Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - The Tunguska Event

Episode Date: November 17, 2021

Written by Travis Brown 🎉 Ad-free episodes + bonus episodes: https://www.patreon.com/drnosleep 🎥 YouTube: https://youtube.com/c/DrNoSleep ✅ Advertising Inquiries: [e-mail] DISCLAIMER: This story is rated R for adults 18 years or older. NOT for children. Listener discretion is advised. #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #truescarystories #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Talk to nicely. A little over 100 years ago, an icy forest exploded. Early on the morning of June 30 in the year, 1908, a violent blast flattened more than 80 million trees and a stretch of woods, roughly two-thirds the size of the state of Rhode Island. Because the explosion occurred in a barely occupied slice of Siberia, there were only a handful of witnesses and three deaths. Well, officially, there were three deaths.

The reality is that an entire village was wiped out. Men, women, and children experienced unimaginable horrors before dying in the snow. Records of the devastation were lost between wars, regime changes, and revolutions. You may have heard of the Tenguska event, but I promise you haven't heard all of it. My name is Lucas Fant. I run a blog called Horror in History. I've partnered up with my good friend Dr. No Sleep to share the story of what actually happened that summer morning near the Tenguska River.

I know the truth because I was able to track down the journal of one of the survivors. The following account is from Sir Henry Franklin, a British adventurist who was on a solo trek through Siberia at the time of the Tenguska event. The storm came calling. June 29, 1908. Yenisek, Governorate. Siberia has a fearsome reputation as a chilled killer. In June, though, with the sunshine cutting through the spruce trees and birdsong in the air, it's stunning.

The horizon seems to stretch farther here than anywhere else in the world. I wake up each morning and breathe deeply the fine summer air. There's still a coolness in the wind at night, but I have no complaints about the weeks I've spent hiking through the colossal forests in this strange land. This morning, however, there was an ill quality to the sunrise. The dawn light broke weak with a greenish tint. At first, I considered some bleed over from the Aurora Borealis, but as the day grew older, the phenomenon worsened. I was planning on hiking through a rocky pass east of the Tenguska River.

When thick clouds came rolling down off the steps, I reconsidered. After a quick breakfast of rabbit and coffee, I limited myself to a nature of nature, walk near the campsite in case of rain. I'd set out to chronicle all of the flora and fauna that I encountered in Russia. My second journal is absolutely covered in notes and measurements, class and genus and species. However, I'd never seen such tree such as I did that morning near the river. I was dressed comfortably for the weather in a light jacket, cap, boots, and even a new beard that I'd grown, partially to fit in among the locals and partially as a windbreaker. Thus, it was unusual that I felt such a savage chill when I came into the presence of certain

tall pines that dotted the landscape. I approached one such tree quite closely, feeling colder and colder as I walked towards it. It was in many ways a typical Baltic pine, from the Pinacea family. the bark was unusually pale for the species, almost gray. The tree stretched above me 40 meters in height. For such a tall evergreen, the branches were surprisingly thin and brittle. I guess there was some sickness in the tree, as its needles had gone from green to nearly black. They lay in clusters around the yawning roots. Most disturbing of all were the unnatural markings circumventing the trunk of the pine.

Strange symbols were carved into the bark at regular inmate. I didn't recognize any of the characters, but they all exhibited a runic quality. Staring at them for too long, caused my head to ache between the eyes and made my mouth run dry. The marks were engraved over the entire trunk for as far as I could see. It must have taken hours, if not days of work. I encountered at least a dozen such marked pines and less than two hours of walking. The weather worsened during my morning stroll. clouds had taken the entire sky, mingling with fog on the ground, to create a kind of endless mist

that made it difficult to track my direction. My compass, likewise, was picking up some form of magnetic interference and refused to cooperate. I hurriedly made my way back to camp, just as the first drum of thunder began the distance. The blackness above me threatened heavy rain, and the wind was already rising. The forest around me bent and bowed. Leas were torn from branches by the wind. I feared that my simple camp and canvas tent would not be equal to the challenge of the storm. I had learned weeks before that there was a small village in the area, so tiny that it wasn't actually on the map. I had only the directions from a local hunter to follow. God be thanked, I made it to the village just as the rain began. The water came down.

hard and cold, nearly hail. It bit at me as I rushed to stand under one of the few buildings with an overhang. I was only exposed for the last two minutes of my journey, but I was absolutely soaked through. The village was little more than two dozen houses, clustered around a handful of larger structures. Everything was wood and thatch, except for the church, which was made of gray stone. It had a structure on the top meant for a bell, but the bell itself was missing. leaving a hole in the tower, like a missing tooth from a smile. I received a number of suspicious looks from the townsfolk as I stood under the awning trying to dry off.

