He Fed Bigfoot Since the 70s, This Is Why It Fears Humans – Shocking Sasquatch Story

The Three Knocks

I shouldn’t be telling you this, but it’s been years and I can’t keep it in anymore. My name is Jack Matthews, and I used to live out near Timberline Ridge in the Cascades. What I’m about to share isn’t for the faint of heart, or for those who need everything in life to fit neatly into a box. This is for the ones who know the world is still wild in places, and that some secrets are best left in the dark.

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It was late September of 1979. The rain had been coming down for days, the kind of cold, relentless drizzle that seeps into your bones and makes the world feel small. My wife, Ellie, was inside, busy with dinner. I was on the porch, watching the fog roll in from the trees, the kind of evening where the forest seems to swallow sound.

That’s when I heard it:
Three slow, deliberate knocks from just outside the tree line.
Not the wind. Not a branch falling.
Something else. Something waiting.

I tried to brush it off, but that sound stuck with me. You don’t forget a knock like that—deep, rhythmic, almost too intentional to be natural. I’d heard the stories, of course. Everyone in the Cascades had. But that night, something shifted. That night, the legend came to my door.

The Rhythm in the Woods

Life out there had always been simple—just me, Ellie, and the woods. A small farm, a cabin, enough to keep us busy through the winters. I’d always loved the silence, the way the forest pressed in from all sides, the sense of being alone with the world.

I’d heard neighbors at the general store talk about strange noises, distant howls, but I never took it seriously. Who would? Just local legends to pass the time. Yet as September deepened, the knocks returned. Always in threes, always from the same direction, always after dark.

At first, I told myself it was the trees, the wind, maybe a woodpecker with a strange sense of timing. But there was something too measured, too deliberate. I’d sit on the porch after dinner, pipe in hand, and listen. Three knocks. Silence. Three more, sometimes hours later.

Ellie never mentioned hearing them, so I figured maybe it was just me. Maybe I was letting the stories get to me.

But the woods were changing. I started noticing things I’d never paid attention to before—branches broken high up, bark stripped from trees seven feet off the ground, and the feeling, always, of being watched.

The Tavern Whisper

One evening, I ended up at the tavern in town, sharing a drink with Hank, a Forest Service veteran who’d patrolled those woods for twenty years. We talked about the usual things—weather, crops, hunting. Then, as the rain hammered the windows, the conversation drifted to strange happenings in the forest.

Hank leaned in, his voice low.
“You ever hear those knocks at night?”
I nodded, trying to play it cool.
“Could be the wind,” I said.
He shook his head. “Not the wind. I’ve heard them too. Seen tracks, up near Cathedral Peak last spring. Sixteen inches, five toes, too big for any bear I know.”

He went quiet after that, wouldn’t say another word. But the way he looked over his shoulder, the way his voice dropped to a whisper, it made me wonder. Maybe there was something to these stories after all.

The Evidence

After that night, I started paying closer attention. The knocks kept coming, always three, always from the trees. Then Ellie noticed something. One afternoon, I came back from hunting to find her standing on the porch, arms crossed, staring at the ground.

“Look at this,” she said, pointing to the dirt by the steps.

There were footprints—huge, bare, human-shaped, pressed deep into the damp earth. Fifteen inches long, toes splayed wide. Not a bear, not a man. Something else.

I knelt down, fingers tracing the outline. My mind raced with explanations, each less convincing than the last.
“It’s just a bear,” I lied. Ellie looked at me, knowing I was lying, but she didn’t push.

“Maybe it’s time we thought about leaving,” she said quietly.

But I wasn’t ready for that. I liked the solitude. I liked the woods, even with their secrets.

The Encounter

It was a cold evening in early November. I was out by the woodshed, splitting logs for the stove, when I heard it again—three knocks, closer than ever, maybe thirty yards into the trees. I froze, axe mid-swing, breath hanging in the air.

Then I saw it:
A silhouette between the trees—tall, broad-shouldered, impossibly massive. It stood motionless, watching me. The details were lost in the dusk, but the size, the shape, the presence—it was undeniable.

My heart hammered. Every instinct screamed at me to run, but I couldn’t move.
We stared at each other for what felt like forever, then it shifted, and I finally found my legs. I ran for the cabin, bursting through the door, breathless.

Ellie looked up, startled.
“What’s wrong?”
I couldn’t answer. I just stared out the window, but the shape was gone.

The Offering

I couldn’t get the image out of my mind. Over the next days, I started leaving food out on a flat rock at the edge of the trees—scraps from dinner, venison, bread. I told myself it was to see what kind of animal was out there, but the truth was, I wanted to see it again.

Every morning, the food was gone. No tracks. No sign of what had taken it. Just an empty rock.

The knocks became more frequent, sometimes in the middle of the night, sometimes at dawn. I started to feel less afraid, more curious. It was like we’d struck a bargain—food for silence, offerings for peace.

I never told Ellie. She had enough to worry about.

The Presence

Winter came early that year. The snow piled up, the nights grew longer. The knocks changed—sometimes louder, sometimes closer. I started hearing low growls, deep and rumbling, not threatening, just present. And sometimes, a smell—musty, wild, like wet fur and earth.

Ellie noticed it too. She started locking the windows, checking the doors twice before bed.
“What is that sound?” she asked one night.
“Just the wind,” I lied.

But I knew better. I started leaving the shed door cracked at night. Sometimes, I’d see a shadow move past the window, hear slow, heavy breathing just outside. I’d sit by the stove, shotgun across my knees, listening to the silence.

The Night in the Shed

One night, I couldn’t sleep. I pulled on my coat and went out to the shed, flashlight trembling in my hand. The moon was full, casting everything in silver. The shed door was ajar, just as I’d left it.

Inside, it was waiting.

Massive, hunched in the corner, dark fur matted with snow. Its eyes—huge, black, intelligent—watched me. I felt a pressure in my mind, a sense of meaning without words:

Stay away.

Not a threat. A warning. Sadness, weariness. I stood frozen, heart pounding, as it rose to its full height—eight feet, maybe more. It moved past me, silent, and vanished into the night.

Understanding

After that night, things changed. I started to understand why it was here, why it hid. I saw flashes in my dreams—men with guns, helicopters, trees burning, fear and pain. I realized it wasn’t just hiding from me, but from all of us.

I promised I’d keep its secret. I promised I’d protect it.

We shared the winter—me in the cabin, it in the woods. I left food, kept the shed ready. Sometimes, I’d sit outside, talking softly, telling it about my day. Sometimes, I’d just sit in silence, feeling its presence in the darkness.

The Goodbye

The last time I saw it was the coldest night of the year. Ellie was away, visiting her sister. I heard the knocks—urgent, desperate, not the usual measured threes. I went outside, barefoot in the snow.

There it was, standing in the clearing, illuminated by the cabin light. Massive, wild, beautiful. We looked at each other, and I felt a wave of gratitude and sadness.

Goodbye.

It turned and walked into the trees, never to return.

The Secret

The knocks stopped after that. Ellie came home, and life went back to normal. We sold the cabin a few years later, moved to town. Ellie passed away five years ago. Now I live in a small apartment, haunted by memories.

I still hear the knocks sometimes, in dreams or in the quiet before dawn.
Three slow, deliberate knocks.
I remember the winter we shared, the secret I kept, the trust I was given.

Some things are more important than proof.
Some creatures deserve to stay hidden.

If you ever find yourself alone in the Cascades, and you hear three knocks from the darkness, remember this:
You’re not alone. And some secrets are better left unsaid.