Old Woman Finds 2 Freezing Infant Bigfoots—Next Day, Whole Tribe Stood at Her House – Story

Winter’s Guests

Chapter One: Alone in the Pines

You’re not going to believe what happened to me last winter. I’m still not sure I believe it myself, but I’ve got to tell someone. My hands still shake when I think about it.

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I’m seventy-two years old and I’ve been living alone in these mountains for almost fifteen years now. My cabin sits about twelve miles up an old logging road that most folks don’t even know exists anymore. The county stopped maintaining it years ago, so it’s just me and whoever’s brave enough to drive a four-wheel drive up here. Usually just the mail carrier once a week and maybe a hunter or two during season.

I moved up here after my husband passed. The city was too loud, too full of memories. Up here, the only sounds are wind through the pines, creek water running over rocks, and the occasional deer stepping through my yard. It suits me fine. I’ve got my vegetable garden, a few chickens, enough firewood to last through any winter—or so I thought.

October was unusually warm last year. The leaves clung stubbornly to the branches and I was still harvesting tomatoes into November. The chickens laid more eggs than usual, and even they seemed confused by the lingering summer. The old-timers in town kept predicting a hard winter. They always do, but this time their warnings seemed more urgent.

Every trip down the mountain for supplies, I heard the same advice: Stock up early. Cut extra firewood. Make sure your roof can handle heavy snow. I listened, as I always do, but something about the way the animals were acting made me nervous. Squirrels worked overtime, birds hesitated to migrate, and my chickens stayed close to the coop, making more noise than usual.

By late November, I’d stacked more firewood than ever before. My root cellar overflowed with canned goods and preserved vegetables. I bought extra feed for the chickens and checked my backup generator. Looking back, it’s as if some instinct was telling me to prepare for something bigger than a normal winter storm.

The temperature drop came suddenly. On a Tuesday, it was still warm enough to work outside in a light jacket. By Wednesday morning, there was ice on the water bucket and the weather radio buzzed about an unusual storm system forming in the west. The kind of storm they give names to and track like hurricanes.

December hit hard. By the third week, we’d had more snow than most winters see in total. The weather service called it a once-in-a-decade event. I did what I always do—checked supplies, stacked wood by the door, secured the chicken coop. But this felt different from the start. The air pressure dropped so fast my ears popped. The wind came from odd directions, the kind that usually means tornado weather, not snow.

The chickens stopped laying and huddled together. My bones ached in ways they never had before.

Chapter Two: The Storm

The first flakes started falling on a Monday evening, tiny and hard like bits of ice. By Tuesday morning, six inches of dry snow blanketed the yard, blowing around like sand. The wind was steady but not terrible yet, just enough to obscure the view.

I spent Tuesday checking everything twice. The chickens had food and water, though they seemed agitated. The woodpile was covered, windows secured, kerosene lamps ready. The generator was tested and waiting, though I hoped not to need it.

Tuesday night, the real storm began. Around eight, the wind picked up, and by nine, I could barely see the chicken coop from the kitchen window. The transformation was incredible—manageable wind turned into something alive and furious. The house creaked in ways I’d never heard, and snow hit the windows like handfuls of gravel.

By ten, I couldn’t see my own porch light. The snow wasn’t just falling; it was moving sideways, driven by winds gusting over sixty miles an hour. Trees bent like grass, snapping in the distance with sharp cracks that cut through the howling wind. The temperature dropped from twenty degrees at sunset to below zero by midnight, and kept falling.

Even with the fire roaring and every lamp lit, the house grew cold. I could feel the heat being sucked out through the walls. No matter how much wood I fed the fire, by midnight I knew this was different. The wind screamed, and snow built up against the windows like a white wall.

Power went out around two in the morning—not unusual up here, but the timing was bad. I had candles and oil lamps, but the house cooled quickly without the electric heater. I threw another log on the fire and tried to sleep, but the noise was incredible. Trees cracked like gunshots, and something kept banging against the side of the house. Sleep was impossible.

