A Bigfoot Family Keeps Visiting This Old Lady and No One Knows Why – Sasquatch Story

The Family at the Edge of the Forest

Chapter One: Secrets in the Pines

I’m going to tell you something I’ve kept mostly secret for over fifteen years. I know how it sounds. I know what people think when they hear stories like this, but I’m in my seventies now, and honestly, I don’t care anymore what anyone thinks. This happened. This is still happening. And before I get too old to remember it clearly, I want to write it down.

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I live alone in a small cabin at the edge of the forest, tucked away in the mountains. My nearest neighbor is half a mile through the trees, and the town is three miles down the winding mountain road. I go once a week for supplies, and that’s about as much human contact as I need these days. My cabin is simple—just one bedroom, a wood stove for warmth, a patch of garden for vegetables in summer, and a chicken coop for eggs. Life here is quiet, exactly what I wanted when I moved up here twenty years ago after my husband passed away.

The forest presses in on three sides—thick pine and oak, wild mountain territory. Behind me, the woods go on for miles. It’s the kind of place where you can stand on your porch in the morning and not hear a single car, not see a single plane, just birds and wind and the rustling of whatever animals are moving through the undergrowth. I know every sound the forest makes. I’ve seen bears, deer, foxes, even a mountain lion once from my kitchen window. The wildlife doesn’t bother me. I respect their space, and they respect mine.

But fifteen years ago, something changed. A family of Bigfoot began visiting me. I consider them friends. My own children think I’ve lost my mind. But I know what I’ve seen. I know what I know.

Chapter Two: First Contact

It was late summer, fifteen years ago. I’d been living up here for about five years at that point, and I thought I knew the forest intimately. That evening, I was bringing in laundry from the line as the sun dipped low, painting everything in gold. My basket was half full of sheets when I heard footsteps in the tree line—heavy steps, deliberate, not the shuffling gait of a bear or the light steps of a deer.

I froze, thinking it was a bear. Black bears are common here, and you don’t mess with them. I was thirty feet from my back door, trying to decide whether to run or stay still, when I saw it. The creature that stepped out of the tree line was at least eight feet tall, walking upright on two legs like a man, but covered head to toe in dark brown fur. Its shoulders were as wide as a linebacker’s, its arms hung down past its knees. The face was flat, almost human, with a broad nose and deep-set eyes that caught the evening light.

I dropped my laundry basket. Sheets spilled onto the grass. I ran for the cabin, slammed the door, locked it, and stood there shaking, my hands trembling so badly I could barely turn the deadbolt. I watched from the window as the creature walked along the forest edge, not approaching, just passing through. It moved with a casual confidence, almost graceful despite its size. After two minutes, it vanished into the trees.

I didn’t sleep that night. I kept every light on and sat in my kitchen with a baseball bat across my lap, jumping at every sound. By morning, I almost convinced myself I’d imagined it—heat stroke, maybe, or a bear standing up and my mind filled in the rest. But deep down, I knew what I’d seen.

Chapter Three: The Mother and Her Children

A few weeks passed. I started to relax, thinking maybe it had been a one-time thing. Then, one early morning, I was in my garden, picking ripe tomatoes before the birds got to them. I heard rustling near the berry bushes at the forest edge and looked up. There she was—the same creature, but this time she wasn’t alone. She was carrying two babies, one on each hip. They weren’t human babies, bigger, maybe the size of toddlers, but clearly young. They wiggled and squirmed, making it hard for her to hold them both.

The mother Bigfoot was trying to pick berries while holding her children, and she looked exhausted, frustrated. I recognized that look immediately—years ago, I’d been a young mother myself, trying to grocery shop with two cranky kids hanging off me. I watched, crouched behind my chicken coop, as she grabbed handfuls of berries, stuffing them in her mouth and then giving some to the babies, who made a mess of it, dropping food and staining the grass.

Instead of being scared, I felt sympathy. This was just a mother trying to feed her family. When they finally left, I checked the bushes—stripped nearly bare, berry stains on the grass, little handprints in the dirt.

Three days later, they returned at dawn. This time, I made a decision. I filled a basket with apples from my tree, pears, carrots fresh from the garden, and some dried fish I’d smoked for winter. I covered it with a kitchen cloth and waited. After they left, I set the basket where they’d been foraging and watched from the window.

Late that afternoon, I heard them come back. The mother approached the basket cautiously, set the babies down, and sniffed at the cloth, running her fingers over the fabric. The babies dug into the apples, making a mess. The mother ate the fish first, then helped the little ones. Before leaving, she folded the cloth—clumsily, but deliberately—and placed the empty basket on its side.

