Her Bond with Bigfoot Was Unstoppable, What It Told Her About Humans is Shocking – Sasquatch Stories
Three Knocks in the North Woods
The wind was quiet that night, almost like it knew us. It was carrying something it shouldn’t. I wasn’t prepared for what I heard.
It was late September 2011, out near the border of Minnesota and the North Woods. The temperature was dropping and the trees were shedding their leaves, crunching underfoot. It had been years since Granny passed, and I was used to the solitude by then, living in that cabin with only the sound of the wind, the rain, and the occasional deer rustling through the brush.
.
.
.
But that night, I heard it. Three knocks—so deliberate, so rhythmic—a sound I can’t forget. I shouldn’t be telling you this, but it’s been years and sometimes I wonder if it’s not the wind I’m hearing anymore. There’s a tape, a clip I recorded, but I can’t share it. Not yet. Not until I figure out what happened.
It was just me in the old cabin. Granny had passed away in 2008, and after that, the place felt emptier than ever. I was fourteen, young, but old enough to know how to take care of myself. The small patch of land surrounded by trees for miles gave me a sense of quiet comfort. No one for miles except the occasional neighbor whom I’d rarely see.
My routine was simple. Wake up with the sunrise, chop wood, check the traps, clean the house. It wasn’t much, but it was mine. No city noise, just silence. The smell of pine and wet earth filled my lungs every time I stepped outside. But there were days I longed for something else.
I hadn’t heard much about Bigfoot other than rumors from old-timers who’d lived here longer than I could remember. “Just stories,” they’d say, shaking their heads. “Bigfoot talk is for folks who ain’t got anything better to do.” I didn’t believe in it, of course. I was just trying to survive in a world that had gotten a little lonelier than I ever expected. But I did listen to their tales—just to hear them, not because I thought any of it was real.
The mornings came easy. I’d walk the property line before breakfast, checking for damage from storms or animals. The cabin sat about two hundred yards from the treeline, close enough to feel the forest, but far enough to catch sun on the porch. Granny had planted a small garden behind the house, vegetables mostly, and I kept it going out of habit more than need. The soil was dark and rich, and the rows stayed neat through summer.
By afternoon, I’d split wood or mend fences. There was always something needing fixing. The roof leaked in two places, and the porch steps sagged on the left side. I kept a notebook of repairs, writing them down the way Granny taught me. “Fix what you can,” she’d say. “Leave the rest for tomorrow.” It was a way of living that made sense when you were alone.
Then it started—little things. I remember it was October when I found my garden trampled. The vegetables weren’t completely destroyed, but they were bent, squashed like someone or something had walked over them. It could have been deer or maybe a bear, I thought.
There was a strange smell, too. Like wet fur, but not like any animal I’d ever encountered. It lingered in the air, stronger than anything I’d smelled before. I didn’t think much of it. I was used to dealing with wildlife. I figured it would pass, but then it didn’t.
I noticed the pattern of destruction. The same smell, the same footprints, only they weren’t any animal I could identify. Too big for a bear, too wide for a moose. The prints pressed deep into the soft earth between the tomato plants, each one showing five clear toe marks. I measured one with my hand. It was longer than my forearm, wrist to fingertip. The stride between prints stretched nearly four feet. I’d seen bear tracks before, and these weren’t that. Bears shuffled. These walked upright, heel to toe, the way a person does.
I took pictures with my phone, but the resolution was poor, and the details washed out in the morning light.
The smell returned that evening. I was bringing in firewood when it hit me—thick and musky, like something wet had been standing close by. I stopped halfway to the porch, arms full of split logs, and scanned the treeline. Nothing moved. The forest stood silent, not even a bird calling. That’s when I noticed the temperature had dropped fast. My breath showed in the air, even though it had been warm an hour before.
I went inside and locked the door. Not something I usually did. The cabin had a simple latch, nothing fancy, but I threw the deadbolt that night. I sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, looking out the window toward the trees. The sun was setting behind them, casting long shadows across the clearing. I told myself it was just nerves, just my mind playing tricks after too many days alone.
That was the last normal day before things changed.
Late at night, I started hearing knocks. Three of them, always in a row. Knocks so distinct I couldn’t mistake them for anything else. I remember the first time I heard it. It was the middle of the night and the wind had died down. No crickets, no rustling in the trees, just silence. And then—knock, knock, knock.
