‘I CAME FACE TO FACE WITH BIGFOOT’ Farmer’s Disturbing Sasquatch Encounter Story

The Night the Woods Came Alive

Chapter One: The Edge of the Forest

Right now, it’s three in the morning, and I’m sitting in my truck outside my wife’s parents’ house. I can’t sleep. I keep touching my ribs where the bruises are still fresh, feeling the dull ache that reminds me how close we came to losing everything. My son is inside, safe, sleeping in a proper bed for the first time in three days. That’s all that matters. But I can’t stop replaying it in my head—how if I’d been thirty seconds slower, my boy would be gone.

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Let me tell you how it started.

We’d been working our small farm for about five years, a modest operation tucked away in the woods. Twenty chickens, half a dozen goats, a couple of pigs—just enough to scrape by. My wife tended the garden and helped with the animals, and our six-year-old son loved feeding the chickens every morning. That was his favorite part of the day. The property backed up to thick, old-growth forest. Our nearest neighbor was two miles down the road. Most days, we wouldn’t see another soul. It was peaceful. Hard work, but peaceful—the kind of life where you fall into bed exhausted and wake up ready to do it all again.

We weren’t rich. The farm barely covered expenses most months, but it was ours. We’d poured everything we had into that land. My wife grew up in the city, and I think her parents thought we were crazy for moving out to the middle of nowhere. But she loved it as much as I did—at least, she used to.

The forest behind our property was dense, the kind of place where the trees seemed to swallow the light. Sometimes at night, you’d hear animals moving around. Deer, mostly, maybe a fox or two. That was normal. Expected, even. You live on the edge of the woods, you get wildlife. The house itself was nothing special—built in the seventies, two bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen, and a living room. The front door opened into a small entryway with a shelf for keys and mail. Nothing fancy, but it was home.

Chapter Two: Something in the Shadows

About a year before we left, the problems started. At first, it was the chickens. I figured it was foxes or coyotes—you expect to lose a few birds here and there. But the losses started adding up. I reinforced the coop, added better latches, stronger wire mesh, even put up motion sensor lights. For a week or two, everything seemed fine. Then we lost three chickens in one night. The coop door was still latched, but the frame had been bent, pushed in like it was nothing. The metal latch was broken clean off, twisted at an angle that made no sense.

I stood there that morning, staring at the damage, trying to figure out what could do that. Maybe a bear? But no one had seen a bear in that area for decades. I bought heavier duty latches, reinforced the frame, told myself it was a one-time thing. Three days later, I woke up to find a fence post around the chicken coop knocked completely over—not broken, just pushed aside like something massive had walked through. The post had been set two feet deep in concrete.

That’s when I started staying up nights, rifle across my lap, watching out the window. My wife thought I was being paranoid, tried to get me to come to bed. But the losses were adding up, and every chicken we lost was money we couldn’t afford to lose. Some nights I’d patrol the property with a flashlight, checking the coops and fences. I never saw anything, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was out there, watching from the tree line.

Things got stranger two months before we left. One afternoon, I was working in the far field when I got that prickling feeling on the back of my neck, like I was being watched. I looked up and saw something standing between two trees. At first, I thought it was a person—maybe a hunter who’d wandered onto my land. But it was too far away to see clearly, and it was tall. Really tall. Taller than anyone I’d ever seen. I waved and shouted that it was private property. The figure didn’t move. The proportions seemed off—arms too long, shoulders too broad. I started walking toward it, but as I got closer, it turned and melted back into the woods like a shadow.

I stood there for a long time, staring at the spot where it had been, trying to convince myself it was just a trick of the light. That night, I told my wife. She suggested it was a lost hiker or a hunter, but I knew every hunter in the area. Nobody was that tall.

Over the next few days, I kept seeing it—always at a distance, always at the edge of the woods, sometimes in the morning, sometimes at dusk. Always watching. I started keeping my rifle with me even during the day. My wife noticed I was jumpy, asked what was wrong. I told her about the figure. She was concerned, but tried to rationalize it. Maybe a homeless person camping in the woods. But I couldn’t shake how tall it was, how it moved, the way it would stand perfectly still, watching.

Chapter Three: The Knocks and the Night

About a week after I first saw the figure, things escalated. Sounds started at night—strange vocalizations from the woods, not quite a howl, more like a whoop, long and loud, echoing across the property. Sometimes there would be wood knocking, like someone hitting trees with a branch, always at night, always from different directions. It felt like something was circling us.

One night, I counted the knocks—three, pause, two, pause, three again. Too deliberate to be random, too organized to be just an animal. I started recording the sounds on my phone, thinking maybe someone who knew about wildlife could help. But in the light of day, the recordings sounded even stranger, unnatural. My wife asked me to delete them—they gave her nightmares.

