Moonshiner’s Farm is Harassed by a Bigfoot Tribe – Sasquatch Encounter Story
The Two Weeks the Forest Fought Back
Chapter One: The Isolation
Before you dismiss this as another wild Bigfoot tale, you need to understand something: I couldn’t call the cops, the Forest Service, or anyone for help. What I was doing on my land would have landed me in jail faster than any creature could have gotten me. So when the trouble started—when things began circling my cabin at night, throwing rocks at my roof, leaving massive handprints on my doors—I was completely on my own. Just me, my shotgun, and a still full of illegal moonshine hidden in the Appalachian woods.
.
.
.
My place is tucked away deep in the mountains, way back where people rarely go and most wouldn’t dare. No neighbors for miles, no paved roads, just a dirt track winding through hollers and ridges until you reach my cabin. The nearest town is an hour’s drive down that winding road, and even then, it’s a speck—three hundred people, one gas station, a general store that closes at six. That isolation suited me just fine. Privacy is what I needed. My business—moonshining—has been running in these mountains since before my granddaddy’s day. It’s all I had left.
My wife left three years back. Packed up while I was out at the still, gone by the time I got home. She left a note on the kitchen table: couldn’t take the isolation, couldn’t take me, couldn’t watch me destroy myself. I don’t blame her. I was distant, drunk most of the time, more interested in jars of clear liquor than conversation. The kids went with her. They’re grown now, living in the city. They don’t call. Last Christmas, I sent cards with money inside—didn’t get a reply, not even a text. So, it’s just me and Rusty, my loyal mutt, out here. Rusty never judges, never complains, just happy with food in his bowl and a warm place to sleep.
The still is hidden a quarter mile back in the woods, tucked in a natural depression where the smoke won’t be seen. I built it myself, copper coils and barrels scavenged from scrap. It keeps the lights on and food in my belly. But it means I can’t call for help. If the sheriff or a ranger sets foot on my land, I’m done for.
Chapter Two: The First Signs
It started late September, just as the leaves were turning and the mountains looked like they were on fire. I remember the night because I’d been running a batch—perfect weather, cool enough for the condensers to work, not so cold I had to worry about freezing. I got home around midnight, moon nearly full, bright enough not to need a flashlight. Everything looked silver and ghostly. I was bone-tired, aching from hauling water and wood, hands raw from working the equipment. All I wanted was a generous glass of my own whiskey and maybe a little music before crashing on the couch.
I was sitting in my worn recliner, boots off, whiskey warming my insides, when I heard it: a low, rumbling, grunting sound from near the property line, maybe fifty yards from the cabin. At first, I figured it was a bear—happens often, especially this time of year. They’ll tear through your trash, scatter it everywhere. I hollered out the window, trying to scare it off, but the grunting just stopped. Complete silence. That should have been my first clue something was wrong. Bears don’t go silent when you yell—they run or grunt back.
I was too tired and buzzed to care. I finished my drink and passed out. Next morning, I woke up with a pounding headache, mouth tasting like death. Sun streaming through the dirty window, I shuffled outside to let Rusty do his business. That’s when I saw the handprints. Huge, smeared in mud—or something worse—on my barn door. Each print was twice the size of my own hand, long fingers pressed deep into the wood. The thumb was set low, almost human, but not quite right. The proportions were off, unsettling.
I stared at them, trying to make sense of it. I’ve seen bear prints. These weren’t bear prints. Wrong shape, wrong spacing, no claws. They looked almost human, but too big, too wide. I told myself it had to be a prank—maybe kids from town messing with the crazy hermit. Seemed unlikely, but I didn’t want to consider the other possibilities.
Three days later, it happened again, worse this time. Around two in the morning, Rusty went nuts, barking frantically. I grabbed my shotgun, heart pounding, adrenaline kicking in. Rusty was at the window, hackles raised, barking at something outside. I eased the door open, shotgun ready. The porch light cast a yellow glow, everything beyond its reach darker than ever. I heard footsteps—heavy, deliberate, walking on two legs. Circling the cabin, moving slowly, checking for weak points. I stepped onto the porch, boards creaking. The footsteps stopped. Silence, except for Rusty’s barking.
Then I heard breathing—deep, heavy, slow breaths from the shadows, maybe twenty feet away. I could almost see a shape, darker than the trees. I fired a warning shot into the air. The blast echoed through the night. Whatever was out there took off, crashing through the underbrush, running upright on two legs. I didn’t sleep the rest of the night, just sat with the shotgun, every light on, watching the tree line.
Chapter Three: The Siege
Dawn brought a sense of safety. I searched the property, found three large trees twisted and broken eight feet up. Not snapped by wind, but wrenched, bark torn away, pale wood exposed. I couldn’t reach where the damage started. Whatever did this was tall, strong enough to break six-inch-thick trees like twigs. This wasn’t kids or bears. It was something else. And it knew where my still was.
The next week was a nightmare. Scratching sounds on the cabin walls at night—long, slow, scraping around the perimeter. Rusty would bark and growl, running from window to window. I’d grab the shotgun, rush outside, but never saw anything. Then came the howls—deep, guttural, vibrating in my chest, echoing through the mountains from multiple directions. Not wolves, not coyotes. A chorus, calling back and forth, almost like a language.
One morning, my clothesline was torn down, shirts and towels scattered, some hanging from tree branches. In the dirt near the water pump, I found footprints—eighteen inches long, five distinct toes, deep heel impressions. Whatever made these prints was heavy, several hundred pounds at least. That night, rocks hit my roof—big rocks, crashing onto the tin, keeping me awake. Rusty refused to go out after dark, tail tucked, ears flat. Dogs know things we don’t.
