‘A BIGFOOT IS ATTACKING MY FARM’ Farmer’s Terrifying Sasquatch Encounter Story
THE LAND THAT TOOK EVERYTHING
Chapter One: What Was Left at Dawn
At dawn, I stood inside what remained of my barn, breathing in the sharp scent of splintered wood and cold earth. The roof sagged like a broken spine. Boards lay scattered across the ground, torn apart as if by bare hands. Dark clumps of coarse fur clung to jagged nails and broken beams, swaying slightly in the morning breeze.
.
.
.
The horses were gone.
The barn was gone.
And with them, the life my family had built for three generations.
This place had been everything to us. My grandfather built the first barn by hand, hauling timber from the forest himself. My father expanded it, added stalls, reinforced the foundation. I was supposed to pass it on to my children. That was the plan. That had always been the plan.
We ran a small but high-end horse farm tucked against miles of dense, untouched forest. No trails. No roads. No cabins. Just trees stretching farther than the eye could see, swallowing sound and light alike. At any given time, we kept a dozen horses—breeding stock, dressage prospects, show jumpers. These weren’t backyard animals. Each one was worth anywhere from fifteen to forty thousand dollars. Some were leased out for breeding. The farm wasn’t just our home; it was our income, our future, our children’s college fund.
My kids were six and nine when everything began to unravel. They learned to ride before they learned to read. Horses were part of their blood, just like they were part of mine.
I didn’t know then that I was already too late.
Chapter Two: The First Signs
The first signs appeared three years before everything collapsed, quiet enough to ignore if you wanted to. And I wanted to.
Fence posts along the tree line began snapping. Thick, treated wooden posts—new ones—broken clean in half. Not rotted. Not chewed. Just shattered, as if something had struck them with overwhelming force. The breaks were sharp and clean, showing sudden impact rather than slow damage.
I blamed storms. Temperature shifts. Old ground settling.
Then came the footprints.
Near the creek that cut through our back pasture, I found tracks sunk deep into the mud. Massive footprints—seventeen inches long, seven inches wide at the ball. Five toes. No claw marks. The toes were distinct, separated, unmistakably human in shape but impossibly large.
I told myself they were bear tracks, even though I knew bears left claws. Even though I’d hunted my whole life and never seen tracks like these. I didn’t let myself think any further than that.
The horses, however, noticed everything.
At night, they grew restless. They stamped and whinnied for no reason, pressing themselves against the far walls of their stalls. When I went out with a flashlight, the barn reeked of fear-sweat. Their eyes rolled white. Their nostrils flared. Whatever was out there, they could sense it.
My stallion began losing weight despite eating normally. The vet found nothing physically wrong. Finally, he said it was stress. Something was terrifying him.
My wife said she felt watched when she hung laundry near the woods. Even in daylight, she’d feel that crawling sensation at the back of her neck. Eventually, she stopped doing laundry at home altogether. She said the laundromat was easier. We both knew that wasn’t the real reason.
Chapter Three: The Thing in the Trees
The morning I found a deer carcass wedged twelve feet up in a tree, I knew something was wrong.
I’ve hunted all my life. Animals don’t store food like that. This deer had been placed carefully, balanced on a thick branch. The meat torn away in chunks—not bitten, but pulled. I could see what looked like finger impressions in the remaining flesh.
There was a smell, too. Musky. Rank. Like wet dog mixed with rot and something ancient. It came and went with the wind, strongest at dusk.
Six months before everything ended, the horses refused to graze near the forest. They clustered near the barn, refusing to move. One morning, I watched three of them stand perfectly still at the fence line for over an hour, ears forward, bodies tense, staring into the woods.
I found clumps of long, oily black hair caught on the fence posts. Too coarse for bear. Too human to be animal.
Then the swing set bent.
The metal poles—set in concrete—were twisted like wire. The barn door bore four parallel gouges running vertically, the highest scratch eight feet off the ground.
That night, my wife and I heard footsteps circling the house. Slow. Heavy. Each step sent a vibration through the floorboards.
My son saw it first.
He said a tall, hairy man watched him from the woods as he walked up the driveway. He said it stood on two legs, hunched, arms hanging almost to its knees. He said it wasn’t wearing clothes.
I told him it was a hunter.
I didn’t believe myself.
Chapter Four: When It Showed Itself
My daughter came to us crying one night. She said the hairy man had looked into her window. Her room was eight feet off the ground.
In the morning, there were handprints on the glass. Nine inches across the palm.
That was when I started seeing movement in the woods constantly. Not animals—something larger. Something purposeful.
I saw it clearly for the first time while repairing the fence near dusk.
It stood fifty feet away, half-hidden behind an oak tree, one massive hand gripping the trunk. It watched me work. When I reached for my hammer, it tilted its head like it was curious.
Then it walked away.
Not hurried. Not afraid.
A few nights later, it came to the house. It left feces on the porch steps—deliberately. A message.
This is my land.
Late autumn, as I brought the horses in, I heard a sound from the forest—low, rumbling, wrong. One mare screamed the way horses only scream when they think they’re about to die.
I saw it again then. Eight feet tall. Dark fur absorbing the light. It swayed gently, calculating. It raised its arm and pointed at the horse. Then at me.
It didn’t need words.
Chapter Five: The First Kill
Winter passed quietly, just long enough for me to hope.
Then spring came.
The barn was hit so hard one night that the walls shook. Deep handprints appeared in the mud. Fence boards were broken outward, as if something had tried to reach in.
Three nights later, the horses screamed.
The barn door had been ripped off its hinges. One mare was missing. I followed the trail into the woods.
Her neck had been snapped.
Finger-shaped bruises marked her body. Bite marks too human, too wrong.
I called the sheriff. They said mountain lion. I didn’t argue.
After that, they watched us openly.
Sometimes there were two. Sometimes more.
They stood at the tree line at dusk, watching the house, watching my children.
I reinforced everything. Electric fencing. Floodlights. Cameras. None of it mattered.
When I came face to face with it near the barn one evening, the smell alone nearly made me vomit. It beat its chest and roared. When I fired a warning shot, it backed away—but only because it chose to.
That night, it stood at the edge of the property and watched until dawn.
Chapter Six: The Ultimatum
They destroyed the fencing together—three of them—ripping posts from the ground. One threw an eighty-pound fence post into my truck door like it was nothing.
That was the warning.
The next morning, one of my horses died from stress. Pregnant. Two lives gone.
Then came the final night.
They attacked the barn from multiple sides, coordinating, ripping boards away, reaching for the horses. I shot one. It barely slowed.
When my rifle jammed, it stood ten feet from me and looked past me toward the house—toward my children.
Then it stopped.
It made a sound. The others answered.
And they left.
They could have killed us. They chose not to.
The message was clear.
Leave.
Chapter Seven: What We Lost
We sold everything. The horses. The farm. Three generations of work gone in weeks. We lost over $150,000.
On my last day there, I saw it one final time at the tree line. It watched me. Then it nodded—slow, deliberate.
Acknowledgment.
Now we live in a subdivision. My kids sleep through the night. My wife no longer wakes in terror. They’re safe.
But sometimes I still wake at 3 a.m., listening for heavy footsteps that will never come.
That forest is still there.
And whatever lives in it is still watching.
Because it was never our land.
We were just visitors who stayed too long.