At first I thought it was some kids messing around. Maybe some teenagers from the next town over. But who would come out here at this time of night? I sat there listening. There was no reason for it to be happening. No one was out there. I grabbed my flashlight and went to the door. I couldn’t see a thing. The night was still, the only sound the soft creak of the old wooden beams of the cabin. I shook my head, dismissing it.
But sleep didn’t come easy after that. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening for any sound that didn’t belong. The cabin settled around me, wood contracting in the cold, and I counted each creak and pop. Around 3:00 in the morning, I finally drifted off. But the memory of those three knocks stayed with me.
The next morning, I found more prints. These were closer to the house, near the back door where I kept the trash bins. One print was so clear, I could see the ridge lines in the skin pressed into a patch of mud. I knelt down and studied it, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. It looked human, but the proportions were wrong. Too long, too wide, the arch too pronounced.
I called the ranger station that afternoon. A woman answered, her voice professional and distant. I told her about the prints and the smell, but I didn’t mention the knocks. That felt too strange to say out loud. She asked if anything was missing or damaged. When I said no, she told me it was probably just a bear passing through. “Black bears can stand on their hind legs,” she said. “Makes tracks that look almost human.” I thanked her and hung up. But I knew what bear tracks looked like. And these weren’t that.
The next day, I found it again. The smell—stronger this time. Wet fur, musky, almost like the scent of something too big to ignore. I checked the garden, the traps, and even the barn. Nothing seemed out of place. But the smell, it was in the air like it was meant for me to notice.
I didn’t mention it to anyone. The knocks were enough for me to think I was going a little crazy. But then the sound came again that night. Three knocks, louder this time.
I couldn’t sleep. The tension was building up inside me. I had to get to the bottom of this. I started keeping a log—date, time, what I heard or smelled, where I found prints. October 15th, three knocks at 2:47 a.m. October 16th, smell near the wood pile at dusk. October 17th, prints along the north fence line. I wrote everything down in Granny’s old ledger, the one she used to track harvests and weather patterns. It felt scientific, like documentation might make it less frightening.
The knocks came every night for a week. Always three. Always around the same time between 2 and 3 in the morning. I started sleeping in my clothes, boots by the bed, flashlight charged and ready. I told myself I wasn’t afraid, just prepared, but my hands shook every time I heard that sound.
On the eighth night, I tried knocking back three times, matching the rhythm. I used my knuckles against the wooden door frame. The sound was hollow and small compared to what I’d been hearing. I waited. Nothing happened. The forest stayed quiet and I felt foolish standing there in the dark, knocking on my own door like I expected an answer.
But an hour later, the knocks came again. Three times, exactly as before. And this time they were closer. Not at the edge of the clearing, but right outside the cabin wall. I could hear the wood vibrate with each impact. I pressed my hand against the wall and felt the third knock travel through the timber. Whatever was out there was strong enough to shake the frame.
I didn’t sleep that night. I sat in the kitchen with every light on, drinking coffee until dawn. When the sun finally came up, I went outside and found a handprint on the wall right where the knocks had come from. It was huge, with long fingers and a broad palm pressed into the wood like someone had leaned there.
That was when I started thinking the word I’d been avoiding. Bigfoot.
I spent the next day researching online. The cabin had satellite internet—slow but functional. I searched every term I could think of: Bigfoot sightings, Minnesota, Sasquatch encounters, Northwoods, unexplained knocking sounds forest. The results were a mix of blurry photos, forum arguments, and detailed reports from people who sounded exactly like me. Normal people living alone, hearing things they couldn’t explain.
One forum post stuck with me. A man in Washington State described the same pattern: three knocks, musky smell, prints that looked human but weren’t. He tried to film it, but only caught dark shapes between trees. His footage showed nothing conclusive, just shadows and movement. The comment section was split between believers calling him brave and skeptics calling him crazy.
I printed out a guide to track identification and tacked it to the kitchen wall. Bear, moose, deer, wolf—all with detailed measurements and photos. None of them matched what I was finding. The prints outside my cabin were consistently fourteen to sixteen inches long, much larger than any bear, with a stride length that suggested bipedal movement.
That evening, I set up my old camcorder on a tripod facing the treeline. It was an outdated model, but it had night vision and could record for hours. I positioned it at the kitchen window, angled to cover the clearing and the edge of the forest. If something came out of those trees, I’d have proof.
The knocks came at 2:33 a.m. I was awake, waiting, sitting at the kitchen table with my notebook. Three knocks, same rhythm, same force. I grabbed the flashlight and moved to the window. The camcorder’s red recording light blinked steadily. I could see the clearing in the moonlight, gray and still.
