Bigfoot’s Secret Beneath the City: A Folklore Tale of Abandoned Subway Tunnels and the Terrifying Events That Followed My Discovery 

I. The City of Abandoned Dreams

Long ago, in the early 20th century, the people of Cincinnati dreamed of a subway that would carry them swiftly beneath the streets. They carved tunnels of stone and concrete, laid platforms with tile and iron benches, and built chambers deep below the city.

But the dream faltered. Money ran dry, and the tunnels were left unfinished. For decades they lay silent, forgotten beneath the bustle of the Queen City. Rats scurried, water seeped, and mold grew thick upon the walls.

Yet in folklore, it is said that emptiness never remains empty for long. Where men abandon, other beings may claim.

II. The Inspector of Shadows

In the late 20th century, there lived a man named Harold Jennings. He was no dreamer, but a worker of the city, tasked with walking the forgotten ways. For twenty-two years he descended ladders into the dark, carrying lamp and tools, checking for cracks, leaks, and dangers.

Harold knew every turn, every puddle, every rat colony. The tunnels were his domain, a place of solitude where few dared tread.

But in September of 1998, Harold’s path led him to a secret that would haunt him forever.

III. The Complaints from Above

The people of Race Street whispered of noises in the night: rumbling, banging, echoes from beneath their homes. The city grew uneasy, and Harold was sent to investigate.

He descended into Section Seven, near the old Brighton station, where tile still gleamed faintly beneath graffiti and rust. He walked with steady steps, his lamp cutting through the dark.

At first, all was as it had always been: cracks in concrete, puddles of water, the squeak of rats. But then Harold saw marks upon the dust—drag marks, fresh and heavy, leading into a maintenance tunnel.

IV. The Tracks of Giants

Harold followed the marks, and there he found footprints. They were vast, sixteen inches long, seven inches wide, pressed deep into mud and dust. Five toes, a heel, bare and heavy.

No prankster could make such prints. No man could weigh so much, nor stride so far. Harold’s heart quickened, for he knew these were not human.

He followed them deeper, into a pump room long abandoned, where a grate had been torn away by strength no crowbar could match. Beyond lay a tunnel sloping downward, into older brickwork and deeper silence.

V. The Cave of the Hidden One

Harold descended, and the smell met him: musky, organic, like the dens of great beasts. He heard breathing, deep and rhythmic, echoing in the stone.

The tunnel opened into a cave, carved by ancient waters. Stalactites hung like teeth, and an underground stream whispered in the dark.

And there, in the center, upon a nest of blankets, cardboard, and newspapers, sat a figure.

It was massive, seven feet tall even seated, with shoulders broad as doors. Its body was covered in dark hair, its face heavy-browed and flat, its eyes deep and knowing.

Harold froze, for he had found what the people of the forests called Bigfoot. But this was no forest—it was beneath Cincinnati, in the forgotten subway.

VI. The Meeting of Eyes

The creature looked at Harold, and Harold looked at the creature. For a long moment, neither moved.

Then the beast rumbled, a sound low and resonant, not of rage but of warning. Harold stepped back, whispering words of peace: I will not harm you. I will leave.

The creature watched, its eyes dark and intelligent, and Harold felt it understood. He backed away, step by step, until the cave was swallowed by darkness.

VII. The Burden of Knowledge

Harold returned to the surface, shaken. He told his supervisor only of drag marks and torn grates, not of the beast itself. For who would believe him?

Yet he could not sleep. He wrote notes by lamplight, recalling the nest, the smell, the eyes. He wondered how long the creature had lived there, what it ate, how it survived.

The abandoned subway was perfect: miles of tunnels, access to caves, streams for water, dumpsters above for food. It was a hidden world beneath the city, a refuge for something that wished to remain unseen.

VIII. The Team Descends

The city grew restless, and soon a team was sent: Harold, his supervisor Carl, two engineers, and two police officers. They descended together, their lamps casting many shadows.

They found the drag marks, the torn grate, the pump room. They followed the slope into the cave.

There they saw the nest, more elaborate than Harold had realized, filled with scavenged bedding and wrappers of food. Footprints covered the floor, vast and undeniable.

And then they heard it: a rumble from the dark passages, a warning that shook the stone.

IX. The Voice of the Cave

The officers froze, hands on weapons. The engineers whispered of impossibility. Carl’s face grew pale.

The rumble came again, louder, insistent. It was not a roar of attack, but a voice of territory: Leave this place.

They backed away, slowly, their lamps trembling. And in the shadows, Harold saw movement: a massive shape, watching, waiting.

The team retreated, their courage shaken. None spoke of Bigfoot, but all felt the truth in their bones.

X. The Folklore of the Queen City

From that day, Harold carried the secret. He told no one of the eyes that met his own, of the rumble that spoke without words.

But in folklore, the tale spread. The people whispered of the Beast Beneath the Queen City, the Hidden One who dwelt in the abandoned subway.

They said it was a remnant of ancient tribes, driven from forests into caves, surviving where men forgot. They said it scavenged at night, slipping through grates to take food from dumpsters, returning before dawn.

And they said it warned those who came too close, rumbling from the shadows, guarding its hidden home.

XI. The Lesson of the Hidden One

The folklore teaches:

That emptiness invites the unseen.
That beneath cities, as beneath forests, mysteries endure.
That some beings wish not for war, but for solitude.
That respect for the hidden may be wiser than conquest.

The Beast Beneath Cincinnati is remembered not as a monster, but as a guardian of silence, a dweller in forgotten places, a kin of mankind who chose shadow over light.

XII. The Enduring Echo

Even now, the people whisper. Urban explorers speak of footprints in dust. Workers hear rumbling in the night. Children tell tales of a giant in the tunnels.

And in folklore, the story endures: of Harold Jennings, who met the Hidden One beneath the Queen City, and lived to tell of eyes that understood, of a voice that warned, of a creature that was better left undisturbed.