SASQUATCH CAUGHT Stealing Chickens On Security Camera | Bigfoot Encounter UP CLOSE
The Night They Claimed My Home
The Final Account of Robert Patrick
Chapter 1: Shadows in the Bitterroot
The creature that methodically dismantled my chicken coop stood nine feet tall, covered in dark, matted fur, and moved with a savagery that chilled me to the bone. I have watched the security recording hundreds of times since that October night, and each viewing confirms what I’ve tried so hard to deny. I wasn’t losing my mind. They were real, and they had been watching me far longer than I’d been watching them.
My name is Robert Patrick, and this is the story of why I abandoned the only home I’d ever known—fleeing into the night like a man possessed. What I’m about to share isn’t fiction or the ramblings of a lonely old farmer gone senile. This is why my house now stands empty in the Montana wilderness, why I’ll never return to the land that five generations of Patricks called home, and why I sleep with the lights on in my son’s downtown apartment three states away.
Chapter 2: A Life Built on Wilderness
For forty-two years, Margaret and I built our life on 127 acres of pristine wilderness nestled in the Bitterroot Mountains. Our nearest neighbor lived eighteen miles down a dirt road that became impassable four months out of the year. We raised cattle, grew our own vegetables, kept chickens for eggs, and heated our home with wood. I cut myself from the forest that stretched endlessly beyond our property line. It was the kind of self-sufficient existence that city people dream about but few have the courage to pursue.
When Margaret passed two years ago after a brief battle with cancer, our three children begged me to sell the ranch and move closer to civilization. Sarah, my eldest, had become a successful attorney in Seattle. Michael worked as an investment banker in Chicago. David managed a tech startup in San Francisco. They visited for the funeral, stayed a week, then returned to their important lives in their important cities.
I understood their concerns. Living alone at my age carried obvious risks. But this land was in my blood. My great-great-grandfather homesteaded here in 1887, and four generations of Patricks were buried in the small cemetery behind the house. Margaret’s grave was the newest addition, marked by a simple granite stone that read, “Beloved wife and mother.”
So I stayed.
Chapter 3: The Forest’s Whisper
I maintained the cattle, tended my garden, and kept a flock of twenty-three chickens. The surplus eggs I traded with the Kowalsski family at the general store in Millerville, the nearest town thirty-seven miles away. It was a quiet, predictable existence. I read by lamplight, listened to old radio programs on my battery-powered receiver, and found peace in the rhythms of rural life.
But I wasn’t naive about the dangers lurking in the surrounding wilderness. The Bitterroot Mountains harbored black bears, mountain lions, wolves, and the occasional grizzly. I kept a loaded .306 by the front door and a .44 magnum on my hip when working outside.
The forest had always been a source of both beauty and unease. Ancient pines towered two hundred feet into the sky, their canopy so thick that noon felt like twilight. Game trails crisscrossed the undergrowth, worn smooth by generations of deer, elk, and bears. I rarely ventured more than a quarter mile from the house. Something about the deep woods felt wrong—a primitive instinct warning me away from places where man wasn’t welcome.
Over the years, I’d heard things in those trees that I couldn’t explain. Sounds that weren’t quite animal, weren’t quite human. Wood knocks echoed at odd hours. Vocalizations resembled ape calls but carried an intelligence that made my skin crawl. Margaret had dismissed these as imagination, but after her death, the night noises took on a more sinister quality.
Chapter 4: Signs and Warnings
The wood knocks became more frequent, occurring in patterns that suggested communication. The vocalizations grew bolder, sometimes answered by similar calls from different directions. Most disturbing were the footsteps—heavy, deliberate, bipedal—that occasionally echoed from the tree line long after dark.
During my first summer alone, I found signs that something large was moving near my property. Massive footprints near the creek, far too big for any known animal. Trees with bark stripped away at heights no bear could reach. Arrangements of stones and sticks that seemed deliberate, almost ritualistic.
The first livestock kill happened in late July. One of my young bulls was found dead, its neck twisted at an impossible angle. No claw marks, no typical signs of a bear attack. The carcass hadn’t been fed upon. Predators kill to eat, not for sport.
Two weeks later, I lost three chickens in a single night. Their necks had been snapped cleanly and the bodies arranged in a rough triangle. Again, no signs of typical predation. It was as if something had reached through the wire mesh and killed them for the pleasure of killing.
After that, I reinforced the coop and installed motion-activated flood lights. The lights triggered frequently at first—deer, elk, and other wildlife—but gradually the nocturnal activity decreased. Either the animals had adjusted, or something was keeping them away.