And then I saw movement. Something tall stepped out from between two pine trees. It moved slowly, deliberately, crossing from shadow into the open space. The figure was massive, at least seven feet tall, covered in dark hair that caught the moonlight. It walked upright, arms swinging naturally, and stopped about fifty yards from the cabin.
We saw each other at the same moment. I stood frozen at the window, flashlight in hand but not turned on, and it stood frozen in the clearing. The distance between us felt both vast and too small. I could make out the shape of its head, broad and rounded, and the width of its shoulders. It didn’t look threatening. It just looked… there.
I don’t know how long we stayed like that. Maybe thirty seconds, maybe two minutes. Time felt strange. And then it turned and walked back into the trees, moving with a fluid grace that seemed impossible for something so large. No noise, no broken branches, just smooth movement through the darkness.
I checked the camcorder. The tape was still running, the red light still blinking. I’d gotten it on film. The footage was dark and grainy, but it was there—a tall figure, darker than the surrounding forest, moving across the clearing. You could see the arms swinging, the bipedal gait, the way it paused before retreating. It wasn’t definitive proof, not the kind that would convince a skeptic, but it was something.
I watched it twenty times that morning, each viewing confirming what I already knew. I’d seen Bigfoot. Actually seen it standing outside my cabin looking at me through the window. The thought should have terrified me, but instead I felt something else. Relief, maybe. Confirmation that I wasn’t losing my mind, or maybe just the strange comfort of knowing I wasn’t alone out here after all.
I saved the file to three different locations—my computer, a USB drive, and uploaded to a private cloud folder. I didn’t know what I’d do with it, but I knew I couldn’t risk losing it. This was evidence, real evidence of something people had been searching for their entire lives.
The smell came back that afternoon. I was splitting wood behind the cabin when the air changed. That same musky scent, wet fur, and something else, something earthier. I stopped mid-swing, axe raised, and turned slowly. Nothing visible, just the smell hanging thick in the cold air.
Three stones sat stacked on the chopping block. I hadn’t put them there. They were arranged carefully, one on top of the other, balanced perfectly. Rounded riverstones, smooth and gray, each one placed with obvious intention. I’d left the chopping block empty when I went inside for lunch. Now, there was this—a clear message that something had been here while I was gone.
I picked up the top stone. It was cold and slightly damp, like it had been pulled from a stream. I looked toward the treeline, scanning for any sign of movement. The forest was still, but I had the distinct feeling I was being watched. Not in a threatening way, more like curiosity—the same way I’d felt watching the figure in the clearing.
I placed the stone back on the stack and stepped away. Leave it, I thought. Don’t disturb it. This was communication, a gesture. I didn’t fully understand what it meant, but I recognized it as intentional. Whatever this creature was, it was trying to tell me something.
That night, there were no knocks. The forest stayed quiet, and I slept better than I had in weeks. In the morning, the stone stack was gone. Not knocked over or scattered, just gone, as if someone had carefully taken them away. A gift given and then retrieved, leaving only the memory behind.
I started leaving things out. Small offerings, testing a theory—an apple on the porch railing, a piece of bread on the chopping block. Nothing expensive or strange, just food, the kind of thing you’d share with a neighbor. Each morning, the food was gone, taken quietly in the night.
The ranger came by on October 28th. I hadn’t called her, but word travels in small communities. Someone from town had mentioned my earlier call about the prints, and she decided to follow up. Her name was Sarah, mid-40s with practical boots and a clipboard. She walked the property with me, looking at the areas where I’d found tracks. Most of the prints had been washed away by rain, but a few remained near the barn. She studied them, measuring with a tape measure and taking photos with her phone.
“Black bear,” she said. “Definitely black bear. When they rear up and walk on their hind legs, the tracks look almost human. Happens more than you’d think.”
I didn’t argue. I nodded and thanked her for coming out. She gave me her card and told me to call if I had any more problems. “If a bear gets too comfortable around humans, we need to know,” she said. “We can relocate them before anyone gets hurt.”
I promised I would call, knowing I wouldn’t.
After she left, I found another stack of stones. This time, five of them, arranged near the treeline where the property met the forest. They were positioned in a way that caught the afternoon light, almost like markers or boundary stones. I photographed them from multiple angles, documenting their placement before the weather could disturb them.
The pattern became routine. I’d leave food and it would be taken. I’d find stone stacks or small arrangements of pine cones. Once, a woven circle of grass appeared on the porch, dried and carefully braided. The knocks stopped entirely, replaced by these quiet exchanges. It felt like a conversation without words, a slow building of trust.