Around three, I heard a rhythmic thumping against the back wall—too regular to be just debris in the wind. I checked every window I could reach, but the snow was too thick to see anything. The thumping continued for twenty minutes, then stopped as suddenly as it started.

By dawn, the storm had settled into a pattern—howling wind for ten or fifteen minutes, then a lull, then stronger gusts. During the calm, I heard the settling and cracking of snow and ice, the sound of a landscape being transformed.

I managed to get the door open during one lull and looked out at a world I didn’t recognize. Three feet of snow, still falling hard. My truck buried, the path to the coop vanished. The chickens were alive, clucking anxiously, but unreachable until the storm passed.

Wednesday was worse. Snow came down so fast I couldn’t see my own hand in front of my face. The wind was constant, making the house shake. I fed the fire and checked for leaks. The roof held, but ice built up in the gutters. Windows frosted inside despite the fire. The cold was winning.

Around noon, the banging started again—this time on the front near the door. Rhythmic thumping, like something was trying to get in. I peered through the window but saw only swirling snow. The sound continued for hours, sometimes stopping, then starting elsewhere.

I wondered if it was an animal seeking shelter, but the sound was too purposeful, too regular—like something was testing the house.

Chapter Three: The Cry

Wednesday night was a test of endurance. The storm had raged for over twenty-four hours, showing no sign of slowing. The wind was so loud I couldn’t hear myself think, cold seeped through every crack. I pulled my mattress into the main room, close to the fire, and tried to sleep there. It was warmer, but still cold enough for every blanket I owned. The fire had to be fed every hour—no more than forty or fifty minutes of sleep at a time.

Around ten, I heard something that made my blood run cold. Crying. Not the wind, not branches, but actual crying—like a baby, but deeper, more resonant. At first, I thought the storm was playing tricks on my ears, but the sound continued even during brief lulls. The crying seemed to come from outside, near the house. Faint but persistent, rising and falling like a baby’s wail, but with an undertone that was definitely not human.

My first thought was a wild cat or some animal, but I’d never heard anything like it. I tried to ignore it, but the sound kept pulling at me, squeezing my heart. It wasn’t just an animal in distress—it was something young, helpless, and terrified.

The second night was worse. The storm wouldn’t quit. I checked the fire, the windows, made sure nothing was leaking. I was getting ready for bed when I heard the crying again—clearer now, definitely coming from right outside. During a brief lull, I heard two distinct voices, both young, both in distress. The emotion behind them was unmistakable—cold, scared, probably dying.

I grabbed my flashlight and coat. Common sense said stay inside, but something about the sound pulled me out. I’d raised three children, and that instinct to respond to a baby’s cry was too strong to ignore.

The cold hit me like a blow when I opened the door. The wind tried to tear the flashlight from my hands, snow so thick I could barely breathe. The crying was clearer, coming from the side of the house where the foundation meets the ground.

I followed the sound, stepping carefully—snow up past my knees in places, over my waist where it drifted. The wind pushed me off balance, and I grabbed the wall to keep from falling.

When I reached the side of the cabin, my flashlight caught something dark huddled against the stone foundation. At first, I thought it was a pile of branches or trash. Then it moved.

Two of them, pressed together against the cold stone. Small, maybe the size of three-year-old children, but their proportions were all wrong. Arms and legs too long, torsos too broad. Covered in dark brown fur, matted and stiff with ice. Their faces stopped me cold—not quite human, not quite animal, something in between. Larger eye sockets, pronounced brow ridge, flatter nose. Enormous, dark eyes looked up at me—intelligent, not animal intelligence, something deeper.

They were dying. Breathing shallow, bodies shaking, ice everywhere. Whatever they were, they were just babies, freezing to death against my house.

I didn’t think about what they might be or if they were dangerous. All I saw were two small creatures desperate for help. Maternal instinct was stronger than fear. I pulled off my coat and wrapped it around them. They didn’t resist, pressed closer to my warmth, clutching at my clothes with hands—definitely hands, with opposable thumbs and long fingers.

Heavier than expected, dense and solid, but I managed to lift them both. One was smaller, weaker. The larger made soft sounds to its companion, reassuring it.