The sounds continued almost every night. Sometimes they’d wake my son, who’d come into our room, scared. We told him it was just animals, just the forest settling. But kids know when their parents are lying.

Three weeks before we left, everything changed. I woke up around two in the morning to the goats screaming. If you’ve never heard a goat in terror, I hope you never do. It’s a sound that goes right through you. I grabbed my rifle and flashlight, told my wife to stay inside and lock the doors.

The goat pen was fifty yards from the house. The fence was torn apart, not cut—torn. Wooden posts snapped like toothpicks. Two goats were gone. The other four huddled in the corner, shaking. I found huge barefoot tracks in the mud, eighteen inches long, five toes, deep impressions. I followed the tracks to the tree line, found clumps of thick, coarse black hair caught on a low branch. I heard something moving deeper in the forest—heavy footfalls fading away. Whatever it was, it was big, and it had taken our goats.

Chapter Four: The Warning

I called the local ranger station. An older guy came out, weathered, the kind of man who’d spent his life outdoors. I showed him the tracks, the torn fence, the hair. His face went pale when he saw the tracks. He asked if I’d seen what did this. I told him about the figure, described how tall it was, how it moved. The ranger was quiet for a long moment, then asked to talk privately.

We walked over to my truck. He spoke low, like he didn’t want anyone else to hear. He said I needed to listen carefully: my family and I needed to leave. Pack up and go. Don’t make noise about it, don’t tell the neighbors what I saw, just leave. I was stunned. He told me there were things in these woods the department didn’t talk about publicly. They’d tried to hunt it before, set traps, organized hunting parties, but it always vanished. It was incredibly intelligent, an expert at navigating the forest.

He explained it hunted small livestock—goats, chickens, pigs. Wouldn’t take a cow, too heavy to drag. That’s probably why it targeted my farm. He told me it wouldn’t stop, and I couldn’t fight it. I asked if it was a bear. He shook his head. “Something else,” he said. “Most people call it Bigfoot.” He said three other families had left the area in the past fifteen years because of it. Same pattern every time—livestock disappearing, fences torn apart, something watching from the woods. Once it decided it wanted something, it kept coming back.

He told me to think about my family, especially my son. That made my blood run cold. The way he said it, like there was a specific reason to worry about a child. The ranger left, saying he’d file a report about wildlife damage, but that was all he could do officially.

That night, I told my wife everything. She was terrified, wanted to leave right away, but we didn’t have anywhere to go. No savings, no plan. We agreed to give it a few more days, fortify the property, see if it stayed away.

Chapter Five: Escalation

I spent the next day reinforcing everything—new locks, stronger fences, more lights, a bell system rigged to the coops so we’d hear if anything disturbed them. My wife helped, both of us knowing deep down it wouldn’t matter. That night, the wood knocking started again, closer than before. It was still out there, still circling.

Two weeks after the ranger’s visit, we lost a pig. The pen gate was torn off its hinges, the wood frame splintered, one pig gone. I found tracks again, and this time, drag marks—something heavy pulled into the woods. That pig weighed two hundred pounds, and whatever took it had carried it like nothing.

My wife said we needed to leave. I called family, friends, trying to find somewhere to stay. Ten days before the final attack, the figure started coming closer. One afternoon, my son was playing in the yard when he froze, pointing at the tree line. There it was, fifty yards away, close enough to see details—over eight feet tall, broad shoulders, arms hanging past its knees, covered in dark fur, face flat with a heavy brow. It was watching my son.

I yelled for my wife to grab him. She ran inside with him. I stood there, shovel in hand, staring at the creature. It didn’t move, just watched me, then turned and walked back into the woods, unhurried.

That night, my wife said we had to leave. I finally agreed. We started packing essentials, planning to stay with her parents. I told myself we just needed a few more days to get organized.

Chapter Six: The Final Night

Two days later, something tried to look into our house. At midnight, I heard footsteps outside, heavy and deliberate. I stayed back from the window, rifle in hand. The shape blocked the window, tall enough to bend down and look in. I could feel its eyes on me. It circled the house, checking every window, then walked away toward the woods. In the morning, I found enormous handprints on the glass, fingers as thick as sausages, the palm ten inches wide.

We packed in earnest after that. I started sleeping in my son’s room, rifle across my lap. He thought it was fun at first, then started to realize something was wrong. My wife moved through the house like a ghost, my son stopped playing outside, started having nightmares. The wood knocking got closer, sometimes right at the edge of the property, sometimes footsteps on the roof. One night, we heard it pacing up there, the house creaking under its weight.

We planned to leave in three days. We didn’t make it.

