Cryptid Case in Cranberry Glade | Case #001 | Part 1/3

The old BCwPA was up to a lot. These recreated tapes are on a creature from West Virginia. Based on 18th century journals and field research, this is just the beginning of something called the "Proboscis Bird." European exploration, birds, smells, and the swamp, grab your pith hat for a new adventure.

Music and sound effects provided by Epidemic Sound.
Additional narration by PHouseGames.
This show is fully funded and made free thanks to the Ballyraven Patreon.
References images and sources can be found in the episode webpage.  

Transcript

Welcome, agents. Today, we’re talking about rare, Appalachian birds–ones that are now presumed to be extinct. Our story takes us to a peat bog in southern West Virginia. There are six cryptid birds in the state alone, but this one is likely the only one you know anything about. Though, what you would know isn’t its name, appearance, or habits, but a fact that turned into an old wives tale. 

Titled, “the Case of Cranberry Glade” in the archives, this file will answer a question we pulled out of our mailbox.

Dear Ballyraven,
A lot of people say that if you touch a baby bird, the parents won’t recognize its smell and will abandon it. I don’t think this is true, but I’m not 100% sure. If I’m right, why has it become such a common myth?
Thanks, Birdwatching Bubba
 

Bubba is right. Birds generally have a poor sense of smell, relying instead on seeing or hearing to recognize their young. Picking up and placing a baby back in its nest won’t harm nestlings—the bird stage where they look like pink or brown wads of wrinkled skin. Its parents will continue to care for it as usual, no harm done. Some birds are worse with misplaced chicks than others, but it’s not because of smell. Several species of bird will direct fledglings back to their nest if they fall out, but others, like the Grey-headed Albatross, will only recognize their young if they are physically in the nest, providing no help to get back home. There is one bird, though, that this information simply doesn’t apply to.

To find the origin of this general bird myth, we have to go a few hundred years back in time, to the 18th century–the 1700s. An exploration team in the Cranberry Glades came across something they described as “foul and peculiar”; the trip and the creature were well documented in a journal written during the expedition. Afterward, we will answer several questions about the animal, using agents’ investigation notes from 1974, and providing modern commentary and explanations from the BCwPA Field Guide.

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This program is based on old BCwPA educational materials, before the original organization was disbanded; all information has been rerecorded and translated for a modern audience, with portions of original audio kept, when possible, and emulated elsewhere.

This case is the first we will cover on our public broadcasting station. It is the perfect introductory file for new and rusty agents alike. As you listen, ask and write down questions. What do you think about the information being presented? Does anything stick out to you? 

Based on a series of journals, field notes, and tapes, we will listen to what the Ballyravens left us and go from there.

What’s real? What’s human hoax or fae trickery? What don’t we know? Why? Let’s figure it out together.

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Loud, heavy boots trekked down the mountainside, the ground cragged and gritty with sandstone. Gear clanged and rattled, the noise bouncing down into the valley, announcing the party’s invasion. Deer and rabbits fled while squirrels and birds watched from their perches. A turkey vulture followed above. Crossing over this chain was no easy feat, and the exploration team was exhausted and marred by misfortune. Once 60 men strong, they numbered less than 30, losing several along the way to illness, violence, and bad luck. Most unfortunate was the loss of their guides, who simply disappeared two weeks prior, and the team’s expert frontiersman, only two days ago. Concerns heightened. The expedition, or perhaps the land, was cursed. Thomas Fallam, leader of the party, was also experiencing some malady. Outwardly in good health, with no injuries or symptoms, he never seemed to sleep. He was seen and heard rummaging through the camp at night, staring down into a fire, or standing alone in the woods. It was feared he was coming down with the ‘madness of the mountain’, an illness believed to develop in some who breathe in air from high altitudes. They could only watch and hope the signs abated over the course of their descent.

Drawn by rich forests, abundant wildlife, the anticipation, expectation of discovery and wealth led them here. In what is now called the Allegheny Mountains, the land peaks at 3,400 feet, gradually sloping into a valley; nearly 300 miles from the nearest settlement, it would be an understatement to call the trek challenging, even for an experienced, well-equipped team. Expeditions once cut through Virginia to find nearby access to the Pacific Ocean, later to support England’s claim over the territory, and, now, to increase the English' s presence and survey for settlement.

A strong, refreshing breeze occasionally whipped up towards them. While it made it harder to walk down, it felt wonderful, cooling them off on their trek into the lowlands. Dressed in wools, the men were usually hot or cold, but never comfortable. They dressed in baggy coats, thinner waistcoats, stockings, and tall, stuffy leather boots. While the material kept a body warm in the cold, there was nothing one could do in the heat but remove layer after layer. And, when wet, the clothing became heavy. 

