There's something out yonder in them woods. Bigger
than any bear you ever laid eyes on. Sharper
than a man with a mean streak. And it don't give
two hoots whether you believe in it or not. Because
it's already laid eyes on you. They say the woods
around Montgomery County got eyes on them. Not
deer eyes. Not coon eyes. These eyes burn red.
Like coals in the dark. And they're set in a
face that just ain't right. Too much man to be
a bear. Too much beast to be a man. They call
it Bayerilla. Ain't no story made up to scare
kids. Folks have seen it, smelled it, heard it
breathing just past the tree line. And if you're
real unlucky, it's followed you home. Welcome
to Kentucky Melodies Scary Stories from Kentucky.
Where we spin yarns about ghostly haints, creepy
hollers, and spine -chilling legends from deep
in the hills. So grab a chair, dim them lights,
and let's dig into something spooky. Montgomery
County, Kentucky. She's tucked away like an old
secret, hidden the rolling hills and thick hardwoods
just east of Lexington. You take yourself past
Mount Sterling, slide through Jeffersonville
and hang a left down them back roads that don't
show up proper on no GPS. The kind where your
signal dies and the woods start feeling closer
than they ought to. Out there the land don't
aim to be tamed. Brush grows up thick as a bramble
wall. Ridges rise steep like the bones of the
earth. And them old logging roads? They're nothing
but scars now. Half swallowed by roots and rain.
barely wide enough for a mule, let alone a truck.
You walk far enough in and the air starts changing.
Sound don't carry right. Even the birds hush
up come dusk, like they know better than to sing
when something's listening. That's guerrilla
country, and it don't stop at Montgomery. No,
sir, sightings have bled over into Bath County.
Nicholas, even stretching into Menifee, where
they say Cold War bunkers still rot like old
sins hidden deep in the moss and ivy. But Montgomery,
that's where the story roots down. That's where
folks first started speaking low about the thing
that walks like a man, but don't belong to no
world we know. The first time anybody laid eyes
on it, least that we know of, was way back in
the 1940s. There was a young boy messing around
by a creek near sundown, just off Slate Creek.
He weren't doing nothing but skipping rocks and
following his dog, a loyal old mutt that didn't
scare easy. But all of a sudden, that dog stiffened
up, started growling low, then barking like something
was setting its fur on fire. Next thing you know,
it turned tail and tore off back toward the house,
whimpering. tail tucked tight. That dog had chased
coyotes and cornered snakes, but something out
there put a fear in it like no other. That's
when the boy saw it. Something standing upright
in the tree line. Tall, thick with muscle, black
fur hanging off its shoulders like a wet rug.
Built broad, like a grizzly, but with a head
that weren't right. Said it looked like a gorilla,
but off. jaw too long, eyes too deep, and teeth
that looked like they was made for tearing, not
chewing. He ran, heart pounding like thunder
in a storm. Swore he felt hot breath on the back
of his neck the whole way. When his daddy found
him, the boy was shaken so bad he couldn't speak
at first. And his arms scratched up something
fierce. Long rakes down his forearms like claws
that tried to snatch him mid run. Folks wrote
it off, said he must have fell in the brush,
dreamed it up, got spooked by a bear maybe. But
years later, when folks in those parts started
swapping stories about a creature in the woods,
that boy's tale didn't sound near so wild anymore.
Back in the fall of 1976, Two old boys were out
working a patch of timber near Ridge Haller,
just a few miles outside Jeffersonville. They'd
been cutting all day, trying to beat the early
dark that comes on quick in them hills once summer
turns to fall. They were just about to pack it
in when they heard it. Not just twigs snapping,
branches, thick ones, cracking like bones under
weight. Something heavy was moving through the
woods fast, but not careless, like it wanted
to be heard. Then came the smell, rot, death,
wet fur and old meat, like a deer left too long
in the sun, made their stomachs churn right there
in the cool dusk air. They turned and there it
was, standing upright in the shadows, it's about
30 yards off. Big as a bull moose and thick as
a root cellar wall. Its whole body was covered
in matted, greasy black hair. Shoulders wide
and rounded like a grizzly, but its face, that's
where things turned real wrong. Flat faced, like
a man who'd been twisted by something unnatural.