Chapter Seven: The Chase

That final night, I tucked my son into bed, read him a story, checked under the bed and in the closet. He clutched his stuffed bear and asked if the animals would stay away. I told him yes, that I’d make sure. My wife was already in bed, exhausted. I sat in the living room, rifle across my lap, watching out the window.

Around midnight, I heard a soft thump near the chicken coop. I went outside, rifle ready. The chickens were agitated, but nothing seemed wrong. I checked the latch, swept the flashlight around. Nothing. I started back toward the house.

That’s when I heard my son’s voice behind me: “Daddy, look. A standing bear.”

My blood turned to ice. He was standing in the yard, twenty feet from the door, pointing at the tree line, his stuffed bear in his other hand. He must have woken up, seen the door open, and come looking for me. I followed his finger and saw it—thirty yards away, at the edge of the woods, massive and upright, walking toward my son. Each step was slow, deliberate, but it was covering ground fast.

I ran, screaming at my son to get inside. He froze, confused. I reached him, grabbed his arm, shoved him toward the house. “Run!” He stumbled, then ran. The creature was right there, closer than I thought. I saw its face up close—deep-set, intelligent, angry eyes. It reached out, and its hand caught me in the ribs. Pain exploded through my side. I shoved my son through the door, slammed it shut, wedged a shelf under the handle. The creature hit the door, the whole wall shook. Another impact. The frame cracked. My wife screamed, grabbed our son, ran for the back door. I let go of the shelf and followed. Behind me, the door gave way with a crash. Heavy footsteps in the entryway.

We burst out the back door, ran for the truck. The creature filled the back doorway, then stepped into the yard, walking after us. We reached the truck, my wife shoved our son inside, I jumped in, started the engine. The creature stopped, watching us. I backed out, headlights sweeping the yard. It watched us drive away, then turned and walked back toward the house.

Chapter Eight: Aftermath

We drove all night, four hours to my in-laws. My son cried himself to sleep. My wife stared out the window, silent. My ribs screamed with every movement. When we arrived, my mother-in-law opened the door, shocked at our appearance. My wife broke down, sobbing in her mother’s arms. My father-in-law took our son, who clung to me, terrified.

The next few days were a blur. My in-laws tried to rationalize it—maybe a bear, maybe stress. But my son had seen it too, and six-year-olds don’t hallucinate the same thing as their parents. My ribs were black and purple, my wife barely spoke, my son wouldn’t let us out of his sight.

A week later, my father-in-law and I drove back to the farm during the day to collect what we’d left behind. The house was a disaster. My son’s room was destroyed—mattress torn apart, toys scattered, scratches gouged into the walls, as if something had been searching for him. My father-in-law stared, speechless. We gathered what we could and left.

I never went back. Filed for abandonment, let the bank have the property. Heard later the house burned down—cause unknown. Sometimes I wonder if the ranger had a hand in that, erasing evidence, making sure no one else would go through what we did.

Chapter Nine: The Shadow Remains

My son has nightmares, wakes up crying about the “bear man.” We tell him it was just a bad dream, but he knows better. For months, he wouldn’t sleep alone. My wife started seeing a therapist, never told the real reason we left. I couldn’t talk to anyone about it. Who would believe me?

My son won’t play near trees. Only parks in the middle of the city, wide open spaces. He’s seven now and still checks his closet before bed, still asks for the hall light on. My wife and I don’t talk about it much, but sometimes late at night we lie awake, both thinking about that night.

I work construction now, hard labor that leaves me too exhausted to remember. We rent a small house in town, no woods, no animals. The landlord wanted to plant trees for privacy. I talked him into a taller fence instead.

Six months after we left, I started researching. I found other stories—families who’d fled, children who’d vanished. Some accounts were fake, but some were just like mine. The way it moved, the sounds it made, the intelligence, the way it targeted children. One story was about a girl found in the woods after disappearing for hours, another about a boy who vanished forever.

I stopped reading after that. My wife caught me once, told me to stop, that we needed to move on. She was right. I deleted my account, but I still think about it. I know now how lucky we were. Lucky the ranger warned us. Lucky we had somewhere to go. Lucky my son followed me outside that night, instead of staying in his bed where the creature would have found him.

Chapter Ten: Lessons Learned

Once it decides it wants something, it doesn’t stop. You can’t fight it, can’t reason with it, can’t scare it away. It studies you, learns your patterns, waits for the right moment. That night, when my son came outside, it saw an opportunity. If I’d been thirty seconds slower, my son would be gone.

I touch my ribs sometimes, feel the spot that never quite healed. A permanent reminder. I wonder if it’s still there, waiting for someone else to move in. I hope not, but I doubt it left. I lost everything we’d built, but I still have my family. That’s all that matters.

Every night, when I check the locks before bed, I remember. And I never, ever let my son sleep near a window.

For more mysterious stories, keep searching. Some things in the woods are better left unseen.