Chapter 5: The Trail Camera
Michael, my middle son, visited and suggested installing a trail camera to monitor the chicken coop. We purchased a high-end camera with infrared night vision. For the first month, the footage showed raccoons, deer, foxes—reassuring proof that the ecosystem was healthy.
But as September turned to October, the nights grew longer and colder, and something changed. The typical sounds of wildlife diminished, replaced by an unnatural silence. The cattle became skittish, grouping near the barn and staring toward the tree line.
The camera began capturing anomalies—massive shadows moving at the edge of the frame, heat signatures that appeared bipedal, glowing eyes reflected in the infrared flash, set too high and far apart to belong to any known animal. Most unnerving was the gradual approach of whatever was watching me. As October progressed, the mysterious presence grew bolder, venturing closer to the house each night.
Chapter 6: The Night of Terror
October 23rd started as an ordinary day. I fed the cattle, collected eggs, split firewood, ate dinner, and settled into my reading chair. Around 9:00, I noticed the silence—no crickets, no owls, no wind. The cattle were nowhere to be seen, presumably huddled in the barn.
I double-checked the locks, made sure my weapons were loaded, and knew the camera was recording. Sleep came fitfully, interrupted by dreams of massive shapes moving through the forest. I jerked awake several times, certain I’d heard something outside. The last thing I remembered was checking the clock: 2:17 a.m.
I woke to a silence more profound than any I’d ever experienced. Something was wrong. The kitchen window provided a view that stopped my heart. The coop’s wire mesh had been peeled away like aluminum foil, curled back in precise strips. The wooden frame remained, but the interior was a slaughterhouse. Feathers drifted in the breeze, bodies scattered. Four survivors huddled beneath the overturned water trough, too traumatized to flee.
The carnage wasn’t the work of foxes or raccoons. This was systematic destruction executed with a malevolence that chilled me to the bone.
Chapter 7: The Evidence
But it was the trail camera footage that shattered my rational worldview. My hands shook as I scrolled through hours of recorded footage. The early evening showed deer, raccoons, an owl. Then at 11:47 p.m., the darkness at the edge of the forest began to move.
A massive humanoid figure emerged, moving with fluid grace. Nine feet tall, covered in dark fur, arms hanging to its knees, shoulders broad enough to span a doorway, a head with no visible neck. But it was the intelligence in its movement that terrified me. This wasn’t a mindless animal.
The creature approached the coop, paused to examine the wire mesh, then systematically dismantled my defenses. Its hands worked with the precision of a master craftsman. It peeled away the wire as easily as tearing paper, creating an opening for its massive frame.
What followed was a feeding frenzy lasting nearly thirty minutes. The creature killed swiftly and efficiently, snapping necks with casual gestures. But this wasn’t just feeding—it was destruction for the sake of destruction. It killed far more than it could eat, leaving most carcasses untouched.
Most disturbing was the moment when the creature looked directly into the camera. Its eyes reflected the infrared flash like twin coals. For a heartbeat, I felt it was staring directly at me through the lens. The intelligence in that gaze was unmistakable. It knew it was being recorded and didn’t care. If anything, it seemed to be performing for the camera.
Chapter 8: The Flight to Town
After completing its butchery, the creature gathered several carcasses and disappeared into the forest. The entire assault had taken thirty-six minutes. I watched the recording three more times before the full reality penetrated my shocked mind. Sasquatch, Bigfoot—whatever name you wanted to use—was real, and it had been hunting on my property, studying my routines, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
The implications were staggering. If creatures like this existed, how many people had encountered them over the years? How many disappearances could be attributed to predators that science refused to acknowledge? And most terrifying, what did it plan to do next?
I loaded the trail camera into my old Ford pickup, checked my rifles, and started the long drive to Millerville. Tom Kowalsski watched the footage twice, shaking his head and muttering. When the creature looked into the camera, Tom stepped back as if it might reach through and grab him.
He suggested I contact the Forest Service Ranger Station in Hamilton. The conversation with the ranger was brief and frustrating. When I mentioned Sasquatch, the tone changed. He suggested I might have recorded a bear, or was suffering from mental health issues. The call ended with a click that echoed in the store’s silence.
Chapter 9: Alone Against the Unknown
Tom’s concern shifted to embarrassment. He’d known me for twenty years, but now looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. When he suggested that maybe the stress of living alone had gotten to me, I knew I was truly on my own.
The drive back to the ranch felt endless. Every shadow could hide a predator. The isolation that once brought peace now felt like a death sentence. I was completely alone, facing something outside the normal rules of nature.