No snout like a bear. just sunken eyes glowing
red like stove embers and a mouth that hung open
just enough to show jagged yellowed teeth. One
of the loggers, fella named Virgil, dropped his
chainsaw right then and there, didn't even look
back, just tore off down the ridge yelling like
a banshee. The other one, said he froze, couldn't
move, said the thing never growled, never lunged,
just stood there, watching, like it weren't afraid,
like it knew something. Next day, they came back
with the sheriff and a couple others, found tree
limbs snapped clean ten feet up, like something
had barreled through without even slowing down.
And right there in the mud, tracks, deep, wide,
bigger in a grown man's boot. sunk in so far
it must have weighed twice what any of them did.
They marked the spot on a map, but nobody ever
cleared that stretch again. Too many said the
woods felt wrong after that. By the late 80s,
the stories had grown quiet, like the woods themselves
were holding their breath, but they never stopped
completely. Cryptid researcher Ron Coffey A fella
known for digging into Kentucky's strangest shadows,
heard them whispers and came sniffing round the
edges of Montgomery and Bath Counties. Then,
in 1989, he got wind of something peculiar. A
hunter out in Bath County, just a ridge or two
over from the Montgomery line, claimed he'd found
tracks, big ones. So Coffee packed up and made
his way into the brush. What he found weren't
no bear He took a plaster cast of one of them
prints 17 inches long Deep heel thick toes wide
apart, but the shape was off Didn't match bear
didn't match man Whatever left it was heavy real
heavy and walked like it meant business Word
started spreading again Folks up in the holler
started talking low like they used to. And coffee,
he gave the creature a name that stuck in folks
throats like a splinter, Barilla. Back in the
early 90s, a family thought they'd spend a quiet
weekend camping out by Slate Creek, just a little
ways off the old Trace Road. Nothing fancy, just
a clearing in the woods, a fire pit. and a canvas
tent big enough to hold two sleepy youngins and
a couple tired parents. The night was cool, crickets
chirping, fire crackling low. Sometime after
midnight, the mama stirred in her sleep. Something
weren't right. She lay there a second, holding
her breath, ears straining. Then she heard it.
Breathing. Heavy. Slow. coming from just the
other side of the canvas. Close enough she could
feel the air shift with it. She figured maybe
her husband had gone out to check on the fire.
But when she reached over, there he was, still
laying beside her, snoring soft. Her whole body
went cold. She sat up real careful like, listening,
still breathing. Low and ragged, like a big man
winded from work. but slower, deeper, too deep
to be human. She eased toward the tent flap and
unzipped it just a hair, and there it stood,
no more than eight feet away. Half lit by the
glow of the dying fire, steam rising off its
matted black fur like mist off the holler at
first light. Its chest rose and fell like a bellows,
shoulders broad as a bull's yoke, arms hanging
long, Almost to its knees. And them eyes? They
were already on her. Didn't blink. Didn't move.
Just watched. She zipped that flap shut faster
in a whip crack, heart hammering in her chest
like a freight train on a loose track. Didn't
say a word. Just woke her husband, scooped up
the kids, and they left. Didn't bother packing
up the tent, the cooler, none of it. They left
that creek like it was cursed. And far as I know,
they never went camping again. Back in the late
90s, there was a teenager out of Mount Sterling.
A curious sort, always chasing ghost tales and
wandering where he ought not be. One cloudy afternoon,
he grabbed his daddy's old camcorder, one of
them bulky shoulder ones, and headed down an
overgrown trail near Jeffersonville. Said he'd
heard stories of haints and shadow people down
there. Figured he might catch something spooky
on tape to scare up his buddies. But he didn't
find no ghost. He came back pale as chalk and
shaken like a leaf in a cold wind. Said he'd
found something crouched over a dead deer. Big
one too, freshly killed. Steam still rising off
its guts. Whatever it was, it was tearing into
that carcass with its bare hands, ripping muscle
from bone like wet paper. He thought maybe it
was a man in a costume at first, some prank or
a crazy hunter gone wrong. But then it stood
up, said it towered over the brush, built like
a linebacker, but with them long arms hanging
near its knees. The fur was patchy in places.
mottled and greasy, but what struck him hardest
was how the skin moved underneath. Said it was
too real, too natural, too alive. And the smell?