Getting them inside was a struggle. The wind tried to push me off balance, and I couldn’t see with both hands full and the flashlight tucked under my arm. Snow blew into my face, and I felt my way along the wall.

Finally, I got the door open and stumbled into the relative warmth of the cabin. The creatures shivered violently, then gradually eased as they felt the heat.

Chapter Four: Guests by the Fire

I set them down in front of the fireplace, wrapping them in every blanket I could find. Their fur was so cold it felt like ice, and their shivering was so violent I feared seizures. Ice crystals clung to their fur, eyelashes, nostrils.

I built up the fire, moved them close but not too close. They understood fire, didn’t touch it, but pressed near and held their hands out to the warmth. Their hands were fascinating—long fingers with extra joints, thumbs positioned differently, a grip that looked strong and versatile.

I warmed milk on the stove, tested it, offered it. The larger reached out, tested the temperature, then drank slowly, watching me over the rim with enormous eyes. The smaller was hesitant, looking to its companion for encouragement before accepting its own cup.

I gave them bread and soup, warmed on the stove. They ate carefully, examining each piece, with surprisingly good manners—no grabbing, no snatching, and they understood sharing.

What struck me most was how they communicated. Soft sounds, not quite language but meaningful. The larger cared for the smaller, offering food first, keeping it close to the fire, touching it gently when frightened.

They watched me as they ate—not aggressive, but curious. They studied me as I studied them, trying to understand if I meant harm.

When their hunger eased, they huddled together near the fire, finally relaxing. The smaller one fell asleep, curled against its companion. I didn’t sleep at all, keeping the fire going, watching them breathe, making sure they warmed and grew stronger.

Part of me was terrified. What were these things? Where had they come from? But mostly, I felt protective. They were so small and vulnerable, so close to death when I found them.

By dawn, their condition had improved. No longer shivering, their fur dried and fluffed up, looking larger and healthier. They were more alert and curious.

The larger began exploring the cabin, touching things gently, interested in my books, running fingers over covers, opening pages. It couldn’t read but seemed to understand the marks meant something. The smaller stayed close to the fire, watching.

They found a hand mirror, fascinated by their reflections, touching the glass, looking behind it. Their intelligence was undeniable—thinking, reasoning, problem-solving.

They made softer, musical sounds directed at me—gratitude, I realized. The larger pointed to itself, its companion, then me, making gentle sounds. I spoke to them, keeping my voice calm. They liked human speech, tilting heads, listening, sometimes making soft responses that sounded like attempted conversation.

The blizzard lasted two more days. The wind never stopped, snow continued at a rate I’d never seen. By Thursday, the chicken coop was buried under eight or nine feet of snow.

The creatures—children, I thought of them—settled into a routine. They helped tend the fire, bringing wood from the pile, understanding that fire meant warmth. They watched everything I did, learning quickly. When I cooked, they observed every step. When I read, they listened to my voice, sometimes making sounds that seemed like questions or comments.

The smaller was shy but affectionate, sitting close while I worked, touching my hand or arm gently. The larger was curious, exploring, figuring out how things worked.

They learned incredibly fast. By the second day, they understood basic cause and effect—wood made fire, fire made warmth, warmth was good. They knew my pleased sounds and my cautions. Most amazingly, they helped without being asked, anticipating my needs, assisting with tasks.

Their concern for each other was touching. The larger constantly checked on the smaller, ensuring warmth, food, safety. The smaller looked to its companion for guidance but showed independence.

By Thursday evening, their presence felt natural. They’d found their places in the cabin’s routine and their company was comforting.

Chapter Five: Reunion

Friday morning, I woke to unusual silence. The wind had died enough to hear individual sounds—the settling of snow, creaking branches, a distant bird. The creatures sensed the change, peering out the windows, restless for the first time.

I bundled up and went outside to check the chickens. The world was transformed—snow higher than my head, landmarks buried. Trees down, paths impassable.