Chapter Four: Building Trust

I started leaving baskets every few days after that. Sometimes vegetables, sometimes fruit, sometimes bread or dried meat. They came irregularly, but always took the food and left the basket and cloth, folded. I stopped hiding in the cabin when they came, standing in the doorway to watch. The mother noticed me, made brief eye contact, then went back to eating. No aggression, just acknowledgement.

The babies grew quickly, walking better, exploring the grass, picking up sticks. The growth seemed fast—faster than human children. I moved closer over time, sitting on the porch while they ate, then on the steps, then nearer the basket. The mother seemed to understand I meant no harm. The children watched me with curiosity.

About six months in, something changed. One morning, there were four of them—the mother, two babies, and a massive male, easily nine feet tall, broader shoulders, darker fur. He stood at the edge of the clearing, watching, standing guard while his family ate. The mother kept glancing back at him. The male didn’t come often, but when he did, he was vigilant, protective.

As the months passed, I noticed patterns. They came more often during the full and new moons. I marked it on my calendar, timing baskets to the moon phases. The visits clustered around those times, and I wondered why—perhaps for hunting, or safety in darkness.

Chapter Five: The Seasons of Change

I began to notice small things about them. The mother had a scar on her left shoulder, a hairless patch. The bigger baby, probably male, had a lighter patch of fur on his chest. The smaller, likely female, had almost black fur and was more curious. They had personalities—the male cautious, the female adventurous, the mother vigilant.

One afternoon in late fall, I was shelling peas on the porch when they arrived. I hadn’t prepared a basket, so I quickly threw together apples, carrots, and hard-boiled eggs in a bowl. The mother made direct eye contact, then nodded—a clear gesture of thanks. After eating, she brought the bowl to my porch steps before leaving.

As winter set in, their visits became less frequent. The first big snow hit hard, three feet on the ground, temperatures below zero. I worried about them, wondering if they would survive. One afternoon, during a cold snap, I heard heavy footsteps on my porch. The mother and her children stood there, thinner, gaunt, hungry.

I opened the door, gathered everything I could spare—potatoes, carrots, dried venison, bread, honey—and set it on the porch. The mother bowed her head, unmistakable gratitude. They ate hungrily, the mother feeding her children first. When they finished, she nodded again and they disappeared into the snowy darkness.

Chapter Six: Acceptance

My daughter visited the next week, saw the large footprints in the snow—three sets, too big to be human, leading from the tree line to my porch and back. She was horrified, insisted I leave, come stay in town. I refused. These were my friends. I told her they needed me, maybe I needed them, too.

Spring came slowly, the forest waking up. I started leaving baskets again. Sometimes they’d disappear overnight, but I never saw them take it. One morning, all three appeared at the forest edge, healthier, fur thick and shiny. I waved, feeling foolish, and the mother raised one hand in return. I brought a basket directly to them. The children were playful, wrestling, grabbing apples, the mother more relaxed than ever.

Their visits became regular, mostly early morning or dusk. Sometimes I’d sit near the basket while they ate, the mother sitting ten feet away, the children playing. I learned to read their body language—tense and alert when wary, relaxed and casual when safe.

The children lost their fear of me. The female especially would come close, examining my clothes, my hands, my face. One day, she dropped an apple and it rolled toward me. I picked it up and held it out. She hesitated, looked at her mother, then approached and took it from my hand—a brief, gentle touch that felt like a gift.

Chapter Seven: Shared Lives

I started paying attention to their sounds—low grunts, soft hoots, huffing. Each seemed to mean something. A sharp huff made the children freeze, a low hoot called them to her, a gentle grunt was reassurance. I tried making sounds back, soft noises to show I was friendly. Sometimes the mother responded with a quiet hoot.

I kept a journal, recording visits, behaviors, what they ate, little things—how the male child let his sister eat first, how the mother groomed them after eating, how they sometimes just sat together at the forest edge, not moving, just being a family.

I cared deeply about them. I saved the best produce, planted extra berry bushes, planned my garden around what they liked. They never took my chickens, never entered my garden without being invited. They respected boundaries.

One afternoon, I found my chicken coop gate open—panicked, but all the chickens were fine. Large footprints near the coop, and the gate had been pushed shut. They’d seen the open gate and closed it for me.

Another day, the young Bigfoot appeared without their mother. I taught them how to snap green beans, gave them bowls. They sat on my porch steps and helped, clumsy at first, but learning. We ate together on the porch, and the mother watched from the tree line, not worried.

Chapter Eight: Crisis and Care

Three years in, I woke in the night to a low, mournful wailing from the forest—desperate, frightened. I recognized it as the mother Bigfoot. I called out, using the low hooting sound. The wailing stopped, then resumed more urgently. I pulled on boots and coat, flashlight in hand, and ventured into the darkness.

