Camera Shows Bigfoot Capturing a Man – Man’s Terrifying Sasquatch Encounter Story
Six Days in the Dark
Chapter One: Into the Timber
I know you’re not going to believe me. Honestly, I wouldn’t believe me either if I hadn’t lived through it myself. But I need to tell someone what really happened out there. Maybe putting it into words will help me make sense of it all.
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.
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I’ve always been a “show me the proof” kind of guy. I don’t buy into ghost stories, conspiracy theories, or tales about things that go bump in the night. My old man was a logger, too, and he always said, “If you can’t see it with your own eyes, it probably isn’t there.” I learned to trust my hands and my eyes, and nothing else.
But what happened to me in those six days changed everything I thought I knew about the world. Changed me in ways I’m still trying to understand.
It was late spring when our crew got sent out to this remote site in the Pacific Northwest. Way out there—the kind of place where you drive for two hours on paved roads and then another hour on logging roads that barely deserve the name. Roads that shake your truck apart and make you wonder if you’ll ever make it back to civilization. The company got the contract dirt cheap, which should have been our first warning, but we needed the work. Bills don’t stop coming just because the jobs dry up.
I was the site supervisor, responsible for the equipment and making sure everything got done right. Usually, I was the last one to leave at the end of the day. That was fine by me. I liked the responsibility, liked knowing I was the one making sure things ran smooth.
The first week went by without a hitch—hard work, but nothing new. Cut timber, clear land, move equipment, repeat. The crew was solid. We set up a basic camp with a couple trailers for equipment storage and a place to eat lunch. Nothing fancy, just functional. The nearest town was forty minutes away, a small place with one main street, a general store, a diner, and not much else. Population maybe five hundred, if you counted all the farms.
We fell into a simple routine: work, drive to town, grab dinner and a beer, crash at the motel, and do it all again the next day. But the locals were strange about the whole thing from the start. You could see it in their faces when we said where we were working. They’d get this tight expression, like they wanted to say something but thought better of it. Like they knew something we didn’t.
That first week, the old man at the general store rang up my supplies slow and careful, then looked me in the eye and muttered something about “the old families in those woods.” I asked what he meant, but he just shook his head and bagged my stuff without another word. The guys laughed about it later, made jokes about backwoods superstitions, but I remembered the old man’s face—like he felt sorry for me.
Chapter Two: The Monster Squirrel
The second week, things started getting weird. At first, it was just sounds—calls from deep in the forest, not bird calls or anything we recognized. Deep whooping sounds that echoed through the trees and made your chest vibrate. The kind of sound that makes you stop what you’re doing and listen, makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. Sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon, always from somewhere you couldn’t see.
Then there were the footsteps. When the equipment was off and everything went quiet for lunch, you’d hear something moving through the underbrush—heavy footfalls, breaking branches, rustling. Big enough that you knew it wasn’t a deer or anything small, but you could never see what made the noise. The forest would go silent, you’d hear it moving, and then nothing.
One morning, we found massive handprints in the mud near our water tank. I mean massive—bigger than my hand by half again. Five fingers, clear as day, pressed deep into the mud like whatever made them was heavy. The palm print was maybe ten inches across, the fingers leaving deep impressions. Some of the guys got nervous, but we all laughed it off. That’s when the “monster squirrel” joke started. Any time something strange happened, someone would blame the monster squirrel. Tools went missing? Monster squirrel. Equipment moved? Monster squirrel. It became our way of dealing with things that didn’t add up—a way to laugh off the fear that was starting to creep in.
But I wasn’t laughing as hard as the others. Something about the place felt wrong. Some mornings, a rank, musky odor would hit you—heavier than anything I’d ever smelled in the woods. Not bear, not deer, just… wrong. And sometimes the forest was too quiet, like everything in it was holding its breath.
I couldn’t let the guys see me spooked. I kept my mouth shut, did my job, and tried to ignore the feeling in my gut that something was off.
Friday of the second week, everyone was ready to get out of there for the weekend. We’d been pushing hard, and the guys were tired, ready for real beds and hot showers. They packed up around five, loaded into the trucks, and I told them to go ahead—I needed to do a final equipment check, finish up paperwork. “Hour, two tops,” I said. “Meet you at the bar.” They started up their trucks and headed down the logging road in a cloud of dust.
The sun was already getting low. I was alone in the forest, the evening light turning everything gold and peaceful. But I felt anything but peaceful.
