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Credibility: ★★★★☆ 4/5
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Threat Level: MODERATE (MODERATE — smells worse than it acts, but still.)
West Virginia’s most sulphurous celebrity has been doing unauthorized hover appearances over hay wagons, and the settlement paperwork is apparently real.
I want to be upfront with you: hayrides are already on thin ice with me. The hay. The slow movement through darkness. The assumption that October scenery is sufficient entertainment. But I have spent the last three weeks in contact with four separate West Virginia hayride operators, two attorneys who asked not to be named, and one state tourism spokesperson who said "no comment" with the energy of someone who has said it many times recently, and I am here to tell you that the Flatwoods Monster — the nine-foot, sulphur-emitting, expressly hovering entity first encountered outside Flatwoods, West Virginia, in September 1952 — has allegedly appeared on at least four commercial hayride routes across the state in the past fourteen months. The state has settled with all four operators. Quietly. The settlements exist. I have not seen them because they are sealed, but I have seen the paperwork confirming that sealed paperwork exists, and I consider this significant. Mr. Whiskers, when I debriefed him on this, seemed attentive.
Twenty-five witnesses across four incidents. A consistent description: red eyes, a spade-shaped or ace-of-spades head, a flowing dark garment that may or may not be a physical body, a smell that multiple witnesses independently compared to burning rubber, and what seven of those witnesses specifically called "an extremely unnecessary hover." That phrase appears in multiple statements, uncoordinated, from people who do not know each other. Either the Flatwoods Monster has a signature move, or there is something about watching a nine-foot entity levitate over a hay wagon that produces the exact same linguistic response in the human brain regardless of prior acquaintance. I have a whole page in my green notebook about this. It is one of three pages in that notebook I can find without effort.
The Four Hayrides, Ranked By How Much I Feel For The Operators
Hollow Creek Family Farms, October 2023 — The One With The Children
This is the one that prompted the first settlement and, I suspect, the phrase that launched a thousand depositions. Hollow Creek runs a seasonal hayride marketed specifically at families with children under twelve. Nineteen passengers on this particular run, including eleven children, three of whom had won their tickets in a school raffle, which feels like it adds something. The Monster appeared approximately forty yards ahead of the wagon on a wooded trail section, hovered for what witnesses estimated at between eight and thirty seconds depending on who you ask — the driver said eight, the woman in the back said thirty, and I believe the truth is somewhere in that gap where time stops working properly — and then retreated into the tree line emitting what the driver described as "a hiss, but expensive-sounding." No injuries. Two children are reportedly still enthusiastic about cryptids. One is reportedly still not okay with hayrides. The farm has since added trail lighting and, according to a local Facebook group I monitor for professional reasons, a sign that says nothing specifically about the Monster but does say PLEASE REMAIN SEATED AT ALL TIMES in noticeably larger font than it used to.
Ridgeback Orchard & Cider Works, Late September 2023 — The One Where It Followed The Wagon
Ridgeback is an adult-oriented operation. Apple cider, locally sourced, some of it fermented. This matters because when four of their eight witnesses reported that the entity "kept pace with the wagon for approximately two minutes," the operator’s initial position was that this was a product liability question rather than a cryptid question, and I respect the attempt. It did not hold. The Monster, per witness statements, appeared at the treeline, matched the wagon’s approximate speed of six miles per hour, maintained a consistent distance of roughly fifty feet, and then ascended — the word multiple witnesses used is ascended, not flew, not floated, ascended — above the canopy and did not return. The sulphur smell lingered for the remainder of the route. Ridgeback suspended evening rides for the rest of the season. Their Yelp reviews for that month contain one three-star entry that says "vibe was off" that I believe may be the most understated eyewitness account in the database.
Summerset Haunted Trail Experience, October 2024 — The One Where Guests Thought It Was Part Of The Show
Here is where the timeline gets genuinely interesting. Summerset runs a haunted hayride. Actors. Fog machines. Staged scares at marked intervals. Three of their six witnesses on the affected run initially gave the Monster positive reviews as a performer before the ride ended and they smelled their own clothes. The operator — and I spoke to this person briefly before they said "I really can’t" and hung up — had not hired anyone matching the description, did not have any fog budget allocated to that section of trail, and has since confirmed through legal channels that the sulphur odor was not a production element. Summerset’s insurance situation following this event is a matter I attempted to investigate and was politely blocked from investigating. The Monster received an unofficial four-star rating in three separate post-ride surveys before the forms were pulled. I have screenshots. I keep them in a folder on my laptop labeled REAL ACTUAL EVIDENCE.