That wasn't unusual. The Siberian countryside was rough. The pockets of civilization were isolated and fragile. Who wouldn't be wary of an outsider? Even one as charming as myself. I had practice in my Eurasian travels making peace with the locals. The trick was to smile excessive. and spend money even more so. I looked up at the clouds. It wasn't even noon, but the day was dark as a cave.

Rain continued to whip down in half-brosen sheets. I took a deep breath and sprinted towards what I hoped was some inn or tavern. The building was old. Thatched thin on the roof was poorly fitted boards. Compared to the misery outside, it felt like I'd stepped into a palace. Old men huddled in pairs and trees. in the back of the tavern, filling the room with smoke from their pipes. Pretty girls with dark hair and white dresses carried food and wooden mugs between tables. Finest of all, a bright fire roared in a mud-bricked hearth. I stumbled into the establishment and took the closest chair to the fireplace that I could find. One of the servant girls came over to me as I sat drying out. Like the rest of the village, the girl spoke not a single word of the Queen's English. I'm first enough in the

dialects of the region to make my way through a conversation. So I've taken the liberty of translating my dialogue with the townsfolk as accurately as I was able. Would you have a drink? The girl asked, perhaps 20 years old. She had the darkest blue eyes I'd ever seen and a bent nose, likely from a broke that was set improperly in her youth. Or there is supper. Both sound wonderful, I replied, removing my cap and beaming at her. The server seemed, unimpressed. You can pay? I removed one of my wallets for my knapsack, and paid the price she quoted me then and added a significant tip. A pair of rough-looking young men wearing timbering boots sat watching me from a nearby table. I smiled wider and waved, and asked the server for

a round of drinks on me. Much like everything else in Siberia, the drink was affordable, but strong. The two men invited me to their table and thanks. I was in high spirits and much celebrated among my new friends. However, the storm continued to grow madder and matter outside of the tavern walls until the serving girls had to shuffle from table to table, relighting candles the wind blew out. It was still early afternoon when the devil walked into the room. I can think of no other way to describe the tattered man

who strolled in from the storm and stood dripping near the hearth. He was a giant, nearly two meters tall but quite thin. His beard was a tangle, and he possessed the wildest eyes of any man I've ever seen. The man was dressed in rough black cloth and heavy boots. The stranger's effect on the room was immediate, where I'd drawn some suspicious looks and a small amount of attention. The entire tavern became silent as the giant came through the door. At every table, terrified eyes tracked the progress of the man

as he stomped over to the fire. No serving girls approached them. No one made any offer of drink or food. It was nearly a full minute before anyone even dared speak. We thought you were in St. Petersburg, Gregori, the bartender said. The man in black didn't respond. One of my new companions at the table made a strange gesture with his hand, then spit on the ground. Several patrons nearby followed suit while others made the sign of the cross.

Chart! I heard one of the serving girls hiss. Gregori ignored them all. He eventually moved from the fire to an isolated table. For the next hour, he sat alone, asking for neither supper nor vodka. Instead, he passed the time carving away at the already scarred surface of his table with a long, curved knife. I inquired with my companions, discreetly, of course,

about the details of this Grigori character, and the reaction he caused in the tavern. However, none of my new friends wished to speak of the man. I let the issue drop and tried to move the conversation onto tales of my travels. This drew in quite the lively crowd, and soon enough the mood was lifted. Still, Grigory's presence casted a shadow on the day, which was made all the worst by the ever-growing store. I was fortunate that the tavern did have a few open rooms above the bar.