Chapter Three: The Encounter
I climbed into the excavator to do my final checks. It was a good machine—a little old, but reliable. I had my clipboard, going through the checklist, making notes about what needed attention on Monday.
That’s when I noticed the quiet. Not the normal quiet of evening, but absolute silence. No birds, no insects, no wind. Just dead air. The kind of quiet that makes your ears ring.
I stopped writing and listened. That’s when I heard the breathing. Heavy, deep breaths from something big, right outside the excavator. My hand froze on the clipboard, and my whole body went cold. I looked up through the cab windows, heart racing.
They were standing at the edge of the clearing, maybe thirty feet away. Two of them. At first, my brain tried to make them into bears. But bears don’t stand upright like that. Don’t have those proportions. Don’t look at you with that kind of awareness.
They were huge—eight or nine feet tall, maybe more. Covered in hair, dark brown on one, lighter, almost grayish brown on the other. Massive shoulders, arms that hung past their knees, hands that looked like they could tear a tree apart. Their faces were almost human, but not quite—flatter, broader, with heavy brow ridges and wide, flat noses. Their eyes watched me with intelligence. They knew I was in there. They were studying me.
My hands started shaking. I dropped the clipboard, and both their heads turned at the sound. Then they started moving toward me—not running, just walking with purpose. Each step was measured and deliberate, covering ground fast.
I sat there frozen. They reached the excavator and started testing it, pushing on it, rocking it. The whole machine swayed back and forth like it weighed nothing. I could hear low rumbling sounds from their throats, like they were talking to each other.
That snapped me out of it. Pure survival instinct kicked in. I scrambled for the opposite door as one of them grabbed my side. The metal screamed as it bent under its grip. I got the other door open, half fell out, hit the ground hard, rolled to my feet, and saw my truck parked thirty yards away. Thirty yards that suddenly looked like thirty miles.
I ran for it, harder than I’ve ever run. I could hear them behind me, feel the ground shake with their footfalls. They were fast—impossibly fast for something that size.
My hand touched the truck door. I felt a brief flash of hope. Then something hit me from behind like a freight train. The impact drove the air from my lungs. I slammed into the side of my truck, felt metal give way, felt my ribs compress, saw stars. I spun around, back against the truck, barely able to breathe. One of them was right there, massive, blotting out the sky, its face three feet from mine. I could smell it—musky, overwhelming. I saw the texture of its skin, the yellow tint of its eyes, the way its chest moved with each breath.
The last thing I saw was its hand coming toward my face. Everything went black.
Chapter Four: Six Days in the Cave
I don’t know how long I was out. When I came to, I was being dragged across the forest floor, sticks and rocks scraping my back, hands gripping my wrists. Everything was spinning. I blacked out again.
Next time I woke, I was over something’s shoulder, bouncing with each step. The musky, earthy smell filled my nose. I saw the ground passing far below me, trees going by in the darkness, branches overhead forming a canopy. I was so high up. The fear was so intense it was physical. I passed out again.
After that, it was fragments—brief moments of awareness, always moving, always dark. When I finally woke up for real, I was lying on cold stone. My whole body ached. I couldn’t see anything—complete and total darkness. I tried to move. Every muscle screamed. I was in some kind of cave, stone under me, water dripping somewhere in the distance.
And I could hear breathing. Multiple sources, deeper, slower than any human. I froze, barely even breathed, heart hammering so loud I was sure they could hear it. The smell was overwhelming now—musky animal mixed with something older.
Hours seemed to pass. Eventually, I saw light starting to filter in from somewhere deeper in the cave. As my eyes adjusted, I saw a large chamber, bigger than any room I’d ever been in. Three of them sat across from me—the two from the camp and a third, slightly smaller.
They watched me with unnerving intensity. When I moved, they grunted, low and warning. I froze. They settled back down, satisfied. We stayed like that for a long time, just staring at each other.
By what I guessed was the second day, I was weak with hunger and thirst. That’s when they brought food—berries, some fresh, some old, and raw fish, torn apart and reeking. I ate the berries, too hungry to care. They watched me eat, tilting their heads, making soft sounds to each other.
They let me drink from a stream in a side chamber—ice cold, crystal clear water. The best I’d ever tasted. They seemed satisfied.
That became the routine. They brought food, watched me eat, let me go to the water. They’d leave for hours, then come back and just sit there, watching.