I started talking out loud when I left the offerings. Nothing elaborate, just simple statements. I am leaving this for you. Thank you for not bothering the chickens. I know you’re there. It felt less crazy than it should have. The alternative was silence, and silence felt wrong now.
On November 3rd, I saw it again, this time in daylight just before sunset. I was bringing in firewood when movement caught my eye. The creature stood at the treeline, partially obscured by a large pine. It wasn’t hiding exactly, but it wasn’t stepping into the open either. We looked at each other for a long moment. I set down the firewood and stayed still.
The creature shifted its weight, and I could see more detail in the fading light. Dark brown hair, almost black, covering its entire body; a face that was both human and not, with a flat nose and deep-set eyes. It was watching me with clear intelligence, evaluating me the same way I was evaluating it.
“Bigfoot,” I said quietly. Just the word, spoken into the cold air.
The creature blinked slowly, a very human gesture, and then stepped back into the shadows, gone again, leaving me alone in the clearing with an armful of firewood and a racing heart.
After that day, things changed. The encounters became more frequent, but also more comfortable. I’d see the creature—Bigfoot, I’d started calling it, even in my own thoughts—at various times. Dawn, dusk, once in the middle of the day when snow was falling heavy and quiet. It never came closer than fifty yards, but it didn’t hide anymore either.
I stopped setting up the camera. That felt intrusive somehow, like a violation of the trust we’d been building. The footage I had was enough. I didn’t need more proof. What I needed was to understand what was happening—why this creature had chosen to reveal itself to me.
The food exchanges continued. I’d leave vegetables from the root cellar, dried fruit, sometimes jerky or bread. Everything was always taken, consumed somewhere in the forest where I couldn’t see. Once, I found the remains of a meal—apple cores arranged in a neat pile on a flat stone. Even its leftovers were organized, thoughtful.
I read everything I could find about Bigfoot behavior. Most of it was speculation, theories built on brief sightings and unclear evidence. But some patterns emerged. They’re territorial but not aggressive. They avoid humans but show curiosity about human activity. They communicate through knocks, whoops, and sometimes rock clacking. They’re intelligent—possibly as intelligent as great apes, maybe more.
The stone stacks grew more elaborate. Instead of simple towers, I’d find patterns—stones arranged in circles, in lines, in shapes that suggested meaning I couldn’t quite grasp. I documented everything, filling Granny’s old ledger with sketches and notes. December 1st, six stones in a triangle formation. December 5th, stones and pine cones alternating in a spiral. December 8th, a cairn four feet high near the barn.
My nearest neighbor, Tom, stopped by with mail that had been delivered to his box by mistake. He commented on the stone piles, asked if I was taking up sculpture. I laughed and said I was just bored, stacking rocks to pass the time. He nodded like that made sense, and I felt guilty for lying. But what was the alternative? Tell him about Bigfoot? He’d think I’d gone crazy from isolation.
Winter came hard that year. Snow started falling in mid-December and didn’t stop. I had to shovel paths from the cabin to the barn, from the barn to the wood pile. The creature’s tracks were clear in the fresh snow, showing its nightly routes around my property. It circled the cabin, always keeping distance, but the patterns showed it was checking on me, making sure I was okay.
On December 20th, I found a deer carcass near the barn. Clean kill, throat torn, but the rest intact. It hadn’t been there the night before. I stared at it for a long time, understanding what I was seeing. A gift. Meat for winter. The kind of offering that went beyond simple communication. This was care. Provision. Bigfoot was taking care of me.
I processed the deer that day, working until dark. It felt right to accept the gift, to honor what had been given.
It was around midnight when I finally saw it up close. I’d heard movement outside, different from the usual distant sounds. This was right against the cabin wall, something large pressing against the wood. I grabbed my flashlight and went to the door, heart pounding, but no longer afraid. Curious, maybe ready, I opened the door slowly.
The porch light was off, just moonlight and shadows. And there, standing at the bottom of the porch steps, was Bigfoot. Closer than it had ever been. Close enough that I could see individual hairs in its fur, see the rise and fall of its chest as it breathed. Close enough to see its eyes, dark and deep, and watching me.
We stood there, separated by maybe ten feet and a gulf of species. It was massive—even bigger than I’d realized—seven and a half feet tall at least, with shoulders that seemed impossibly broad. Its hands hung at its sides, long fingers that could have wrapped around my entire arm, but there was no threat in its posture, just presence, just being.