I found them fifty yards in. The mother was on the ground, leg twisted at an unnatural angle, a gash on her shoulder. The young male stood over her, anxious. The female was missing. The mother made a pleading sound. I knelt nearby, close enough to see the injury. Her leg was broken, the wound bleeding.

I ran to the cabin, grabbed my first aid kit, towels, water, and whiskey. Cleaned the wound, pressed a towel to stop the bleeding, wrapped it. The leg was beyond my skills, but I fashioned a crude splint with a thick branch and rope. She let me work, watching with deep-set eyes.

The young female appeared at dawn, carrying medicinal plants. The mother ate them, and slowly stabilized. I visited twice daily for three weeks, bringing food, checking wounds. The young ones helped her move to a sheltered spot under a rock overhang. I brought blankets, which they arranged around her. She healed, and when she could walk again, she came to my cabin one last time before disappearing into the forest, leaving a beautiful quartz crystal on my porch.

Chapter Nine: Gifts and Generations

After the injury, gifts became frequent—a pine cone on my porch, then another, then an arrangement of pine cones in a pattern. Smooth river stones stacked by my door, wildflowers picked and placed near my chair. I recognized them for what they were—gifts.

I started leaving special things—colored glass, bells, a mirror. The mirror disappeared the first night. I left honey, fresh pies, strawberries. Four years in, I felt I understood them better than most humans. I knew when they were coming—the forest sounds changed, birds went quiet, then footsteps, moods visible in posture and movement.

The mother aged, gray around her muzzle and hands. The young ones grew, nearly full grown. I wondered if they’d leave, start their own families. One day, gunshots rang out. Hunters, despite the no hunting signs. The young female appeared, frightened. I gestured for her to hide on my porch. Two hunters emerged, rifles in hand. I confronted them, sent them away. The young female trembled, and I sat beside her until she calmed. The mother and young male appeared, frantic. The mother checked her daughter, then placed a massive hand on my shoulder—a gesture of gratitude.

Chapter Ten: Full Circle

The tenth summer brought the worst storm in decades. I prepared as best I could, but when the wind and rain came, a branch punched through my bedroom roof. Water poured in. I couldn’t fix it alone. Then, heavy footsteps on the porch—the Bigfoot family, soaked, urgent. The mother gestured toward the roof. The young ones climbed outside, working in the storm. They removed the branch, covered the hole with pine boughs and bark, weighted with rocks. It held through the storm. The mother checked the room, touched my shoulder, then left.

In the morning, I saw the work they’d done. Three days later, a repairman fixed the roof. He asked who’d done the temporary repairs. I said I had. He looked at the branch, then at me, but said nothing.

I’m slowing down now. My hands are arthritic, my knees ache. One morning, my woodshed was filled with split logs, enough for winter. Fresh firewood on my porch. My garden weeded, chicken feed moved, heavy things relocated. They were taking care of me now. I’d fed them when they were hungry; now they helped me when I was weak.

My daughter visited, saw the firewood, knew I hadn’t done it. She finally asked, “They’re real, aren’t they?” I nodded and told her everything—from the first terrifying evening to now, the trust, the winters survived together, the gifts exchanged, the repairs made in storms, everything. She listened, then said, “I still think you’re crazy, but maybe it’s a good kind of crazy. I want to see them.”

We waited together on the porch. As dusk settled, three shapes emerged from the trees. My daughter gasped, hands gripping her chair, tears running down her face. The mother approached, studied her, then nodded and retreated. They didn’t stay long, just long enough for my daughter to see and understand.

Epilogue: The Legacy

Late fall, fifteen years since I first saw them. At dusk, all three came to my porch—no basket, no food, just a visit. They sat with me, watching the sunset. In that moment, I realized what it had always been about—not feeding, not protection, just connection. Companionship. Two species finding common ground.

Maybe they’re as lonely as I am. The mother saw another aging female trying to survive. The young ones never learned to fear me because she showed them I was safe. I don’t need to know the exact reason. It’s enough that they come, that they trust me, that in this small corner of the world, human and Bigfoot coexist peacefully.

I hope there are others like them, other families in other mountains, other old souls building trust. I tell this story because I’m getting older, and I want someone to know what happened—not for proof or fame, just to record that friendship can exist in unexpected forms. That sometimes the wild things aren’t so wild, and the civilized world isn’t as knowing as it thinks.

My daughter has promised to keep leaving food for them after I’m gone. She brings her own children up here, teaching them to be still and quiet, to respect the forest. My grandchildren have seen them now, wide-eyed on the porch, watching these magnificent creatures eat from baskets prepared with care.

Maybe this will continue—this relationship I started, passed down through generations on both sides. A human family and a Bigfoot family, bound together by an old woman’s simple decision to fill a basket with food fifteen years ago. That’s all that matters in the end.

For more mysterious stories, keep searching. Sometimes the most extraordinary friendships begin with a simple act of kindness.