

It was supposed to be another fun hunt—until they found the coin.

They stopped at a rusted truck stop off Route 13, the kind that smelled like burnt coffee and stale cigarettes. The waitress called them “hon” and poured watery coffee into chipped mugs. That’s when Morgan noticed it: a gold coin wedged between the napkin holder and the salt shaker. It glimmered unnaturally, as if lit from within.

“Lost treasure of the swamp,” Eli joked, pocketing it.

Outside, the wind howled. The woods beyond the highway seemed to lean closer.

They reached Harrisburg by sunset. Locals dismissed them with laughs or blank stares—until one man, gray-bearded and shaking, said he’d seen something two nights ago near the river. “Tall. Black as pitch. Eyes like headlights. Don’t go lookin’ for it,” he warned.

They did anyway.

They parked near the murky banks of the Saline River, the night humming with cicadas. The air was thick, sweet, and rotten—like something dead was hiding just out of sight. As they pitched their tent, a low splash echoed across the water. Then another.

“Probably a beaver,” Eli muttered. But his voice trembled.

As the night deepened, they heard whoops echoing through the trees—sharp, guttural, answering each other from opposite sides of the camp. Then came the rocks—small at first, then larger, thudding into the dirt near their feet.

“Eli…?” Morgan whispered. “That’s not human.”

Branches snapped. The air stank—wet fur, decay, and something metallic, like blood and rust.

They retreated into the tent, clutching their flashlights. Outside, heavy footsteps circled. Slow. Deliberate. Then silence.

The flap quivered. Eli raised the camera.

A massive clawed hand tore through the canvas ceiling, ripping it wide open. Their screams were drowned by the storm of noise—the shriek of metal, tearing fabric, and something inhuman roaring.

Then silence.

The camera fell. A single sound followed:
Clink. Clink. Clink.
The gold coin bounced once… twice… before rolling into the dark.

Outro (Nightly Storyteller):
The candle flickers. The Nightly Storyteller leans back with a grim smile.
"You can chase monsters if you like. But remember… legends are born for a reason. And if you find that gold coin waiting for you—leave it. Some treasures don’t want to be found."


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