Man Records Bigfoot Trying to Break Into His Cabin, Then The Worst Happened – Sasquatch Story

😨 The Reckoning in the Remote Cabin

I never believed in Bigfoot. Not for a second. Like most rational people, I dismissed the stories as folklore, misidentified animals, or outright hoaxes. But I was dead wrong. I have the video, the scars, and the memories to prove it. This is the story of how I, a single construction worker dad looking for a quiet weekend, ended up face-to-face with something ancient, terrifying, and unbelievably real in a remote mountain cabin.

The Descent into Silence

After years of non-stop work and raising my two kids, ages nine and eleven, I finally had two weeks of freedom while they attended an outdoor camp in July. The house was too quiet, so I took four days off work and booked a cheap, remote cabin rental in the mountains, about three hours north. The listing promised no cell service, no neighbors, just peace. That was my first mistake; I got exactly the isolation I asked for.

I drove up on a Thursday morning. The last hour was rough, winding dirt roads pressed in by thick pine forest. The cabin was a basic, fifty-year-old wooden structure, slightly weathered but solid, sitting in a small, thirty-foot clearing. When I arrived, the door was unlocked and standing a crack open—a sign I shrugged off as renter carelessness.

The first day and a half were perfect. I sat on the porch, drank good beer, fished for trout in a nearby stream, and felt the knot of stress in my chest finally unwind. The only thing I noticed was a strange, subtle quietness in the forest, like the woods were holding their breath.

The Unsettling Presence

Everything changed on Saturday morning when I decided to take a long hike. About an hour deep into the woods, I stopped for water and looked up. Around 150 yards away, through the dense trees, a figure was standing motionless. I assumed it was another hiker, but it was too still and too tall. When I called out, it didn’t turn or wave; it simply melted backward into the undergrowth, quickly and fluidly, faster than any human could move.

That sense of peace was replaced by gnawing unease. I cut my hike short and headed back, constantly checking the shadows, feeling as if the forest was now watching me.

The next morning, Sunday, I decided my imagination was running wild. I made coffee and stepped out onto the porch, intending to go fishing again. That’s when I saw them.

Right there in the patch of soft dirt off the steps were footprints.

I knelt down, my heart hammering. They were enormous—easily eighteen to twenty inches long and deep, far deeper than my size eleven boots could press into the same dirt. They weren’t from a bear; they were clearly humanoid, with five long, elongated toe impressions, a huge ball, and a massive heel. The depth suggested a creature weighing 300 to 400 pounds at least.

I followed the trail of prints. They had come from the tree line, circled the entire cabin, and then returned to the trees. The worst part: a cluster of overlapping, deep impressions directly beneath my bedroom window. Something had stood there for several minutes, looking in, watching me sleep.

Panic set in. I abandoned fishing and spent the day inside, locking and re-locking the doors and windows. The only plan I had was to leave at first light on Monday. I just needed to survive one more night.

The Attack

As dusk fell, I ventured out to grab some firewood. Near the woodpile, I saw more evidence: deep scratches gouged into the bark of three pine trees right at the edge of the clearing. They were seven to eight feet high, far above my reach, too high for any normal animal. They looked deliberate, like territory markings, fresh and oozing sap.

I bolted back inside, locked the door, and tried to calm my racing heart. Around 2:17 AM, I woke up suddenly. Faint but unmistakable sounds were coming from outside: heavy, deliberate footsteps crunching on the pine needles, circling the cabin’s perimeter.

Then, the footsteps stopped at the front door. I heard heavy, raspy breathing—not human, not animal, but loud and deep.

BANG!

Something hit the door hard. The cabin shook. A second bang rattled the deadbolt. Whatever was out there was trying to break in. It moved around to the side, tested the windows, and then moved back to the front, but this time, it changed its target.

The scratching started, quickly turning into tearing: the awful, splintering sound of wood being ripped apart. It was attacking the wall to the left of the door, tearing through the old, dry planks with incredible, raw force.

Shaking violently, I grabbed my phone and started the video camera. If I died, someone needed to see this. The planks cracked and gave way, the hole growing quickly—two feet wide, then three, then four.

The tearing stopped. In the gap, a face pushed through into the light spilling from the cabin.

I saw it clearly:

Massive Skull: Longer than a human’s, with a huge, jutting brow ridge casting shadows over the eyes.

Thick Fur: The face was covered in matted, black fur that smelled of musk and damp earth.

The Eyes: They caught the light—pale, yellowish, and large, like an animal’s, but behind them was raw, calculating intelligence and awareness. It was looking directly at me, through the camera.

Then, a massive, muscular arm thrust through the gap, thick as my thigh, covered in dark hair. The huge hand, three times the size of mine, ended in thick, curved, dark nails—more like claws—and began tearing the hole wider, plank by plank.

The Escape

Knowing the wall wouldn’t hold, I shoved the phone in my pocket and sprinted to the bedroom. I fumbled with the window latch, pushed the swollen frame up with a scream of old wood, and squeezed through.

I landed silently in the dirt. The creature’s back was still to me, consumed with tearing apart the front wall. I looked across the thirty feet of clearing to my truck. It was my only chance.

I ran. Full sprint across the open dirt.

Behind me, the tearing stopped. Silence.

Then, I heard heavy footsteps, fast. I reached the truck, fumbled the key in the lock, yanked the door open, slammed it shut, and hit the lock. As I jammed the key into the ignition, a primal, deep roar shook the windows.

I turned the key. The engine sputtered, caught, and died.

I glanced in the mirror. The creature was sprinting across the clearing, moving impossibly fast for something so huge—twenty feet, fifteen.

I turned the key again. The engine caught, roaring to life. I slammed the truck into drive and floored the gas. The tires spun on the gravel, but the truck lurched forward.

The massive creature reached the door. A huge fist slammed into the driver’s side door, rocking the entire vehicle sideways and crunching the metal. But the truck was moving.

I accelerated onto the rough dirt road, doing thirty miles per hour. The creature was running alongside the truck, matching its speed. I saw its arm swing, connecting with the side panel, screaming metal crumpling. One of its claws raked the back edge of my door, and I felt a searing fire across my shoulder.

I floored the gas. Thirty-five, forty, forty-five miles per hour on the treacherous mountain road. The creature, straining, finally fell behind, a dark shape lost to the curves and trees. I didn’t slow down until I hit the pavement three hours later.

The Proof and the Scar

I stopped at the first gas station, cleaned the three deep, parallel claw marks that ran from my shoulder blade to my neck, and told the clerk I’d had a hiking accident. The scratches were deep enough to scar.

Back home, I watched the video three times. Shaky, dark, but the face, those eyes, the sheer scale of the hand—it was undeniable. It’s saved on my phone, backed up on my computer and a flash drive.

The scars on my shoulder are permanent. The doctor who checked them a week later looked at them funny and asked if I was sure they were from rocks; they looked more like claw marks. I stuck to my lie.

I never went back to the mountains. The video stays hidden because I know people won’t believe it, or worse, they will believe it and go hunting. I can’t be responsible for sending people to face what is still out there.

I know what I saw. I know what chased me down that mountain road. I know that creature saw me on day three, decided I was in its territory, and drove me out—or tried to kill me. It’s real. And I’m never going back.