It was costly, but I was able to be able to. procure one for the night and retired an hour shy of midnight. What a peculiar yet memorable day. Part 2. The Event June 30th, 1908. I fear that the world ended this morning. Though traditionally an early riser, I chose to sleep in late while enjoying the warmth of my small room above the tavern. Rain still tapped against the glass, but it became much softer around dawn. A small amount of sunshine, still that unusual green tint, even managed to cut through the clouds and find its way to my window. The pillow was stuffed with straw,

and the sheets had holes big enough to sail through, but I was managing to enjoy the close warmth of the room. Then, just after the seventh hour, a terrible roar consumed the air around me. The sound ripped me from my half slumber. I reacted by jumping out of bed, only to find the floor considerably less solid than the night before. I've experienced earthquakes in my travels,

including a nasty shaker in Japan, but nothing held a candle to the chaos of this morning. Not only were the floorboards unstable and shelves falling, the wind returned with a shriek powerful enough to blow out the windows. I sliced my corn badly on glass as I crawled across the shaking room towards the door. People were screaming all around me, barely perceptible above the cacophony of wind and tortured earth. I made it to the head of the stairs and paused to catch my breath.

Crawling down the narrow steps was not an abhuman task. The decision was made without my input, however, when the floor fell out from below me. I tumbled down the steps and was bashed between the walls like a child caught in the surf. At some point, I was rendered unconscious and, upon regaining my senses, I found myself lying on the tavern's worn floor, staring up into the sky where the roof used to be. The bartender helped me to my feet. Other than bruised limbs and a cut on my hand, I was unharmed. The same could not be said for the building.

It had shattered in the maelstrom. The entire top floor was reduced to rubble. Dazed villagers stood around whispering to each other. What happened? I asked a woman I recognized from the night before. Her black hair was now covered in dust, a small cut showing above her eye. I don't know, she replied. The earth rose in waves with the storm.

I've never seen anything like it. The woman crossed herself. I took a shaky step towards the door, planning to check the weather. Then I remembered that the entire ceiling was now an open skylight. So I looked up. There was no sign of blue among the clouds, but these didn't look like thunderheads. They were much lighter, woven together, a single gray cloud bank hanging low over the village. What light that got through had that same green shading.

We're dead and in hell! I turned towards the speaker. She was an old woman. Her eyes were cloudy white, blind. I tried to walk towards her to get close to ask her what she meant. But my legs nearly failed with my second step, causing me to stumble to the nearest chair for support. I sat for a moment, collecting myself. My eye happened to fall on the scarred surface of the table next to me.

There was a fresh symbol carved into the wood, an off-centered circle inside of a triangle marred by three diagonal slashes. It reminded me of an eye covered by scratches. I realized that I was sitting at the same table as Gregori had the night before. He must have carved the marking into the wood with that long, curved knife of his. I didn't like looking at the symbol. made my head spin. However, I did recognize it. I saw identical rooms cut into some of the trees I'd encountered on my walk the morning before. There is a connection. I am sure of it. After a time,

I roused myself from the table and walked outside. Whatever had happened to the village, storm or quake, or some other phenomenon, the buildings were shattered. Thatch roofs stood with gaping holes, doors were blown open. Some homes entire walls had collapsed. Only the church stood mostly intact. Its old stone must have provided some protection in the turmoil. The entire village was surrounded in fog. I could not tell where mist began and clouds ended.

My visibility was limited to perhaps 200 meters at most, where the farthest buildings in the town were barely more than shadows in the haze. There was a foul smell in the air, smoke and ash, but something else. Rancid. like milk long turned. Townsfolk darted here and there, putting out a smattering of fires or consoling weeping loved ones. Gregori stood on the street in front of the chapel. Something in me wished to approach him. Perhaps it was the slump of his narrow shoulders or the visible tremor in his hand. Of all of the villagers I'd seen that morning, Gregori appeared the most distraught. Maybe he

wasn't such a terror after all. Before I could move towards him, though, my attention was stolen by a scream. A woman was pointing into the fog. It took Alexei! A group of us ran over to her. Who took Alexei? A bald man asked. His face half-shaven. The event must have been a terrible interruption to his morning. The woman was shaking, only standing with the help of two villagers. She kept pointing off into the fog and repeating the same word. Todorat. Todorat. Todorat. She's mad, the bald man said as the woman was led away gently. But then again, So is this whole morning. He turned to me.

Did you bring this on us, Englishman? I don't know. I don't think so, I replied. The man stared at me for a moment, then set his eyes on Gregori, still standing by the church. Part three, they come with the snow. Is it July 4th or the 5th?

