Show notes
Bigfoot and Boogaladamoosh
In the early 1980s, my family and I lived in a big old house in the little town of Saint Leonard, New Brunswick, Canada. It was a two-story home built in the early 1900s. My father bought it from a man who was reluctant to sell it, but had no choice. My father had done some renovations on the house, but mainly on the first floor. The second floor he had left as it was. At the top of the stairs, there was a full bathroom, and left of the bathroom was my parents’ room. Down the hall was my bedroom, and beyond that was my little brother’s room. I was a bit of a scaredy cat. Being young, I was unable to sleep in the dark. So my mother would leave the bathroom light on and my bedroom door open. One night, I had awoken from a deep sleep. I wasn’t prone to waking up in the middle of the night at that age; it was more like something woke me up. I looked down at my feet, and sitting on the footboard of my bed was a hideous creature.
It had white horns and large, yellow, bulging eyes. Long fangs protruded from its mouth, and its small hand had claws that seemed to be digging into my footboard. I screamed, jumped out of my bed, and ran to my parents’ room, completely hysterical. My father was a man’s man and didn’t care for this sort of behavior from his son, but when I described what I saw, he seemed concerned.
My parents turned on the light in my room and looked around. My mother checked on my little brother, who was fine. And I got to sleep with my parents that night, something my father didn’t really usually permit.
I was wary of going to bed for a while, but I never saw it again. Years later, my parents told me they were concerned when I described my nocturnal visitor, because one of my father’s uncles described seeing the exact same thing out in the woods a couple of months earlier. Apparently, there was a group of these sorts of creatures that chased my great-uncle out of the woods. They terrified him, and he died not long after that event.
Fast forward to 1994. I was attending the University of Maine at Fort Kent, and I had the honor of knowing a man named Guy Frigon. He was a shaman of the local First Nation tribe of Maliseets.
Considering that some members of my family are of First Nations descent, I decided to ask him about what my great-uncle and I saw. Mr. Frigon listened to my story as we sat in the student lounge at UMFK. He said, “Well, you saw a Boogaladamoosh.”
Mr. Frigon went on to tell me that my great-uncle had somehow offended them, and that’s why they chased him out of the woods. He went on to explain that they were similar to what Europeans would call elves or gnomes. He was uncertain as to why one would have visited me, since I had nothing to do with the offence my uncle committed. Mr. Frigon guessed that it may have sensed I had shamanic abilities. He went on to invite me to a sweat lodge, and that I would possibly get the chance to see them again. I assured Mr. Frigon that though his invitation was generous, my faith wouldn’t allow any such thing. I thanked him for the invitation, though, and for the wisdom he imparted. I, nor anyone else in my family, has ever encountered this sort of being ever again.
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