On the third day, I tried to escape. I waited until they left, then explored the passages, but the cave system was massive. I got turned around, lost in the darkness. I heard them coming back, tried to hide, but they found me in minutes. The big one dragged me back, not gentle, threw me down hard enough to crack a rib. They stood over me, making aggressive sounds. The message was clear: don’t try that again.
On the fourth day, I tried again, found a narrow passage, but got stuck. They found me, cornered me, hit me with an open palm to the chest, sent me flying into the wall. More ribs cracked. Pain exploded through me. They dragged me back, rougher than before. I lay there, hurting, knowing I couldn’t try again—not yet.
Chapter Five: Escape and Aftermath
I stopped trying to escape and started watching. I studied their patterns, their routes, the way they moved and communicated. They always used the same main passages. They left in the morning, came back in the afternoon. Sometimes one stayed behind to watch me, usually the smaller one.
They ate together, dragging in deer carcasses, fish, roots, plants. They acted like a family—the way they shared food, made sounds to each other, deferred to the largest. The smaller one would sometimes sit and watch me for hours, curious, head tilted, eyes tracking my every move.
On the fifth day, I started following their route after they left, mapping the passages in my head. The main passage led upward, climbing steadily. I was building a mental map, hoping for an exit.
On the sixth day, I knew it was now or never. I waited an hour after they left, then followed the main passage, every turn and split memorized. The climb was brutal—my ribs screaming, legs shaking, palms bleeding from the rock. The darkness was almost complete, but I pressed on.
Finally, I saw it—real light, daylight filtering in from outside. I almost cried with relief. The opening was narrow, high up the mountain, just a crack in the rock. I squeezed through, scraping my shoulders, tearing my skin, but I made it outside.
Sunlight, fresh air, the smell of trees and earth. I was free. But I couldn’t stop. I started down the slope, careful but hurried, falling twice, scraping my hands raw. When I reached the tree line, I moved quietly but quickly, every sense on high alert. I heard their calls in the distance, those whooping sounds, and knew exactly what made them.
Twice I had to hide—once under a tree hollow, once under a fallen log, while something huge passed close by. Eventually, I recognized the terrain, found the logging road, and followed it toward town, stumbling, barely able to walk. I made it to the edge of town, collapsed behind the general store. The last thing I remember was someone shouting, hands on my shoulders, and then everything went black.
I woke up in the town clinic, the doctor and sheriff looking at me like I was a ghost. I told them what happened. The sheriff believed me—said there were stories, things he’d seen himself. But it wouldn’t matter. The company sent their men—suits with paperwork. They told me I’d had an accident, hallucinated the whole thing, and put a settlement agreement in front of me. Six figures, full medical leave, all I had to do was sign and keep quiet. I signed. What else could I do?
The physical injuries healed. The nightmares didn’t. I can’t go into forests anymore. I can’t even look at pictures of woods without panic clawing at my chest. I wake up in the night, convinced I’m back in that cave, heart pounding, sweat soaking the sheets.
There’s no evidence, no proof, nothing to back up my story. The camp is gone, the equipment moved, my crew scattered. The official story is all that’s left. But I know the truth. I know what happened to me. I know what I saw.
Some places aren’t meant for humans. Some territories belong to them, not us. And if you don’t listen, if you don’t leave when you’re warned, you might not be as lucky as I was.
I’m done with logging. I work construction now, building instead of tearing down. I live in a city apartment, surrounded by concrete and people and noise. It’s safe here. No shadows watching, no sounds I can’t explain. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
But sometimes, late at night, when it’s quiet and I can’t sleep, I wonder if they remember me. If they tell stories about the human who escaped. If they understand why I ran. I’ll never know. I don’t want to know.
The world is bigger and stranger than most people realize. There are things out there that science doesn’t acknowledge, that most people don’t believe in. But belief doesn’t change reality. I know because I was there. I was their prisoner for six days. And I survived.
That’s my story. That’s what really happened. I’ll carry it with me for the rest of my life, whether anyone believes me or not. It’s part of me now, woven into who I am. I’m not the same person who drove into those woods two weeks ago. That person died in that cave, or changed so much he might as well have. The person who walked out knows things about the world most people don’t. Someone who’s seen behind the curtain and can’t unsee it.
And I have to live with that knowledge every day. But at least I’m alive to carry it. At least I made it out. And maybe, someday, that will be enough.
For more stories from the edge of the unknown, keep searching the shadows. Some truths are too big to stay hidden forever.
