Farmer Lived Alone for Years — Until A Bigfoot Tribe Arrived – BIGFOOT STORY
THE ONES WHO WATCHED FROM THE TREELINE
Chapter One – A Man with Nothing Left
What happened to me in those mountains still keeps me awake at night.
I am not a man who scares easily. I worked construction for over twenty years, survived recessions, accidents, and the slow erosion of a marriage that ended not with shouting, but with exhaustion. Fear was something I thought I understood. It was loud. Sudden. Obvious.
.
.
.
What I encountered in the wilderness was none of those things.
It was quiet. Patient. Intelligent.
Five years before I left the mountain for good, my life collapsed in rapid succession. The construction company I had built from nothing went under when the recession hit. Contracts vanished. Equipment was repossessed. The bank took my office, then my house. Two weeks later, my wife filed for divorce. Our children were grown. There was nothing left holding us together once the money was gone.
By the time it was over, I was fifty-three years old with a battered truck, a few tools, and about eight thousand dollars to my name.
That was when I remembered my father’s land.
Sixty acres of mountain forest he’d bought in the 1970s as a hunting retreat. A run-down cabin. No electricity. No running water. No phone service. The nearest neighbor was twelve miles down a dirt road that disappeared completely in winter.
Nobody else in the family wanted it.
I did.
Chapter Two – Learning to Live Alone
The first year nearly killed me.
I had to relearn everything—how to dig a well, install solar panels, preserve food without refrigeration. I cleared two acres for a garden, built a chicken coop from scrap lumber, and ran a gravity-fed water system from a spring higher up the mountain.
The work was brutal, but honest.
My hands hardened. My back strengthened. For the first time in years, I slept without replaying courtrooms and bank offices in my head.
By the end of that year, I was surviving.
By the third year, I was thriving.
I added goats, pigs, eventually cattle. I traded eggs and vegetables in the nearest town. I built a greenhouse from salvaged windows. The isolation didn’t bother me. After losing everything, being alone felt like relief.
I believed I was alone.
I was wrong.
Chapter Three – Movement at the Edge of Vision
It started subtly.
A flicker of movement in my peripheral vision while working in the garden. A dark shape slipping between trees a hundred yards from the house. When I looked directly, there was nothing.
I blamed my eyes.
Late afternoon light. Fatigue. Age.
But it kept happening.
Too large for deer. Too upright for bear.
The first clear sighting came while I was splitting firewood behind the barn. A branch snapped. I looked up and saw a figure standing at the forest’s edge—seven, maybe eight feet tall. Broad shoulders. Long arms.
When I stepped toward it, it didn’t run.
It vanished.
That night, I loaded my father’s old hunting rifle.
Chapter Four – Silent Observers
The sightings increased.
Sometimes one figure. Sometimes two or three, positioned at different points along the treeline. Always watching. Never approaching.
They were silent in a way no animal should be. No rustling. No careless noise. They chose when to be heard.
I considered calling the sheriff, but what would I say? That shadows were watching my farm?
I stayed quiet.
That’s when I found the marks.
Deep gouges in fence posts—eight feet off the ground. Four parallel scratches like claws. Fresh. Deliberate. Always facing the house.
Then came the footprints.
Eighteen inches long. Too human. Too wide. Pressed deep into mud near my spring. I made plaster casts without really knowing why.
Some part of me knew I would need proof.
Chapter Five – The Barn
The barn was the turning point.
I went out one morning to milk the goats and found every tool rearranged. Not stolen. Not damaged.
Organized.
Hammers lined up by size. Screwdrivers sorted by type. Nails separated with obsessive precision.
The door had been locked.
It happened again. And again.
Whatever was watching me wasn’t just curious.
It understood order.
Chapter Six – When I Left and They Did Not
During my fifth year, I left the mountain for a week to visit family over Easter. When I returned, the land itself had changed.
Along the perimeter of my property, massive trees—three feet thick, sixty feet tall—had been uprooted and repositioned into perfect X-shapes. No machinery. No tracks.
Art.
The cattle were missing. I found them half a mile into the forest, unharmed but terrified.
That night, I sat on the porch with my rifle and felt them closer than ever.
I should have left.
I stayed.
Chapter Seven – Gifts and Knocks
Footprints appeared in my garden.
Handprints on the house.
Then the gifts began.
A deer skull on my porch. Feathers arranged by color. Small animal skeletons assembled with surgical precision.
Rhythmic knocking echoed through the forest. Three slow beats. Pause. Three more.
Sometimes voices followed—deep, guttural sounds with the cadence of language.
I tried accepting the gifts.
They multiplied.
I tried refusing.
They stopped.
Chapter Eight – The Visitor
The first direct encounter came during a thunderstorm.
Something stood on my porch.
Eight feet tall. Dark hair. Arms nearly to its knees. A face almost human—almost.
It knocked.
Three times.
We stared at each other through the glass. Then it vanished.
On my doormat was a carved object made of bone—my house, my garden, my truck rendered in perfect detail.
They knew me.
Chapter Nine – An Invitation
I tried communicating back.
I left a wooden bowl with apples. It disappeared.
In its place came carvings—animals, maps, stars, mathematics rendered in stone.
Then came the final carving.
Me.
Standing among them.
Facing something beyond.
An invitation.
That night, lights moved through the forest. Voices gathered. A meeting.
I declined.
Chapter Ten – The Warning
They destroyed every gift they had ever given me.
Arranged the fragments into symbols.
Arrows pointing toward the forest.
Equations calculating distance.
The message was clear.
Leave.
I didn’t—at first.
Then came the night at my bedroom window.
The smile.
Chapter Eleven – The Smile
It pressed its hand against the glass.
Dinner-plate palm. Fingers long enough to cradle my skull.
And it smiled.
Not kindness.
Ownership.
They circled the house all night. Voices. Laughter.
By morning, the barn floor told the story in tools laid out like a prophecy.
Leave.
Or be taken.
Chapter Twelve – Departure
I packed what I could.
As I loaded the truck, they stood at the treeline—silent, watching.
The largest stepped forward, raised a hand, and turned away.
I never went back.
Final Chapter – What Still Watches
I live in town now.
I sleep poorly.
Sometimes I hear knocking.
Three beats.
Pause.
They didn’t evolve in one valley.
They’ve been here longer than us.
They’re watching.
And they’re waiting.
