Bigfoot Caught Attacking These Loggers, What Happened Next Was Shocking – Sasquatch Story

The Three Knocks

My name is Tom Reyes. I’m older now, retired from the rigs, and I speak quietly when people ask about that autumn west of the Cascades. I don’t want trouble. It’s been years, but the sound still wakes me in the night.

It was late October 2016. Rain had soaked the land for days, turning the mud to iron-scented sludge, the air thick with the smell of wet wood. We were five men—myself, Eddie, Derek, Morris, and a kid named Sam—working a regular push on a logging landing where the ridge road cuts through stands of Douglas fir so dense you can’t see the sky until noon.

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We passed coffee and bad jokes in the cook tent, our boots caked in mud, the generator humming under a blue tarp. That first night, after the generator died, there were three knocks on the cab of Eddie’s truck. At first, I laughed. Then the skitter lights went out. I still have a clip of that morning, shaky footage of the truck, but I’ll never put it up. Some things are better left buried.

It started ordinary. Chains, diesel, rain. But small wrong things began to pile up—a snapped chain, a bucket of apples pushed off a stump, a low whoop echoing through the night. We blamed raccoons, kids, alcohol. But then the skitter came back with gouges along the fender, as if something had run a giant palm down the metal. Eddie swore he heard three hard knocks on his truck at 2 a.m.

I don’t want to make legends. I want to tell you what I remember: the sounds, the smell of wet fur and diesel, and why we stopped cutting that ridge.

The rain kept falling, turning the landing into a slick of runoff. Eddie was always the first up, slapping his thermos for coffee, tapping his truck hood twice out of habit. “Three knocks last night,” he said, half joking. Derek laughed. “You got raccoons, Eddie. Or you’re drinking too early.” But I saw Eddie’s eyes flick to the treeline. I told myself it was kids from the hunting cabins. It made sense.

We worked through the morning, the clank of chains against wet wood, the taste of diesel hanging in the air. The ridge felt quieter than usual—no birds, no wind, just the generator and our voices.

That afternoon, Sam stacked a cord of rounds near the skitter, Morris ran the chainsaw through a downed fir. Everything was ordinary. Everything was fine.

That night, Eddie mentioned the knocks again. This time, he wasn’t joking. “I checked the locks twice,” he said, voice low. I poured another cup of coffee and listened to the rain hammer the tarp. Out past the stumps, I thought I heard something—a low whoop, or just the wind catching a hollow tree. I told myself it was kids.

The supply bar sat twelve miles down the ridge road, a place with a bell over the door and a radio crackling weather reports. Ruth, the clerk, had lived on the ridge her whole life. On the wall behind her, pinned beside a faded Ranger District map, was a photograph: a footprint in mud, deep heel, long toes, nothing like any boot I’d ever seen.

“You and your Bigfoot stories,” Ruth said to Eddie, not unkindly. But Eddie didn’t laugh. He pointed at the photo. “Where was that taken?” “Up near Raven Creek. Hunter brought it last spring after a storm.” She rang up our fuel cans, voice flat. “People see what they want to see.”

I bristled. I didn’t believe in Bigfoot, didn’t want to be lumped in with those who did. But something about the way she said it made me feel defensive, like she was calling us fools for even being curious.

Loading the truck, an old hunter came out of the gas station. “You boys working the West Ridge?” Eddie nodded. “Don’t take that ridge after dark,” the old man said, voice dropping, and drove away before we could ask why.

That night, I checked my own truck locks twice. The rain fell steady. Somewhere out past the stumps, I heard it again—a low whoop, like someone blowing across a bottle. I didn’t sleep well.

October 28th. Night shift. The generator thrummed under its tarp, throwing yellow light across the mud and stacked logs. The world beyond was dark. I was checking the skitter’s fuel line when Eddie called me over. The basket of apples was knocked over, apples rolling in the mud. Next to it, on a plank, was a single long scrape—fresh, pale wood gouged deep.

“Raccoons,” I said, voice thin. “Raccoons don’t knock over baskets like that,” Eddie replied. “And they sure as hell don’t leave marks like that.” Derek joined us. “Maybe a bear.” “Bears don’t scrape,” I said. “They claw.”