I lost track. I have not had much motivation to keep this journal current for the last few days. The hours have been to eventful, too dangerous. Now at this late hour, I am barricaded inside of the church with the remaining villagers. I have both the time and the presence of mine to record the evil that has fallen upon us. After the morning of the event, the village elders gathered together at the church. I was allowed to attend, though not permitted to take place in either discussion

nor any voting. This was fine by me. Reports were taken and given by a few prominent members of the community as the rest huddled in the pews. Some kind souls passed out water and hard bred. The scale of the calamity became apparent over the course of the morning. A handful of homesteads, those located on the absolute edge of the village, were simply gone. Several villagers, likewise, could not be accounted for. Among them was a young boy named Alexei. A group of men volunteered to set out from the village for the closest settlement for help. The rest of us were to take stock of of any supplies we had and to make what repairs we could to the buildings to keep out the elements as best we could. It was already unseasonably cold that morning and growing colder by the hour.

I learned much about the villagers there in the church. The priest was a young man, an Atori, a transplant from the south. The big bald man with a half beard was named Luca. The innkeeper was Yuri. The crying woman and mother of Alexei was named Anya, and the blind lady was called Old Ant. I pitched in with the repair teams, carrying ruined timbers, hammering nails, and counting grain livestock and potatoes. The mood was bleak but determined. Yuri even led our team in a song, his big belly warbling with each note, his voice surprisingly beautiful. We worked hard that day, a fine work that left my shoulders sore. Not all of the villagers appeared happy with my help, though. suspicious looks were there, the whispers. I could hardly blame though. The morning after I arrived

at the village, a cataclysm tore it apart. Still, it was a fine enough day for the most part. Then, a little after nightfall when many of us were back in the remains of the tavern, a man came running into town. He was part of the expedition that left earlier in the day to contact the nearest village. The man was covered in blood, his face torn half off, one arm ending in a red mess at the elbow. We lay him down near the hearth. He told us his group got lost in the fog. It began to snow, and in that snow, monsters came. Beast things that walked like men. They fell upon the villagers and left limbs and guts on the ground. The village healer, a woman named Misha, took the wounded man back to her home. The rest of us who were there in the tavern stoked the

fires a bit higher. Then we secured the doors and windows as much as we could. Monsters in the and there we were in a building with no roof. It snowed the next morning. I woke up when a cold flake landed on my cheek. The clouds were dark above us with those green edges, and there was something new. A blood-red star shined alone in the sky. The only light bright enough to break through the clouds.

I sat up from my bed on the tavern floor. Another flake landed in my open mouth. The taste was immediate and disgusting. It was like spoiled meat if it was hard. frozen, crystallized. I spat it out. The snow fell harder, a white dusting already forming on the floorboards. Others were waking up around me. Then we were all awake once the shrieking began. We ran outside and devils. I can think of no other way to describe them. Twisted forms with uneven limbs crawled over houses and limped through the streets. They were like broken dolls,

all stretched with sharp ends. I heard the crack of gunfire. and saw Yuri level his rifle at one of the creatures. The monsters were grabbing villagers and wrapping villagers and wrapping them in long arms before dragging them back into the mist. The snow was a blizzard now. One of the devils came skittering down the street right towards me. On reflex, I drew my revolver and fired. Then again, I fanned the hammer American style and emptied the firearm.

As the creature came close, I saw that it had all of the features of a human, only disordered. The last shot found the monster's eye. It turned away, but seemed more annoyed than mortally wounded. More gunshots rang out, but the creatures kept coming. I saw one demon drop from a roof to land on a small boy. Without time to reload, I holstered my revolver and drew my knife. The boy was crying. I'll never forget how wide his eyes were, as the creature pulled one of his arms from the socket.

I stabbed at the back of the devil, but it was like attacking an oak tree. The blade hardly did any damage, and I was swatted away. The boy reached for me with his one remaining arm as the monster pulled him back into the fog. The church! Someone shouted. Get to the church! I remember little of the mad dash. The snow was everywhere.

The devils were everywhere. I was one of the last end before they slammed the heavy wooden door and dropped the bar. Part 4. The Cost The Creatures did not get inside the church. I do not know if it was due to God's grace or the sturdy stone walls, but we were safe, for a moment at least. Perhaps a third of the village made it inside the chapel before the door was barred. Children slept curled on pews, as their parents shared what little food and water we had with us.

