I’m a SC DNR Agent. I Saw Something During a Coyote Cull on Kiawah Island That I Still Can’t Explain.

I’ve gone back and forth about posting this for almost two years now.

I’m a wildlife officer with the South Carolina Department of Natural Resources. I’ve spent most of my career working coastal areas. I’ve handled nuisance alligators, injured dolphins, black bears, feral hogs, and more coyotes than I can count.

I don’t believe in ghosts.

I don’t believe in cryptids.

I definitely don’t believe in sea monsters.

At least I didn’t before November of 2024.

Back then, I was assigned to a coyote management operation on Kiawah Island. If you’re familiar with the South Carolina coast, you’ve probably heard about the issues we’ve had with coyotes over the years. One of the biggest concerns is their impact on the local sea turtle population, especially loggerheads. During nesting season, coyotes will dig up nests and consume eggs before hatchlings ever get the chance to reach the ocean.

The island had documented increasing nest losses, and we were tasked with reducing predator pressure in several key areas before the next nesting season.

We started just before sunset.

That’s when coyotes become active.

The plan was simple. Teams would spread out across several sections of the island, monitor travel corridors, identify active animals, and remove problem coyotes when possible.

I was positioned near a remote stretch of marsh between a maritime forest and a tidal creek on the western side of the island.

The sun had just dropped below the horizon.

The tide was unusually low.

Large sections of mud flats were exposed, and the marsh grass seemed to stretch forever.

Everything was normal for the first hour.

Then I spotted movement.

At first I thought it was a coyote.

Then I realized it was much too tall.

I raised my binoculars.

About 250 yards away, standing in the middle of the marsh, was what I assumed had to be a person.

Except something felt wrong immediately.

The figure was enormous.

At least seven feet tall.

Possibly taller.

It appeared covered in hanging strands of marsh grass, seaweed, or something similar. The vegetation seemed draped over its shoulders and back almost like a cloak.

But it wasn’t moving.

Not swaying.

Not shifting.

Not even reacting to the wind.

It was simply standing there.

Watching the creek.

I remember lowering my binoculars and rubbing my eyes.

Then looking again.

Still there.

I keyed my radio.

“Dispatch, I may have a trespasser in the marsh. Approximately two-fifty from my location.”

The dispatcher acknowledged.

I continued watching.

For nearly thirty seconds the figure didn’t move at all.

Then it did something that I still can’t explain.

It took a single step.

The distance it covered should have required several strides.

One moment it was standing near a cluster of grass islands.

The next it was twenty or thirty yards farther away.

I know how ridiculous that sounds.

I don’t care.

That’s exactly what I saw.

I started moving toward it.

The marsh wasn’t easy terrain. Every step sank several inches into the mud.

But the figure seemed completely unaffected.

No splashing.

No disturbance.

No visible effort.

Just movement.

Smooth movement.

Almost like it was gliding.

I stopped walking.

Something about the entire situation suddenly felt wrong.

Not dangerous.

Just wrong.

Like I was looking at something that wasn’t supposed to be there.

The air felt strangely quiet.

No insects.

No birds.

Nothing.

Then the figure slowly turned toward me.

Even through the binoculars I couldn’t make out a face.

Just darkness beneath the hanging vegetation.

I don’t know how long I stood there.

Maybe five seconds.

Maybe thirty.

Then I looked down to check my footing.

When I looked back up—

it was gone.

Completely gone.

There was nowhere for it to go.

The nearest tree line was hundreds of yards away.

The marsh was wide open.

Yet there was absolutely nothing standing where it had been moments before.

I searched the area until nearly midnight.

The mud should have preserved tracks perfectly.

There were deer tracks.

Raccoon tracks.

Coyote tracks.

Even bird tracks.

But there were no human footprints.

No sign of anyone entering.

No sign of anyone leaving.

Nothing.

Eventually I returned to the staging area.

I didn’t tell anyone exactly what I saw.

I simply mentioned I thought there had been someone out in the marsh.

One of the older officers looked up immediately.

His first question was strange.

“Low tide?”

I said yes.

He nodded.

Didn’t say another word.

A younger guy overheard us and laughed.

“You didn’t see the Marsh Walker, did you?”

Everyone chuckled.

Except the older officer.

He just stared into his coffee.

A few weeks later I brought it up with a maintenance worker who’d been on Kiawah for almost forty years.

Before I could describe the figure, he interrupted me.

“Covered in grass?”

I felt my stomach drop.

I asked how he knew that.

He shrugged.

“People been seeing it forever.”

According to him, old stories on the island talk about something called The Walker Between Tides.

A figure seen only at dusk.

Usually during low tide.

Always near the marsh.

Always alone.

The stories claim it appears before major storms, periods of unusual wildlife behavior, or changes along the island.

I laughed it off.

Or at least I tried to.

Then I remembered something.

My body camera had been recording.

I pulled the footage.

You can clearly see me stop.

Raise my binoculars.

Key the radio.

Describe a large standing figure.

You can hear the uncertainty in my voice.

But the camera never captures anything.

Not a person.

Not an animal.

Nothing.

The area where I was staring is completely empty.

To this day I don’t know what I saw.

Maybe it was exhaustion.

Maybe a trick of the fading light.

Maybe my brain connected shadows and marsh grass into something that wasn’t really there.

That’s the explanation I choose to believe.

But every time I go back to Kiawah and see those marshes at low tide, I find myself looking out across the grass.

Just checking.

Because if what I saw was real, it wasn’t hunting.

It wasn’t hiding.

It was standing there watching the island.

And somehow, it felt like it had been doing that for a very long time.