Blue Ridge Sunset Rides, August 2024 — The One That Happened In August, Which Nobody Expected
Every other incident happened in October, which tracks. October is when the veil is thin, when the trails are atmospheric, when people are predisposed to the experience of something strange at the edge of the woods. August is hot and mundane and smells like August, which is its own thing but not sulphur. Six witnesses on a sunset scenic route — no horror theming, no seasonal framing, just people who wanted to see the hills turn gold in the evening light. The Monster appeared at a bend in the trail, hovered for what the driver called "maybe fifteen seconds," and departed. The driver’s statement, which was shared with me by someone who should probably not have shared it with me, contains the line: "I didn’t know what it was, but I knew what it wasn’t, and it wasn’t nothing." I wrote that down in the good notebook. The blue one. I know exactly where that page is.
It wasn’t performing. That’s what I keep trying to explain. A performer interacts. This thing just… was there. It hovered like it had somewhere to be and the wagon was in its way.
— Anonymous witness, Hollow Creek Family Farms incident, via written statement
West Virginia’s tourism infrastructure is not, to be clear, pretending none of this happened. They are simply not confirming that any of this happened, which is different. The spokesperson I reached — reached, as in, got them on the phone for forty-five seconds before the no comment — did not deny the settlements. Did not deny the incidents. Did not deny that the phrase "extremely unnecessary hover" appears in official documentation. They said no comment and they said it with the exhaustion of someone who has had this exact conversation with someone exactly like me before, possibly multiple times, possibly recently. I respect the commitment. I also think it tells me something. I have a color I’ve assigned to "what official silence sounds like when it knows you’re right" in my notebook system. It’s the orange.
We are not in a position to comment on pending or settled legal matters at this time. We remain committed to West Virginia’s reputation as a premier destination for outdoor fall experiences.
— West Virginia tourism office spokesperson, who then ended the call
FIELD ALERT
If you are planning a hayride this season in the greater Flatwoods area — or anywhere on what I am now privately calling the Hover Corridor, which runs through at least three counties — be advised: the sulphur smell is not a production element at any currently operating attraction. If you smell it and you are not at a venue that has fog machines, you are not smelling fog. Remain calm. Do not attempt to approach. Document what you can. Note the direction of ascent. Text me.
FAST FACTS
• The original Flatwoods Monster encounter: September 12, 1952, Flatwoods, West Virginia. Seven witnesses.
• All four 2023–2024 hayride incidents occurred on wooded trail sections with limited visibility ahead of the wagon.
• The Flatwoods Monster is West Virginia’s official state cryptid. This is not a joke. There is a museum.
• Sulphur odor duration across all four incidents: estimated 20–45 minutes post-sighting.
• 25 total witnesses. Zero reported injuries. One reported Yelp review that I believe is, in retrospect, about this.
The question I keep coming back to — the one I’ve written at the top of a fresh page in the orange notebook, which I started specifically for this story and which I have used consistently since I opened it, a fact I mention because my January notebook system critics can consider this my counter-evidence — is why hayrides. The Flatwoods Monster has a documented territory. It has a history. It has, apparently, a scheduling conflict with seasonal agricultural tourism that four operators and the state of West Virginia are now quietly managing through legal settlements. That’s not nothing. That’s a pattern. The entity first appeared to seven witnesses in 1952 and was reported to have emitted a mist that caused illness and distress before disappearing. Seventy-plus years later it is appearing to hay wagon passengers and hovering, unnecessarily, over their experience of the West Virginia countryside in the fall. I do not know if this represents escalation, routine movement, or something I don’t have a category for yet. I have a folder on my laptop where I’d file it but I’d have to find the folder first. What I do know is that twenty-five people saw something on four separate nights, that settlements exist, and that the Monster, whatever it is doing and whatever it wants, appears to have no particular interest in whether your hayride was good. It hovered. It smelled. It left. You had to finish the ride in the dark knowing what you’d seen. I think, honestly, that’s the story. I’m sorry about the hayride.
pennyhart@whatthecryptid.com
Penny Hart · Features Writer & Community Content Specialist — WTC
Ten feet tall. Hovered. Left without explanation.