I said the only thing that made sense: “Hello.” My voice sounded small and strange in the cold air.
The creature tilted its head slightly, the gesture so human it made my chest tight. Then it reached out slowly, deliberately, and placed something on the porch step—a woven basket, small and crude, but clearly crafted with purpose. Inside were more dried grasses and what looked like berries.
“Thank you,” I said.
The creature made a sound—low and soft, almost like a hum. Not threatening, not aggressive, just acknowledgment. Then it turned and walked away, moving with that same fluid grace, disappearing into the trees within seconds.
I stood on the porch for a long time after it left, holding the basket and trying to process what had just happened. I’d made contact with Bigfoot. Real contact, not just glimpses and tracks. It had approached my home, given me a gift directly, responded to my voice. This wasn’t a random encounter anymore. This was relationship, however strange and impossible that seemed.
I brought the basket inside and set it on the kitchen table. The weaving was rough but functional, showing skill and patience. The berries inside were juniper, carefully picked and dried. I tried one—bitter but edible. Food from the forest, given freely. Shared between beings who had no reason to trust each other.
That night I didn’t sleep. I sat at the table drinking coffee and staring at the basket, replaying every moment of the encounter. The way Bigfoot had moved, the sound it made, the careful placement of the gift. Everything suggested intelligence, consciousness, perhaps even emotion. This wasn’t an animal operating on instinct. This was a being making choices, deciding to reach out.
The next morning, I found tracks leading from my porch into the forest. Deep prints in the snow showing the full weight and size of the creature. I followed them for about a hundred yards before they disappeared into a rocky area where the snow was too thin to hold marks.
I started spending more time outside, not looking for Bigfoot exactly, but being available. I’d sit on the porch in the evenings, reading or just watching the treeline. Sometimes I’d work on small projects near the edge of the clearing, splitting kindling or repairing fence posts, making myself visible, making myself predictable.
The creature came more often—not every day, but several times a week. It would stand at the forest edge watching me work. Sometimes it would make that low humming sound, and I’d hum back, experimenting with communication. We had no shared language, but we were finding something. Rhythm, maybe. Pattern.
On Christmas Eve, it brought me a gift I couldn’t explain—a carved piece of wood, smooth and rounded, with no clear purpose but obvious effort. The grain had been worked carefully, shaped with tools, or maybe just persistent hands. I held it, turning it over, feeling the weight and balance. Art, I realized. Bigfoot had made art and given it to me.
I left my own gift that night—a heavy blanket, wool and warm, folded on the porch steps. It was gone by morning. I like to think of the creature wrapped in it somewhere, using something human-made without fear. The walls between us were getting thinner.
January brought storms, heavy snow and wind that made it dangerous to go outside. I stayed in the cabin for three days straight, burning through my firewood faster than I wanted. On the fourth day, when the storm finally broke, I found my woodpile restocked. Someone—something—had brought wood from the forest and stacked it neatly against the cabin wall, enough to last another week.
I cried, actually cried, standing in the snow, looking at that pile of wood—not from fear or stress, but from the pure, unexpected kindness of it. Bigfoot had worked in the storm, in the cold and wind, to make sure I’d stay warm. That level of care from a creature I’d been taught didn’t exist overwhelmed me.
I left a note that day, just simple words on paper, weighted down with a rock. Thank you. You saved me. I don’t know if it could read, but the gesture felt important. The note was gone the next morning. Taken or blown away, but I chose to believe taken.
In February, I saw it in daylight for the first time in weeks. It was warmer, snow melting, and I was cleaning the porch. The creature emerged from the trees and walked closer than ever before, stopping just twenty feet away. We looked at each other in full sunlight, both of us fully visible. Its face was weathered, older than I’d realized. There were gray hairs mixed in with the dark brown and a scar over one eye. This was an individual, not just Bigfoot, but a specific being with a specific history. It had lived through things, survived things, and chosen to trust me despite whatever humans might have done in the past.
That trust felt sacred, fragile, something to protect.
Spring came slowly that year. The snow melted in patches, revealing dead grass and mud underneath. I started preparing the garden for planting, turning soil and clearing debris. The creature—I’d stopped calling it Bigfoot and started thinking of it as just the creature, or sometimes just them—watched me work. They stood at the treeline most mornings, observing my routine. I talked while I worked, explained what I was doing, why vegetables needed specific spacing, how Granny had taught me to rotate crops. It felt natural now, this one-sided conversation. Sometimes the creature would respond with sounds, low vocalizations that might have been approval or just acknowledgment. We were communicating, however imperfectly.
