This Woman Recorded a Bigfoot Tribe Near Her House – Bigfoot Encounter Story

When the Woods Say Go

Chapter One: The Only Witness

I’m staying at my cousin’s place right now. Been here three weeks. I left my house—my home of fifteen years—in a rush, and honestly, I don’t know if I can ever go back. Most people think I’ve lost it. They think the isolation finally got to me, that living alone in the woods for too long snapped something inside my head. Some are kind enough not to say it outright, but I can see it in their eyes: the doubt, the concern, the pity. But I know what I saw. I know what I experienced. And every single bit of it was real.

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For over fifteen years, I lived in a small, cabin-style house nestled up against the edge of dense Pacific Northwest forest. Old-growth trees towered around me, their trunks thick as ancient columns. My nearest neighbor was two miles down the road, hidden by the terrain and the trees. That isolation was exactly what I craved. I loved the quiet mornings, the peace of sipping coffee on my porch while watching deer graze in the clearing, the sense of being surrounded by nothing but nature. No traffic, no sirens, no neighbors’ drama—just me and the wild. For fifteen years, it was perfect. My slice of heaven.

Then, eight months ago, everything changed. At first, it was little things—things I tried hard to brush off. I started noticing massive footprints in the mud near the treeline after rain. They were twice the size of my own boots—size sixteen or seventeen, at least. Each stride was three or four feet apart. They didn’t match any animal I knew. Not bear, not elk, not moose. Five toes, a heel, an arch—almost human, but impossibly huge.

The prints kept appearing, always in the same places—by my shed, along my garden, near the woodpile. Like something was systematically patrolling my land, circling it on a schedule. Then came the sounds at night. Not the familiar coyote howls or owl hoots or even the blood-curdling scream of a mountain lion. These were deep, echoing grunts, strange knocking sounds like wood striking wood with tremendous force, and the unmistakable thud of heavy footsteps circling my house. I tried to tell myself it was just wildlife, but the sounds were too deliberate, too organized—like communication.

The footprints and sounds became a nightly ritual. Knock, knock, knock from the northwest. Then a distant reply from the east. Then another from the south. Sometimes there were three or four different sources, all answering each other. It went on for weeks, every night between midnight and four in the morning. I started lying awake, counting the knocks, trying to make sense of the pattern.

And then, one evening, I saw it.

Chapter Two: The Unseen Becomes Seen

It was early October, dusk settling in, that strange time when the world is neither day nor night. I was out by the shed, stocking up firewood, when I looked up and froze. Standing at the edge of the clearing, maybe seventy feet away, was a figure. Massive. Seven or eight feet tall, maybe more, covered in dark hair that looked almost black in the fading light. Its shoulders were impossibly broad, arms too long, hanging nearly to its knees. Legs thick and powerful. The head seemed small for the body, or maybe it just had no neck. It didn’t move. Just watched me.

I stood there, firewood in my arms, unable to move or think. My brain tried to make sense of it: a person in a costume, a bear standing upright, a shadow, a tree stump. Anything but what it was. We stared at each other for what felt like forever—probably only thirty seconds. Then it took a step backward, then another, never looking away, and melted into the trees.

I dropped the firewood and ran inside, locking every door and window, heart pounding so hard I thought it might burst. I tried to convince myself I’d imagined it, but I knew what I’d seen. And that terrified me more than anything.

After that, sightings became more frequent. Sometimes I’d see two of them moving through the trees in broad daylight. One was even bigger than the first, covered in dark brown fur; the other was a bit smaller, reddish-brown. They moved with purpose, gliding through the undergrowth without a sound, as if the forest itself parted for them. I found more evidence—branches twisted and arranged in patterns, rock piles that hadn’t been there before, areas of flattened grass where something huge had lain down.

The wood knocking became almost nightly, sometimes even during the day. The knocks would echo from all sides, surrounding the property, marking their territory, letting me know I was the intruder. The feeling of being watched became constant, oppressive. My fearless German Shepherd started refusing to go outside after dark, growling at the windows, pacing and whining in terror.