The lower and lower they walked, the thicker and more humid the air became. The next day was even more terrible. Weighed down by their wools, further down, they encountered sloshing mud. Their surroundings morphed from a dense forest to a bog; a stream cut through their path, then another. The ground became slicker and tacky, the unavoidable mud gripping and pulling boots right off the foot. The water pooled around their ankles, then calves, saturating them entirely, irritating and hurting their skin. There were no attempts at drying–and no hopes of temporary relief for the rest of the day. The pleasant breeze died, which added boiling in the humidity to their list of complaints. The night was barely tolerable. Fallam wandered in a circle around camp; the rhythmic, yet occasionally erratic, slap of his bare feet put the men on edge.

Finding good footholds the next day was a struggle. The earth was just as soaked as they were, squishing and squeaking with each step, fizzling with water like a wrung sponge. The mosses built tall knolls that were easily tripped over, reaching 3 feet high in some places; the vibrant, bubbly tangle of vegetation and rock was tied in place and smothered by vines and bushes. Before them, in the distance and under the setting sun, was a beautiful sea of gently swaying wildflowers, herbs, and grasses in yellow, orange, and green speckled with bright white and red.

Seeking a place to camp, they settled on a small, somewhat dry hill under a sprawling swamp maple; the area was littered with clusters of broken sticks, little bones, and long-lost feathers, The debris was not a welcome sight. Something had been here and attacked–and likely more than just once, counting all of the bones. While the carnage looked far from fresh, the possibility that whatever made it could still be somewhere, hidden in the vast bog, was not a welcome consideration. 

There was also a smell; the valley, though lovely to look at, emitted a foul aroma, like putrid vegetables and fish. The hill somehow smelled even worse than the disturbances released earlier in the mire with each muddy stomp. Fallam, with an unblinking, wild, wide-eyed stare, smiled as the party discussed whether to go back or forward, whether they should spend the night elsewhere. Concluding the debate, he insisted they should stay, as he would like “a chance to see what kind of beast might do such a thing.”

The team built a small fire, cooked leftover game, and argued over watch; no one felt much like sleeping, even though their weary bodies demanded it. The roar of insects was an eerie combination of new sounds and a few familiar ones. The sway and windy jerk of grass and leaves teased invisible creatures and possibly concealed real ones’ movements. The firelight played tricks, creating the reflective glint of nonexistent eyeballs and shadowy figures. And the smell—it never let one feel at ease, always returning with a new, acidic, deathly edge.

The journal recounted many thoughts and fears of an imagination run amuck: the undead waiting on the scummy swamp bottom, crawling up from the water once they gave in to sleep; a giant serpent in the tree, posed to strike with its mouth spread wide and breathing heavily; a slinking, diseased, evil panther circling the mound, plotting how to take them down one-by-one. Fallam sat near a fire, his eyes fixated on the darkness.

Leaning against a tree and never quite falling asleep, one noted a shift in the atmosphere late that night. A breeze picked up and cut through the bog, smacking into the camp along the way; the scent it carried was beyond foul. Sickened, he fell on all fours. Senses overwhelmed, head spinning, mouth-watering, he tried to hold his nose and keep his meager dinner inside. Pallid, his eyes rose slowly, leveling with the field's pointed, woozying top. The air stilled once more, but in the distance, just out of the firelight's reach, the bog was rustling. Not the way the wind would rustle it but the way something walking through it would. Frightened into a stillness, he held his breath once more, fingers quivering, legs tight springs. A musket sat a few feet away; he grabbed it. There was nowhere to run. And yet, that is what Fallam did; sprinting towards the movement, he disappeared into the night.

More shaking appeared in the grasses, but not in the same place. The movement was all around and the general stench of the air intensified. Splashing, squelching, wet sounds encircled the hill, as did muted thumpa-thumps. He called out, expecting a mad Fallam, but received no response. 

A clawed foot reached from the field. It hung above the moss, slowly splaying out and down, squishing into the green. Another claw breached, attached to a long, stick-like arm. A round body bobbed up and down in a rhythm of three quick movements. The creature's head was tucked into itself; feeling the air upon it, it stretched, exposing a wrinkled gullet with tufts of hair scattered over it like a nearly bald head. A long line of fur was upon its back, standing on end and pointing out in two directions like a bat's wings frozen mid-flap. It stared up at the author, sending a shiver down his back; it had no eyes, only a long rectangular head of melty, rumpled skin. The flesh on the tip of its face inflated into a ball, hissing and deflating in a puff of air. The animal shined in the firelight; a brown ooze dripped from its body and trailed down its legs, gathering bits and pieces of what it traveled through.