The creatures stood in the doorway, sniffing the air, making urgent sounds. The chickens had survived, cold and traumatized. I dug them out, gave fresh food and water, while the two watched with concern.

Then I saw the tracks—enormous, eighteen inches long, eight wide, almost human but with longer toes and claw marks. The stride length suggested something much taller and stronger than any human. The tracks came from the forest, wound around the house, then headed back into the woods. Fresh, made after the snow stopped, before I came outside.

They circled the house, under the windows, to where I’d found the two small creatures. Then twice around the house before heading back to the woods.

My heart raced—these tracks belonged to the family of the creatures I’d rescued. Parents, siblings, maybe a group had come searching for the missing babies, found the house, confirmed their children were safe, and retreated to wait.

The two small faces watched me from the doorway, tense with anticipation, looking toward the woods. The larger stepped outside, moving purposefully toward the forest edge. It stopped twenty feet from the house and made a series of calls, louder than any sounds I’d heard, carrying through the still air.

From deep in the woods came an answering call—low, resonant, similar but deeper and more powerful. The sound came from multiple directions, as if several large creatures were spread throughout the forest.

The smaller joined its companion, both making excited sounds. They were talking to their family, letting them know they were alive, well, explaining what happened.

The forest answered, voices closer and more numerous—a complex conversation with different pitches and tones. Adults, adolescents, children.

I heard movement—the sound of large bodies pushing through snow, branches breaking, snow falling from disturbed boughs. A lot of them, and big.

The young ones danced in the snow, making joyful sounds, gesturing to me, the house, the woods—explaining their adventure, describing how I’d rescued and cared for them.

Then I saw the first adult—stepping out from behind a massive pine, overwhelming in size, eight feet tall, shoulders broader than any human. Covered in dark brown fur, nothing childlike about its build or bearing. It looked at me, perfectly still, studying me with obvious intelligence.

The young ones ran toward it, calling out, but the adult held up an enormous hand and they stopped. More adults appeared, forming a loose circle around the property—coordinated, tactical, communicating and planning.

The largest, the leader, stepped forward—nine feet tall, scarred, powerful. Its eyes were dark, expression unreadable. It approached slowly, never taking its eyes off me, ready to react if I threatened.

The young ones moved between me and the leader, making rapid, excited sounds, gesturing to me, the house, themselves. Telling their story—caught in the storm, rescued, fed, warmed.

The leader listened, gaze never leaving my face, processing the information. Other adults moved closer, intelligence in their eyes, family resemblance clear. Females, smaller and delicate; males, larger and muscled. Their behavior was startlingly human—standing upright, using hands expressively, showing emotion.

The leader studied me as the story ended, looking between its children and me, coming to a decision. Then the larger young one ran back, took my hand, led me forward, gestured to the leader, making soft musical sounds. It was introducing me, vouching for me, making clear I was a friend.

The smaller joined, taking my other hand, adding its voice. The leader’s expression softened—weariness joined by gratitude or respect. It looked at its children, healthy and unharmed, then back at me.

Slowly, the massive creature lowered its head—not quite a bow, but a gesture of acknowledgement and respect. One by one, the other adults did the same—a dozen enormous heads lowered, a moment of recognition that transcended species.

Afterward, the leader called its children forward. They looked at me with reluctance, making sounds that seemed like apologies for leaving. I knelt in the snow, letting them approach one last time. The smaller pressed against me, making a soft, affectionate sound. The larger touched my face, made a complex series of sounds that felt like a thank you.

I spoke to them, telling them it was my privilege to care for them. They seemed to understand my tone and intent. Both touched my hands one final time before stepping back to their family. The leader made a low sound, and the group moved toward the forest. The young ones stayed close, looking back until the trees blocked them from view.

Within minutes, they vanished, the forest swallowing them up as if they’d never been there. If not for the tracks and the memories, I might have convinced myself it was a dream.

Chapter Six: The Bond

The silence after they left was deafening. For four days, my cabin had been full of soft sounds, gentle movement, the presence of beings learning and growing. Now it was just me, and the quiet felt oppressive.