The harassment built for two weeks—barely any sleep, constant fear. My property was getting destroyed. The barn door torn off, windows smashed, wood pile scattered. I caught glimpses of movement in the trees, heard branches snapping, footsteps stopping when I paused. Always there, just out of sight.
I thought about leaving, packing up and abandoning the place. But where would I go? No savings, no prospects. And what would I tell people? That Bigfoot drove me off my land? They’d think I was crazy. If I left, the authorities would find my still anyway.
Chapter Four: The Confrontation
The night everything changed, I was drunk—more drunk than usual. I’d finished most of a bottle by sunset, watching shadows lengthen across the clearing. The alcohol dulled the fear, made it manageable. Around ten, I heard them coming—heavy footsteps, coordinated, closer than ever. Not stopping at the tree line, but coming right up to the porch. Boards creaked under their weight. Scratching at the door, sniffing, more insistent than usual.
Something inside me snapped. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe I was just done being scared. Rage replaced fear. I grabbed my hunting rifle, loaded it with shaking hands. I slipped out the back door, moving into the tree line, away from the cabin, deeper into the woods. Moonlight lit the path ahead, everything else shadows and shapes.
I heard movement all around, branches breaking, grunts from multiple directions. My heart pounded, rifle raised, finger on the trigger. I saw eyes—two points of light reflecting moonlight, low to the ground, watching me. They blinked, then disappeared. I kept moving, boots crunching through leaves, every sound impossibly loud.
I stepped on a steaming pile of droppings—fresh. I was close. A loud crack behind me—branch snapping under weight. I spun, rifle ready, but saw only darkness. Silence pressed in, heavy, suffocating. Every instinct screamed at me to run, but pride kept me rooted.
Then the smell hit—wet dog, rotting meat, musky and rank. It grew stronger with every step. The trees opened into a moonlit clearing, twenty yards across. On the far side, with its back to me, was one of them. Massive, eight feet tall, broad-shouldered, covered in dark reddish-brown hair. It was hunched over something, moving with purpose.
I raised my rifle, hands shaking, tried to steady my breathing. The creature froze, sensing something. Its head cocked, listening. I froze, not daring to breathe. Slowly, it turned around, stood to its full height, and faced me. The face was the worst part—humanlike but wrong. Flat nose, wide nostrils, deep-set eyes, thin lips, and those eyes—intelligent, aware, measuring me.
It bellowed—a roar that rose to a scream, vibrating in my chest, paralyzing me. Before I could react, it charged, impossibly fast. I fired, missed. Worked the bolt, fired again, hit its shoulder, but it didn’t slow. One more shot, and it was on me—a massive hand swatted the rifle away, sent it flying. Something hit me in the chest, and I flew backwards, head cracking against something hard. White pain exploded, then blackness.
Chapter Five: The Lesson
I woke in darkness, pain everywhere. I was in a cave, moonlight filtering in from the entrance, three massive shapes blocking the way out. Panic surged—I was going to die here. I tried to stand, collapsed in pain. One of them moved closer, old and scarred, gray hair mixed with brown. Its eyes watched me calmly, made a soft, gentle grunt. It pointed at me, then at the cave walls, repeated the gesture, trying to communicate.
It picked up a stick, drew symbols in the dirt—circles, lines, marks. Then it spoke, guttural but clear: “Live here.” My mind reeled. These things could talk. Another, younger, approached and offered food—berries and roots. The old one ate a berry to reassure me. Hunger overcame fear; I ate.
They tended my wounds, applied a numbing paste. “Hurt. Heal,” the old one said. They weren’t killing me—they were helping. The old one pointed outside, drew a circle, marked a structure, pointed at me, then drew marks outside and pointed at itself and the others. “Home, yours, ours.” It was about territory, about sharing the land.
It picked up a branch, broke it in half, then gently placed a leaf on the ground. Breaking versus preserving, destruction versus respect. It pointed at me—breaking. At itself—preserving. The message was clear. I was the one causing damage, taking without giving back. They were trying to teach me about respect and balance.
I thought back over the years—the chemicals I dumped, the wood I cut, the noise, the disregard for the land. I’d been destroying their home. Their attacks were communication, mirroring my actions. I felt something break inside me—shame, guilt, understanding. I cried, real tears for the first time in years.
The old one gestured toward the cave entrance—come see. With help, I limped outside. As dawn broke, they led me through the forest, moving carefully, avoiding plants, waiting for animals to pass, restoring a bird’s nest. They belonged here, part of the system. I realized I was just a guest. At the edge of my property, the old one looked at me and said, “Choose.” Then they vanished into the forest.
I stood there, seeing my cabin and my land with new eyes—smaller, sadder, damaged. Rusty ran to me, tail wagging, and I hugged him tight. Inside, I saw the mess—empty bottles, dirty dishes, trash. I chose to change. I dismantled my still, cleaned up the chemicals, restored the land, cleaned the cabin, poured out every bottle of alcohol.
That night, I sat sober on my porch, Rusty at my feet. The forest was quiet, peaceful. For the first time, I wasn’t afraid. I felt gratitude. Over the next weeks, I stayed sober, took care of the land, found honest work in town. My kids called. My daughter invited me to her wedding. My ex-wife called, cautious but friendly. They sensed the change.
I never saw the creatures again, but I knew they were out there, watching. One night, I saw the old one at the tree line. I raised my hand in gratitude. It nodded, then disappeared. They saved my life—not by pulling me from a fire, but by forcing me to see the damage I was doing and giving me a chance to change.
Some things in these mountains are ancient, mysterious, not monsters or demons, just guardians of their home. If you ever find yourself alone in the deep woods, and you feel watched, maybe you are. Show respect. Treat the land as precious. Take only what you need. Leave everything better than you found it. Act like a guest, because that’s exactly what you are. Maybe, if you’re lucky, you’ll learn how to truly live.
End.