Lord, he said it near made him black out, like
roadkill left to rot in the sun mixed with a
wet dog that had crawled out of a grave. Its
eyes met his, didn't growl, didn't charge, just
watched. And them hands said they were big enough
to wrap clear round his skull, and probably squeeze
like a peach. That boy didn't wait to find out.
He turned tail, dropped the camcorder right there
in the dirt, and ran so hard he lost a shoe somewhere
along the path. When he got home, he was still
gagging from the stench. Eyes wide, couldn't
speak for near an hour. Next day, he went back
with his uncle to get the camera. It was gone.
Grass trampled where the thing stood, and what
was left of the deer was just bones picked clean
and a few scraps hanging in the branches. That
boy ain't never been back in them woods since,
and he don't tell ghost stories no more. Barilla
sighting slowed some in the 2000s. But they never
stopped. Farmers out near Grassy Lick and Pine
Ridge been finding fences torn clean down. Like
something big didn't even bother climbing. Just
walk through. Hunters swear their best kill got
dragged off in the dead of night. No blood trail.
Just gone. And campers... They talk about low
growls rolling through the woods so deep it rattled
their ribs and made their lanterns flicker. Some
folks reckon it's just a big old black bear gone
wrong. Others claim it's something worse. A creature
made in some underground lab. Escape from one
of them Cold War bunkers still rotten out in
Menifee County. Talk of spliced DNA. Government
secrets. hush -hush projects that never quite
shut down. But the old timers, they say it's
older than all that, older than the bunkers,
older than the towns, maybe older than the hills
themselves. Some call it a guardian, watching
over the woods, punishing those who take too
much. Others call it a curse, set loose by the
greed of men who dug too deep and woke something
that oughta been left sleeping. Whatever it is,
it don't want to be found. But when it does show
up, ain't never just for a visit. So, if you're
ever walking them woods east of Jeffersonville,
and the air goes still, and you smell that rot
creeping up your nose, turn around. Don't run.
Don't speak. Just leave. Because Barilla don't
make noise when it stalks. It don't charge. It
waits, and once it's seen you, it never forgets.
Barilla ain't your typical Bigfoot. It's darker,
meaner, and far more real to the folks who've
seen it. The woods of Montgomery County still
hold secrets, and this one's buried deep in the
hollers, in the broken trees, and in the stories
passed from porch to porch. The question ain't
just, is it out there? The question is, how close
has it gotten to you without you even knowing?
Now, I gotta ask y 'all something. You reckon
Barilla's the real deal? A true blue Kentucky
cryptid? Or maybe just a case of folks mistaken
shadows and old fear for something that ain't
there? What do you make of it? All them stories
from 1940 clear on through to now. Different
folks? Same beast? Coincidence? Or is there something
bigger hiding in them hills? You ever laid eyes
on something strange out in the woods? Something
that don't quite fit no field guide or wildlife
chart? And let's say there is a creature like
Barilla out there. Would you want proof? Or would
you rather let it stay out there in the dark
where it belongs? Drop your stories in the comments,
friends. Tell us what you've seen or what's seen
you. Because here in Kentucky, some legends don't
die. They just go quiet till they're ready to
roar again. Well, now. If you made it this far
without running for the hills or checking under
your bed, bless your brave little heart. But
don't go thinking the woods are done whispering
just yet. Come on back next Saturday. Same time,
same haunting place, because we'll have another
fresh tale waiting for you. Hot and spooky, straight
out of Kentucky's darkest haulers. And who knows,
next week's story might just follow you home.
So go on now. Grab a blanket, lock your doors,
and maybe, just maybe, keep a flashlight by the
bed, because you're gonna need it. This here
is Kentucky Melody, and we ain't done with you
yet.