A cluster of elders stood near the altar, arguing in whispers. A few cast hard looks my way. I have to wonder if they would have thrown me out if it not free. Yuri. I heard Yuri speak on my behalf. He pointed my way and told the village elders that I'd tried to save the boy. Some nodded in approval. Others merely looked away. They came to no conclusion for a plan of action. All we could do was wait. Gregori sat alone at the back of the church, staring at nothing. I spent my time pacing between pews and watching the windows. other than occasional weeping in the priest praying, the church was silent.

Then Grigory began to laugh. It worked! He giggled. It worked! It worked! It worked! What have you done, Gregori? Misha demanded. The tall man only continued to laugh, doubled over in his pew. Those close to him drew back.

I placed a hand on the handle of my revolver. I opened the door, Gregori muttered. I'll finally be with my Inessa again. You're mad. I've enough, Uri whispered. What have you brought on us? The mystic stood, still laughing, and opened one of the shuttered windows.

He climbed out like a spider. I ran to close the shutter before anything else came in. We did not much have in the way of supplies. Yuri organized a party to go out into the town to grab as many provisions as possible. I volunteered. Yuri was ready to leave immediately, but I convinced him to wait.

We should go when the snow stops. I said. What does the weather matter, Englishman? Henry, please call me Henry. Remember what the wounded man said when he came back yesterday. He was attacked when the snow began. And here, in the village, the creatures first arrived with the snow. It could be a coincidence, said Luca.

Or it might not, said Misha. We waited. The snow stopped around midday. There were nine of us that went out to forage, armed with whatever rifles and axes we had on hand. It was still gray outside, a wash of clouds and fog, though no more falling snow. A dusting lay on the ground, ice cracking under my boots as we hurried across the street. Every eye was open for the return of the creatures, but it seemed my theory held water.

No snow, no devils. I caught sight of Gregori in the window of the tavern. It seemed that he'd taken that space for himself. Even at a distance, I could see he'd begun carving those strange, sickening, markings into the walls of the building. Maybe it would keep him safe from the monsters. Maybe it would draw them in. What honest man can tell. We split into three groups and moved house to house, taking whatever supply seemed worthwhile. I doubt we were added for more than an hour before I noticed a snowflake drifting down outside the window. Time to go, I called out, drawing my revolver.

We need to. A scream sounded out, then another, then we were running. I saw shadows climbing on the wall, of houses across the street. One creature was plucking a man's limbs off like a sadistic child taking apart a butterfly. I fired off a shot and struck the man in his chest. I figured that was the most I could help him. It was chaos, smoke and violence and falling snow. My group made it back to the church and stood on either side of the door, guns drawn, waiting. The devils were everywhere, but there was little sign of the other six. All told, we brought back a week or two of food, twice that, in water, some cartridges and kindling and oil. It cost us six lives, including Yuri. This is Hell. Part 5. The Misery. September or October, I don't know. Life fell into a terrible

pattern. It would snow for days, then even cease for an hour or three. As soon as the weather cleared, a few of us would venture out to recover whatever we could. The good news is that many houses had cellars, preserved food, bags of grain and salt. But there was always a cost in blood. Fewer and fewer who left the church made it back inside. It wasn't just the creatures, though they found new ways to harm us. The devils were constantly scratching at the windows, tap, tap, tapping at the door all hours of the night. They began calling out to us in familiar voices. I recognized Yuri, then Misha, after she was lost, and others. I thought I heard my parents, all of these years gone, inviting me outside. They told me it was sunny and warm,

that there was fruit to eat, and we could even go for a swim on the shore. Inside of the church, it was so, so very cold. It was hard to not believe the voices. I thought I heard you as well, Marie, you and little Stephen calling for me. I wanted to answer, to run to you. In my heart, though, I was sure it was a trick. So I stayed in the church. and ate moldy bread and drank water filled with dirt for months and months and months. Not everyone had an appetite for such an existence. Many died during supply runs,

but many more died in ones and twos, slipping outside of the church at night, answering the voices. I made a decision last night, Marie. I have no more strength to resist. I am cold, and I am hungry, and I am weak. It is time for me to either attempt and escape from this hell, or to surrender. I have a plan, or at least a hunch. I'm going to the tavern the next time the

snow stops. If I'm to die, I'll die moving towards you. November 7, 1908. I made it out, Marie. I waited in the church by the window, and when the snow stopped again, I made a dash alone for the tavern. It was not that I wished to escape alone, only that I assumed I would die and did not want to take anyone else with me. I made the run from the church to the tavern with my revolver drawn. I had 12 cartridges left, two full loads. My bullets were special. I carved our names into them. Gregory didn't lock his door. He carved the walls to pieces with symbols. I could not look at any of them. I worried my eyes would bleed. The tavern was as much as I remembered it, open and dusty. There were fresh logs in the hearth. The buildings were lived in, despite the lack of roof.