Desperate, I called the sheriff’s department. I kept my story vague—large animals, maybe trespassers, footprints, strange sounds. A young deputy came out, looked around, took a few photos, and told me it was probably a territorial bear. Secure your trash, he said. Make noise when you go outside. He never came back.

I needed proof. I bought trail cameras—good ones, with night vision and motion sensors. The owner of the outdoor supply store, an old local with a weathered face, warned me: “They know what cameras are for. They don’t like being filmed.” He even came out to help me set them up, showing me the best angles and spots. Before he left, he looked me in the eye and said, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. What happens next is on you.”

Chapter Three: Proof and Provocation

The first night the cameras were up, the wood knocking was louder and more insistent than ever. My dog was frantic. At dawn, I collected the SD cards, hands shaking. When I loaded them onto my laptop, I saw what I’d feared—and hoped—for.

There they were. Multiple figures, massive and upright, emerging from the forest in a loose group. Seven, maybe eight feet tall, broad-shouldered, covered in thick fur. One was lighter, almost silver. They moved with a smooth, powerful gait, walking upright in a way that was unmistakably not human. The second camera caught one of them staring directly at the lens, eyes glowing in the infrared, face primitive and ancient, expression unreadable. The third camera showed three of them together at the treeline, the largest in front, the others deferential behind.

I watched the footage over and over, zooming in, studying every detail. My stomach churned. My hands shook. This was real. I had proof. But proof of what? Who would believe it? Would anyone care? Would anyone help?

I left the cameras up another night, desperate for more evidence. That was a mistake. Around three in the morning, I heard crashing outside—metal being smashed, wood splintering, something being torn apart. My dog barked and screamed in terror. I sat on my bed, rifle in hand, too scared to look outside. The destruction lasted ten minutes, then silence.

At dawn, I found all three cameras destroyed—ripped from the trees, smashed to pieces, SD cards gone. Only the cameras were touched, the trees and straps left unharmed. Massive handprints in the dirt showed where they’d examined and destroyed the devices. The message was clear: no more cameras.

After that, things escalated. They came closer, bolder, more aggressive. Heavy footsteps on the porch at night, scratching on the walls, pounding on the doors and windows. One night, something hit my bedroom window so hard the whole frame shook. When I turned on the porch light, I saw massive shapes retreating into the dark.

The smell was overwhelming—musky, wild, rotten, clinging to my clothes, seeping into the house. My dog refused to go outside after dark, cowering and shaking. I started sleeping in my clothes, boots by the bed, rifle always within reach. I stopped sleeping more than a few hours a night, jolting awake at every sound, convinced they were about to break in.

Chapter Four: Driven Out

The attacks became relentless. One night, something pounded on my back door for twenty minutes straight, the whole house shaking with each blow. I called 911, begged for help, but by the time the deputy arrived, everything was quiet. He found nothing, and I could hear him on the radio recommending a welfare check, suspecting a mental health situation.

I called the state wildlife office, the local news, anyone who might listen. No one believed me. When I went into town, people whispered, gave me pitying looks, made jokes. I was “the crazy lady in the woods.” I stopped going into town unless I had to. Stopped calling for help. Stopped trying to convince anyone. It was just me, my dog, and my terror.

The activity grew worse. I’d see them at the treeline during the day—two, sometimes three, just standing and watching. They destroyed my garden shed, twisted my bird feeder poles, overturned my woodpile, sorted my trash into neat piles. The wood knocking became constant, sometimes in broad daylight. The most disturbing thing were the handprints on my windows—massive, thick-fingered, pressed against the glass inches from where I slept.

Three weeks ago, it all came to a head. I was woken at two in the morning by the loudest banging I’d ever heard. Something was hitting the house with terrifying force. The whole structure shook, pictures fell, dishes rattled, dust rained from the ceiling. My dog screamed in terror, running from room to room. I called 911, barely able to speak. The banging lasted ten minutes, then stopped. Silence.