The smell hit me then. Wet fur, but not like a dog or deer—something heavier, muskier, mixed with crushed ferns and mud. It sat in my throat like old smoke. I picked up the apples, one by one.

That night, three faint knocks on Eddie’s truck. I was half asleep, but I heard them clear as daylight—three deliberate strikes, evenly spaced, like someone testing the metal. I sat up, hands tight on the wheel. Eddie’s door opened, his silhouette in the dome light, looking toward the treeline. “You hear that?” “Yeah,” I said. We waited. Nothing moved. No sound but the generator and the creek.

The wet fur smell lingered, faint but present, settled into my jacket. I told myself it was nothing. Raccoons. Tricks of the ridge.

October 29th. The skid road was a mess. Derek ran the main skitter, dragging rounds up from the lower cut when the chain snapped—clean, bright metal, no rust, no flaw. Chains wear out slowly, not like this. Morris discovered the wrench was missing. We tore through the truck bed, every compartment. Nothing.

“Someone’s messing with us,” Morris said, voice tense. I’d laughed about Bigfoot before, called Eddie paranoid. Now I felt watched. The treeline felt too close, the stumps too quiet.

Just before dusk, we heard it—a low whoop from the old clear-cut, deep and resonant, a voice calling across a canyon. Not a bird, not a cougar. Something else. The hair on my arms stood up.

Derek stopped. “What the hell was that?” “Hunter,” I said. “Has to be.” “Hunters don’t sound like that,” Derek replied.

We finished loading in silence. The smell of chain oil mixed with wet earth, and underneath it, barely there, that wet fur smell. The air felt heavier, like the forest was holding its breath.

That night, I didn’t sleep. I waited for the knocks. They didn’t come. But the waiting was worse.

October 31st. Pre-dawn. The skitter was found on the loop road, 200 yards from the landing. Morris came back on foot, pale. Deep gouges ran down the driver’s side—four parallel lines carved into yellow paint and metal. Wide, too wide for human fingers. A handprint in mud on the step: long fingers, a wide palm.

The wet fur smell was everywhere. It clung to the cab, the seats, the dashboard. I opened the door and it hit me, musky, wild, too close. From the ridge, a low whoop rose and fell in three notes. Not aggressive, just a question.

I said it. “Bigfoot.” The word burned my mouth. Derek laughed, hollow. “Come on, man.” “Look at the gouges,” I said. “Look at the handprint. Tell me what else does that.” No one answered.

We packed up that night, loaded the trucks in silence, left the equipment. By dawn, we were gone.

Morris didn’t come back. He’d quit the day we left the ridge, drove south without goodbye. I never asked what he’d seen in those two hours lost in the trees. Some questions don’t need answers.

November 2nd. The diner in town had cracked vinyl booths and coffee that tasted like old rainwater. We met there, trying to figure out what to tell the sheriff. The deputy wrote it down—equipment damaged, strange sounds, left for safety. I didn’t mention footprints, knocks, wet fur smell, or the hand I’d seen curled around a fir trunk. I lied to protect the crew, myself, whatever had been out there.

Outside, Eddie lit a cigarette and stared at the mountains. “We should have told him.” “Told him what?” I asked. “That we think Bigfoot tore up our equipment?” Eddie didn’t answer.

Back in the diner, the old hunter was at the counter. He hummed three low notes under his breath. I sat next to him. “You knew.” “Knew what?” “What was out there?” He was quiet a long time. “Some things live in the forest longer than we have. They got a right to it. You push too far, they push back.”

“Bigfoot,” I said. The word felt heavy. The hunter nodded. “That’s one name for it.”

I washed my jacket and boots twice. The smell of diesel and wet fur didn’t go away. I felt foolish, ashamed, like I’d crossed a line I didn’t know existed. I knew I’d never go back to that ridge.

Ten years later, I sit on my porch, late autumn again. The wind sounds the same. The porch light flickers like the skitter lights used to. I glance at the treeline and see a basket—apples left there every fall, though I never see who brings them. Sometimes I visit the ridge, leave a single apple by the old stump, check the porch light three times before bed.

The wet fur smell comes back in memory, faint but present. The three knocks echo like a heartbeat, steady and sure. I say the name softly now. Bigfoot. I mean it with respect.

I still hear the knocks at night. I don’t fight them anymore.