One morning in late March, something changed. I was planting early peas when I heard footsteps behind me. Heavy, deliberate footsteps coming across the clearing. I turned slowly and saw the creature walking toward me, actually approaching, closing the distance we’d maintained for months. My heart raced, but I stayed still, letting them choose the distance. They stopped about six feet away—close enough that I could smell them, that distinctive musky scent that no longer frightened me, close enough to see their eyes clearly, brown and intelligent and curious.
They crouched down, lowering their height to be less intimidating, and watched me plant the seeds. Then they reached out and picked up a seed from my collection, held it between two massive fingers, examining it. I held my breath. This was trust on a level we hadn’t reached before—physical proximity, shared activity. They dug a small hole in the soil with one finger, placed the seed carefully, and covered it back up, mimicking what they’d watched me do.
We planted the rest of the row together—me with my hands, them with fingers that were surprisingly dexterous despite their size. We worked in silence, the only sound the soft pad of soil and the distant call of birds. When the row was finished, the creature stood and walked back to the treeline. But they looked back once before disappearing. And I could have sworn they looked pleased.
After that day, we worked together sometimes—not every time, but when the mood struck. They’d help me stack wood or clear brush. Their strength was incredible, moving logs I could barely drag with seemingly no effort. But they were careful, too—gentle with delicate tasks, showing fine motor control that surprised me.
I wondered about their life, where they lived, if there were others. I’d never seen another one, never heard signs of more than one creature in the area. Were they alone, too? Was that why we’d connected? Two solitary beings finding companionship in an unlikely friendship? I wanted to ask, but had no words they’d understand. So I just worked alongside them, grateful for the company, for the strange, beautiful, impossible situation I’d found myself in. Living in rural Minnesota, fourteen years old and alone, best friends with Bigfoot.
If I told anyone, they’d think I’d lost my mind. But it was real. As real as the soil under my fingernails and the sun on my face.
I left my cabin years ago. The place felt different after Granny passed and after the creature stopped coming around. They’d been a regular presence for almost eight months—from October through May. And then one day, they just weren’t there anymore. No tracks, no stone stacks, no quiet humming from the treeline, just absence.
I waited a month before accepting it. Kept leaving food that went uneaten. Kept looking for signs that never appeared. Eventually, I understood they’d moved on. Migration, maybe, or just a natural end to whatever had brought us together. I wanted to believe they were okay, that they’d found wherever it was they needed to be.
The cabin sold quickly. I was sixteen by then, living with my aunt in town, but still managing the property. The new owners were a retired couple from Minneapolis looking for peace and quiet. I didn’t tell them about the creature. That felt like a betrayal somehow, sharing a secret that wasn’t mine to share. Let them discover their own mysteries, if there were any left to find.
I kept the footage—that grainy night vision video of a dark figure crossing the clearing, the only proof I had that any of it happened. I kept the woven basket, too, and the carved piece of wood. They sat in a box in my closet, artifacts from a stranger time. Sometimes I’d take them out and hold them, remembering.
People ask what I believe now. If I think Bigfoot is real, if there’s something living in the forest that science hasn’t documented. I tell them I don’t know. I tell them I grew up hearing stories and seeing things I couldn’t explain. But that doesn’t make it fact. I’ve learned to be vague, non-committal. The truth stays private.
But late at night, when I can’t sleep, I think about those months. The weight of that carved wood in my hands. The sound of three knocks in perfect rhythm. The way the creature moved, graceful and careful, planting seeds in my garden with fingers that could have crushed me without effort. Real things, physical things, impossible to dismiss.
I’m older now. I finished school, got a job, built a normal life. But part of me is still in that cabin, still watching the treeline at dusk, still leaving offerings on the porch. That version of me—young and alone and open to impossible things—feels like a different person sometimes. Someone braver than I am now, or maybe just less aware of how strange it all was.
So now I tell you this, and I don’t expect you to believe me. I don’t need you to. But I know the truth of what happened. The truth of Bigfoot, who wasn’t out to scare me, but to teach me something about trust and loneliness and connection across impossible distances.
I carry that lesson quietly, carefully, like the woven basket I keep hidden in my closet. Sometimes late at night, I swear I hear it—three soft knocks, distant and rhythmic, carried on the wind. And I wonder if they’re still out there, still watching, still remembering those months we spent learning each other’s language.
I wonder if they kept something of mine, the way I kept pieces of them—a mutual remembering, a shared secret in the silent woods.