At dawn, I found the damage—siding ripped off, porch railings twisted, windows shattered, footprints everywhere. I knew then I couldn’t stay. This was their land. They wanted me gone, and they weren’t going to stop until I left.

I packed what I could in my car—clothes, documents, photos, my dog. Left most of my possessions behind. Every night, they came back, making sure I followed through, making my final nights unbearable. I called my cousin, explained I needed a place to stay. They welcomed me without question.

On my last morning, as I drove away, I looked in the rearview mirror and saw them standing at the treeline, watching me go. The largest in the middle, the others flanking it, perfectly still, backlit by the rising sun.

Chapter Five: Never Going Back

I haven’t been back since. I haven’t even looked at photos of the place. I’m still jumpy, still not sleeping well, still checking every lock at night, still waking up convinced I hear wood knocking. My dog is traumatized, following me from room to room, refusing to go near windows after dark.

I don’t know what to do about the house. I can’t afford to just abandon it, but I can’t go back. I can’t live like that, knowing they’re out there, knowing they want me gone, knowing they could break in any time they decided to. When I talked to a real estate agent about selling, I didn’t know what to say. How do you explain this? Do I have to disclose it? How do you put that in a listing?

The few people I’ve told the real story to think I’ve had a breakdown. They think I need therapy or medication. My cousin has been kind, but I see the doubt in their eyes. I’ve stopped trying to convince anyone. Without seeing it, they’ll never believe. And I don’t blame them. If someone had told me this a year ago, I wouldn’t have believed it either.

But I know what I saw. I have the photos from before the cameras were destroyed. Sometimes, late at night, I look at them just to remind myself I’m not crazy. Those massive shapes, those faces, those eyes reflecting the infrared light. I look at them to prove to myself it was real.

I keep asking myself questions that have no answers. Why my property? Was it random, or did I cross some line? Was it the cameras that provoked them? Why didn’t they just avoid me if they wanted to stay hidden? Why the deliberate contact, the escalation, the terror? How many others have experienced this and stayed silent, afraid of being labeled crazy?

I started researching online, found stories from others all over the Pacific Northwest—same descriptions, same behaviors, same patterns of escalation and being driven out. I realized I’m not alone, but that doesn’t make it any less terrifying. It doesn’t give me my home back.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to return. Part of me hopes they’ll move on, let me reclaim my property. But I know the truth. They were there first. They decided I had to leave, and I had no choice but to comply. All I could do was run.

Now I’m trying to rebuild some sense of normalcy, but every night I still find myself listening for the wood knocking, still checking the tree line. My cousin’s house backs up to woods, too. Sometimes, at night, I think I hear it—the deliberate, purposeful rhythm echoing through the trees. I tell myself it’s just my imagination, but I know better now.

They don’t want to be filmed, don’t want to be proven, don’t want to be documented. They want to remain hidden, and they’ll do whatever it takes to stay that way. Sometimes I wonder if they’ve moved into my house, claimed it as their own. Sometimes I think about going back, but I know I never will. Because the most terrifying thing I learned is this: we’re not always at the top of the food chain.

There are things in the deep woods that are bigger, stronger, and smarter than us in ways we don’t understand. Things that have learned to stay hidden, to avoid our cameras and our civilization. Things that have been there longer than we have. And sometimes, if you get too close, if you try too hard to prove they exist, they make sure you leave. One way or another.

That’s what happened to me. And it could happen to anyone who doesn’t understand that some places belong to them, not us. Some territories are theirs to claim. If we’re smart, we’ll respect that. We’ll leave quietly before something worse happens. I left. I ran. I gave up my home without a fight. And I’m still here, still alive, able to tell the story. That’s more than some people can say.

So I’m here now, safe for the moment, trying to move forward. But I’ll never forget. I’ll never stop listening for the wood knocking. And I’ll never go back to those woods, never return to that house, because I know what’s out there now. I know they’re real. I know they’re watching. And when they decide you need to leave, you leave—or something very bad happens.

For more stories from the edge of the unknown, keep searching the shadows. Some mysteries are meant to stay hidden.