My Thermal Camera Spotted Bigfoot Right Before It Saved Me From a Shocking Attack

In late October of 2019, deep in the Appalachian Mountains of Western North Carolina, I, a 67-year-old man living alone in a cabin I’d built 30 years earlier, stumbled across something that would change my life forever. Surrounded by thick woods and isolated from the nearest neighbor, I had become accustomed to the solitude, often spending my days tinkering with small engines or reading by the fire. But that October, my thermal camera would reveal something far beyond the familiar sights and sounds of the forest. A figure, a creature, one that would send a chill down my spine and change everything I thought I knew about the wilds around me.

Chapter 1: The Cabin in the Mountains

It was the type of place you couldn’t find on a map—hidden away, 2 miles up a gravel road that washed out every spring, surrounded by dense oak and hemlock trees. My cabin, built by hand in the late ’80s, had always been my refuge after my wife passed away. I loved the silence, the peace of being surrounded by nature, away from the noise of town and the pressures of the world. My dogs, two loyal mutts, were the only company I needed. The cold mountain air and the gentle sounds of the forest were all I ever really craved.

For most of the year, I lived a quiet life. I had no need for much, just my thermal camera, a tool I bought on a whim one summer to keep an eye on the animals that roamed the woods at night, and my classic 1967 Mustang that I had painstakingly restored over the course of 15 years.

The early frost in September of that year had been the first sign that winter would come early. I remember the rain tapping against the tin roof that night, the cold creeping in. It was then that I first saw something on the monitor that would make me question everything I thought I knew about these woods.

Chapter 2: The First Encounter

That night, the temperature dropped to 38°F. As I sat in my chair by the wood stove, half-asleep, I glanced at the monitor mounted on my porch. At first, I thought it was a person—maybe a lost hiker—but this figure didn’t move like a person. It stood motionless in the rain, almost 7 feet tall, its shape clear on the thermal camera. I watched for 11 minutes as it stood there, shifting its weight from one foot to the other, the warmth of its body visible in stark contrast to the cool dark of the forest behind it.

I thought it might be a trespasser, someone who had heard about my Mustang and was casing the place. But as I looked through the camera, something told me this wasn’t just a man. It didn’t move like one. When it finally stepped back into the trees, I tried to dismiss it as my imagination. But that night, I couldn’t sleep. Every little sound—the wind, the creaking of the cabin—had me reaching for my rifle.

Chapter 3: The Prints in the Mud

The next morning, I took the dogs out to the edge of the woods to see if I could find any trace of the figure. What I found, however, wasn’t what I expected. Deep prints—barefoot, enormous, and unmistakably human in shape—sunk into the mud. They were 15 inches long, with five distinct toe impressions. The stride length between them was more than 4 feet. The weight of whatever had made these prints had to be at least 300 pounds. I couldn’t explain it. The dogs were uneasy, their ears back and their bodies tense as they sniffed around the prints.

I didn’t want to think about the old stories my grandfather used to tell me—the ones about creatures in the woods that were too big to be bears, things that left signs and sounds to mark their territory. But these prints didn’t lie. I photographed them, measured them, and covered them with plywood to protect them from the rain. Something was out there. But what?

Chapter 4: The Knock in the Night

That night, the knocking started. Three slow, deliberate knocks echoed through the trees. It wasn’t the sound of a branch falling or an animal scratching bark. These were rhythmic, spaced exactly five seconds apart. Knock, knock, knock. My dogs went silent, and I stood in the dark, listening. My heart pounded in my chest, but I wasn’t afraid—not yet. It was then I realized something was watching me.

I opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. The air was cold, and my breath hung in the night air. I scanned the tree line with my rifle raised, but there was nothing. No sign of the creature, no movement—just the stillness of the forest. But then I smelled it—wet fur, decay, something overwhelming, like a dead animal left in the sun for days. I stepped back inside, and the dogs huddled against me, whimpering.

I didn’t sleep that night. I sat by the window, watching the thermal camera, but nothing appeared on the screen. The knocks returned three nights later, but I didn’t go outside. I just waited for dawn.

Chapter 5: The First Signs of Bigfoot

Over the next week, the strange occurrences escalated. The knocks continued, coming from different directions each time, and my thermal camera picked up strange heat signatures—figures moving just beyond the tree line, too large to be human. The dogs were on edge, trembling whenever the knocks rang out. Then, one morning, I discovered something new. A pile of flat stones had been stacked in a pyramid near my woodpile. It wasn’t something I had done. The stones were smooth, dark river rock—different from anything I had around my cabin. And then, I noticed a fresh grapevine circle hanging from a low branch near my spring. Someone—or something—was leaving these markers.

I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I’d heard the stories of creatures marking their territory, of Bigfoot sightings in the mountains, but I had never believed in them. Yet, here I was, staring at signs I couldn’t explain away. Something was watching me. And I began to wonder—was it Bigfoot?

Chapter 6: The Final Encounter

I decided to set up a motion-activated trail camera. By Sunday night, it had captured 43 clips. Most were of deer, raccoons, and a fox. But one clip—timestamped at 2:47 a.m.—shocked me. The figure that appeared on the footage was blurry, but its eyes—glowing bright in the infrared light—stood out. They were at least 7 feet off the ground. The shape moved quickly out of the frame, but I knew what I’d seen. That night, I didn’t sleep. I kept watch by the window, rifle in hand.

Then, just after midnight, I heard the knock again—three slow, deliberate strikes. My dogs started barking, and I grabbed my rifle, stepping out onto the porch. The flashlights of two men appeared, moving through the trees, clearly approaching the cabin. They had come to rob me, and I could feel it. They hadn’t just come to ask about my Mustang. They wanted something else.

The knocks came again—this time closer. And then, at the edge of the tree line, I saw it. The figure. It was massive—at least 7 and a half feet tall. Covered in dark hair, it stood still, watching me. I wasn’t sure what it wanted, but I knew it wasn’t here to hurt me. The two men, however, ran, terrified, crashing through the forest as the creature just watched. It made no move toward them. Instead, it turned to me, its gaze steady, acknowledging me before it retreated into the woods.

Chapter 7: The Aftermath

The next morning, I found the prints again—deeper this time, leading into the forest. They were unmistakable. This wasn’t a hoax. It wasn’t a man in a costume. This was Bigfoot, and it had saved me from the thieves that night.

I went to town that afternoon, stopped at the general store, and bought some apples and jerky—small offerings. I didn’t know if Bigfoot would accept them, but it felt right. That evening, I placed the food on the stump near my woodpile—the same stump where I had found the stacked stones.

I don’t know what Bigfoot wanted, or why it had chosen to protect me. But I know one thing for sure—there is something in the woods. And it’s not just stories.

Epilogue:

The days that followed were quiet. The knocks stopped, the strange occurrences faded, and life returned to its slow, peaceful rhythm. But I never forgot the creature that had saved me. I didn’t tell anyone about what happened. Some things are better left unspoken, but every time I sit by the fire, I remember. And I wonder…what else is out there, hidden deep in the Appalachian mountains, waiting, watching.