I went through my routines, but couldn’t stop thinking about the experience. The cabin felt huge and empty. I kept expecting to hear their calls or see them bringing wood.

That night, I couldn’t sleep, replaying every moment—from finding them nearly frozen to watching them disappear. Had it really happened? My rational mind insisted it was hallucination, but the evidence was undeniable—the blankets still smelled different, the cups were where I’d left them, and the tracks in the snow.

I realized I’d been changed in ways I was only beginning to understand. For four days, I’d cared for two beings entirely dependent on me, feeling protective, maternal, connected to something larger than myself.

Over the next days, I looked for signs of my former guests. Sometimes I glimpsed movement in the distant trees, but never sure. Small things changed—my woodpile more organized, fallen branches moved, small offerings at the edge of my property: smooth stones, bundles of berries, pieces of bark. They appeared overnight, always where I’d notice.

I began leaving offerings in return—bread, fruit, small tools, bright objects. They were always gone by morning, though it could have been any forest creature.

The feeling of being watched wasn’t frightening—it felt protective. I sensed my property was guarded, something watching over me as I had watched over their young.

As winter became spring, my understanding evolved. I’d encountered a family of beings most would call myth, but they were as real as the trees and mountains. Intelligence, emotion, family bonds, social structure—parallels to humans everywhere.

More than that, they recognized kindness and responded with gratitude. My brief care for their young created a bond that continued long after.

Spring brought new evidence—flowers in my garden arranged in deliberate patterns, seedlings protected from frost by pine boughs, the chicken coop repaired overnight with unfamiliar techniques.

I understood I was no longer just a solitary human—I was part of a larger community, with neighbors I’d never see in daylight but who watched over me. The thought was comforting.

Summer brought more signs—paths kept clear, dangerous areas marked, offerings evolving with the seasons. I spent more time outdoors, hoping for another glimpse, but mostly because the forest felt safer and more welcoming.

I’d sit on the porch in the evenings, sometimes hearing distant sounds—not quite voices, not random noise—maybe conversations, maybe songs.

The chickens grew braver, venturing farther, sensing the protective presence. I never lost a bird to predators, despite their freedom.

Chapter Seven: The Return

When December came again, I thought constantly of the anniversary. A year since that blizzard, since I’d saved two small creatures and changed both our lives.

The winter was milder, regular snow but nothing like the previous year. I was almost disappointed, hoping for another chance to help.

On the exact anniversary, I heard familiar sounds outside—not crying, but soft calls I recognized. Tracks in the fresh snow, smaller than adult prints, young adult size. I went outside, following the tracks to the edge of my property.

In the moonlight, two figures stood at the tree line—larger than before, but still smaller than the adults. The same two, now nearly grown.

They didn’t approach, but stood for several minutes, making soft sounds in my direction. I felt they were saying hello, checking on me, letting me know they hadn’t forgotten.

I called out, thanking them, telling them how good it was to see them. They seemed to understand my tone. One raised a hand in something like a wave, then melted back into the forest.

That visit became a pattern—every winter, around the anniversary, I’d receive some sign: tracks, distant calls, a pile of pinecones arranged in what looked like letters.

The protective presence never left. I lived through more winters and summers, but never felt truly alone or endangered. Food was supplemented by wild offerings, hazards marked or eliminated, my waterline never froze.

I realized my experience wasn’t chance—it was adoption. By saving their children, I became part of their extended family. Their rules and obligations now applied to me. I was careful never to abuse the protection, never to take unnecessary risks.

I continued offering food, tools, bright objects. Soon, I’ll have to leave this mountain for a small apartment in town, where I’ll be safe and cared for, but it won’t be home.

The life I’ve lived here, the relationship we’ve shared, has been the greatest privilege of my existence. To be trusted by beings who have every reason to fear humans, to be accepted as family by a species not my own—I can’t imagine a greater honor.

That’s all I have to say. Make of it what you will, but if you’re ever alone in the wilderness and hear something calling for help, remember: courage isn’t the absence of fear. It’s doing the right thing, even when you’re terrified.

End.