Undoubtedly, this creature was the source of the hill's bad smell. It walked forward with hesitant movements, its head twitching up and down, its bulbous nose inflating, deflating. Frozen, he recounted watching the creature as a shout sent the camp into chaos. Its face tilted upward, it gave a deep sniff and flapped two heavy wings before rushing forward and into his arm. Scared, he scuttled backward, hitting his back against the tree. The thing had fallen, as well, landing awkwardly on its back; it rolled around, righting itself after a slight struggle. It shook, puffing its feathers out, then continued forward, unbothered. Looking around frantically, he realized the things were coming into the clearing in hordes. The explosive sound and acrid smell of gunfire surrounded him. Clumps of the things fell in heaps. Yet, the creatures ambled forward.

From all sides, the beasts stepped onto the hill, walking over corpses of their brethren, towards the fires, sniffling loudly. One broke from the shrinking circle, a beeline into a burning pit. As the flames hit, it honked, thrashing wildly, flapping, kicking, and snorting. Another ran, and another, and another. They clinked against a cookpot, the fifth attack sending it rolling downhill. The birds sizzled and smoked and fluttered around; their honking stopped most of the shooting. 

The sniffling restarted, a loud, audible wave; the birds changed course, some running for the tumbling pot. Others began charging those who had caught on fire or were shot, pecking and tearing at their flesh hungrily. 

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Known today as the Cranberry Glades, this 750-acre bog in Pocahontas, West Virginia, is where the Sightless Swamp Bird was first documented and last seen. It is an animal few are familiar with, except the most thorough cryptozoologists. Referred to by a few other names, like the Proboscis Bird (for its oversized nose) and the Stinkbird (for its natural musk), it nearly went extinct due to these 18th-century explorers.

Killing a massive amount, they then captured every bird that had wandered in or near their camp. The animals were unafraid of humans initially, but also couldn’t successfully evade capture even when they tried. Throwing together a makeshift pen, the animals were drawn in and corralled over the course of several weeks. It seemed that the more birds they had nearby, the more newcomers were drawn in. Building larger and larger pens, they set trap boxes and lures, the birds an unending stream of intrigue and food. The little camp was surrounded by hundreds of stinking birds by the weeks’ end: from old, nearly featherless elders to fuzzy, yet mostly bald chicks. The hatchlings were easiest to work with; less than 6 inches long, and even less intelligent than their parents, they ate anything presented to them and did not mind poking, prodding, or handling as much.

Unusually docile at night, as the sun rose, they grew more aggressive. They pecked at hands, feet, faces, anything in reach, with a sharp, one-toothed beak that was hidden under their fleshy nose; surprisingly strong and vicious, the attacks left deep, painful wounds. Aside from pecking, they would relentlessly hiss and screech, as well as violently thrash around. The “Stenchbird” was decidedly butchered at night to avoid these unpleasantries.

Easy to make into a meal, the birds’ aromatic, tough meat tasted as disgusting as it smelled. Conserving their supplies, they suffered through countless portions of the bird, half-heartedly searching for their missing leader. The creatures’ feathers were foul and coated in an unpleasant oil. While they could have been implemented as stuffing or quills, their scent and feel would persuade few to use them if any alternative was presented. 

In fact, this smelly oil was an overall issue. Tainting meat, feather, and skin, the secretion and its smell clung to clothing, gear–everything it touched. Spread by hands, utensils, workspaces, and the birds, it made both the skin rashy and stomachs sickly. Before they could begin to figure out a way to circumvent it, an evil descended upon the birds: they were increasingly cannibalizing each other, even with various feeds being provided.

After a month, with the search for Fallam unsuccessful and the animals’ strange behavior a sign, the expedition made the decision to pack up and return home while they could. The bulk of the birds were exterminated; others were slain for provisions. Only four men survived the trip back.

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The handling of these animals on a large scale devastated the Sightless Swamp Bird population. Relying predominantly on their sense of smell, the animals were unable to recognize one another. Opportunistic eaters, they consume anything that may be food; repeated human contact with birds led to mass confusion and violent feeding frenzies, among other issues. Chicks became strangers to the herd—causing them to be ignored and starved, and in some instances, eaten by their own parents. Any bird touched by human hands was shunned or attacked by the community. Few functional birds exited the disassembled camp.

An already small population of organisms, such an extreme loss of life placed them immediately at risk of extinction. Found only in this little wetland, even after 200 years, their kind never recovered. The Sightless Swamp Vulture hadn't been seen in the wild since 1897, but, according to one of our agents, some still persisted out there, briefly, before disappearing once more. The Proboscis Bird has since been added to the growing list of cryptids native to the Monongahela National Forest. It has not been seen since 1974 and is presumed to be extinct.

Some may still persist out there, though.