I found Gregori immediately. He was at the fireplace, naked as the day he was born, chiseling at the stone. I cocked the hammer of my revolver. Gregory, I have some questions. Ivanov, he replied, not moving from the hearth. We're not on a first-name basis. I suppose not. I looked up at the cloudy sky above the tavern. There was no snow yet, but it felt like it was coming. Ivanoff was digging at the chimney like a badger. You have a way out, don't you? I asked. Gregori giggled, but did not answer. Tell me, Ivanoff, please. Did you do this?

The man looked back long enough to nod. Why? Why? It was an experiment and an accident. I wanted to find a road into hell, Gregori said. I didn't mean to get caught in it. A few more days, and I think I can leave. Would you like to wait here with me? You would leave the rest of the village?

The mystic grinned. Even if I didn't have to, I would leave them. Many things happened at once. I lost my temper and leveled the revolver at Ivanov. He crawled up the hearth before I could take a shot. I've never seen a man move that fast or that unnatural. I moved to pursue, but froze as a snowflake fell on my forehead. Then another.

Then it was a blizzard. There was a crash as the tavern door exploded. I turned and fired, catching a glimpse of several of the creatures in the doorframe. They were wedged together like dolls made out of razors. Whatever force kept them out of the building failed once Ivanov was gone. I fanned the revolver dry, reloading as I backed up. The burst pushed them back for a moment, but I knew I'd never make it back to the church. Dust still fell from the hearth where Gregori had made his climb.

I made a run for it, then placed my hands on the stone chimney. I climbed. The monsters were ripping through the room. behind me, but none were following. It was hard to breathe as I pressed my body up the hearth. The passage was narrow, and it was endless. After several minutes of clawing my way up, the stone gave way to dirt. I was choking on the air, but kept climbing. The walls came in so close that I had to force my shoulders through. The way ahead was so tight that there was barely a pinprick of light. That was the closest I came to dying, Marie, to giving up. But I thought

of you and of Stephen. I dragged forward. tasting the mud every inch. Hours later, though it felt like years, my hand pushed through soft earth. I came out of the dirt and lay on the ground. The sky above me was clear and full of an endless scatter of stars. I made it out. Part six, what came after?

Lucas Fant here. This is where Sir Franklin's journal ends. I've gone back and traced his steps following the Tenguska event. Henry made it out of Russia at the end of 1908. He returned to England by way of Finland in early 1909. The man was a mess, raving about monsters, broken and angry. Sir Franklin petitioned the crown for five years, seeking to put together an English military expedition into Russian territory.

It was to be a rescue mission. He almost got his request granted, but World War I erupted. In the violence of a world war, A tiny, unnamed village in Siberia was forgotten. Henry died in the Great War. His body and fortunes exhausted. If any record of the unnamed village ever existed, it was lost in the war or the Russian revolution that followed.

The official explanation is that the blast was likely caused by either a meteor airburst or the explosion of a truly massive quantity of subsurface natural gases. However, the lack of any kind of impact crater or of a sudden, Other obvious signs pointing towards a conventional explosion continue to raise questions. If Henry's journal is correct, then the devastation around Tunguska was likely caused by some type of temporal shift, a collision of realities. Did Ivanov create a door into another dimension? Perhaps hell itself? If so, the backdrop from opening such a door could have been a destructive force never before witnessed in this world. I find myself preoccupied with the fate of the village lost in the event.

Did the people trapped in the church die one by one, or did some attempt an escape? Could some have found Grigori's Eldridge Tunnel back to our reality? Either way, might that connection still persist today? What horrors might still be crawling out of that hole even in the present? Should you find yourself in Siberia, near the site of the Tenguska event, Perhaps tread extra carefully, especially if it begins to snow. Lazzangue sur-gillet, Pucance-Moyerned for 15 minutes.

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