The next two weeks passed in a blur of anxiety and sleepless nights. I replaced the destroyed coop with a fortress, but knew my efforts were symbolic. If the creature wanted to destroy my defenses, nothing would stop it.
The footage revealed a property under siege. Massive footprints in the mud, trees showing fresh damage, arrangements of stones and sticks overnight. The creature was still there, still watching, still planning.
Sleep became impossible. The cattle had vanished, either driven off by fear or taken by predators. Scattered bones in the forest, rib cages picked clean, leg bones cracked for marrow. The destruction was too complete, too efficient.
Food became a concern. The approaching winter meant more frequent trips to town. Each trip felt like running a gauntlet, the forest pressing close on both sides of the road.
Chapter 10: The Final Night
Isolation was taking its toll. I talked to myself, filled the silence with radio programs. The house that sheltered five generations now felt like a prison.
I began making contingency plans. If the situation deteriorated, I’d abandon the ranch and drive to Chicago to stay with Michael. But I waited too long. The thing in the forest was growing bolder.
November 7th dawned gray and bitter. I slept poorly, jarred awake by sounds that might have been breaking branches or something worse. The trail camera’s battery had died, and I spent the morning installing fresh cells.
As evening faded, the sense of impending catastrophe became overwhelming. Every instinct screamed warnings. Darkness fell like a curtain, bringing wood knocks echoing through the forest. Tonight, the pattern was different—urgent, aggressive, answered by responses from multiple directions.
The vocalizations began—deep guttural calls, structured, purposeful, intelligent, but unlike anything in human experience. I counted at least three distinct voices. Then the footsteps started, heavy, deliberate, bipedal, circling the house.
By 11:00, I knew I was in immediate danger. Massive bipedal figures moved with fluid grace. When one stepped into the light, I caught a glimpse of dark fur and eyes reflecting like polished metal.
Chapter 11: Fleeing the Past
I grabbed my go bag, checked my .44 Magnum, and headed for the back door. The keys felt slippery as I fumbled with the lock. The truck started on the first try—a miracle that saved my life.
I backed away from the house, flicked on the headlights, and saw them. Two massive figures emerging from the forest, moving toward the house. Nine feet tall, covered in dark matted fur, proportions suggesting immense power. Their eyes reflected the light, their movements conscious and deliberate.
They paused, staring directly at me. One raised its arm—a hand with a poseable thumb—and pointed at me. The gesture was so human, so threatening, that my blood turned to ice. I floored the accelerator and tore down the ranch road.
In the rearview mirror, I saw the two figures watching my retreat, standing motionless until darkness swallowed them.
Chapter 12: The Cost of Survival
The drive to Millerville was the longest of my life. Twice I thought I saw massive figures moving through the forest parallel to the road. I reached the town at 12:47 a.m., pulled into the gas station, and sat in the truck, letting my heartbeat return to normal.
I woke Tom Kowalsski, babbling about creatures and narrow escapes. He saw I was genuinely terrified, brought me inside, made coffee, and listened. He suggested I drive to Hamilton and stay at the motel until I could arrange more permanent accommodations.
I spent the night in Tom’s guest room, but sleep was impossible. Every sound sent adrenaline surging. When dawn broke, I felt like I’d aged a decade.
The drive to Hamilton took two hours through mountainous terrain. Every mile felt like a threat. Only in the suburbs did the knot in my chest loosen.
Chapter 13: Aftermath and Ruins
I lived in Chicago for eight months before gathering the courage to return. Michael wanted me to sell the property and make a clean break. But I needed to retrieve my belongings and Margaret’s heirlooms.
The house was still standing—barely. What I found defied explanation. The structure looked like it had been hit by a tornado, but the damage was systematic. The porch torn away, windows shattered from the inside out, the front door hanging from one hinge, gouged by claws or massive fingers.
Inside, furniture reduced to kindling, the kitchen table splintered, the china cabinet ground to powder, the cast iron stove overturned. Family photographs shattered, jewelry scattered, books torn apart, stairs ripped from the wall.
Upstairs, massive handprints pressed into the drywall—twice the size of my own, some eight feet off the floor, others pressed into the ceiling. The basement revealed the final horror—my workshop destroyed, tools twisted, my father’s anvil embedded in the concrete wall.
Margaret’s grave marker lay in pieces on the basement floor. They had desecrated even the dead.
Chapter 14: The Weight of Knowledge
Rage and grief overwhelmed me. The message was clear—this was my punishment for fleeing, for abandoning the territory they had claimed. I gathered only a few items—a wedding ring, a family Bible, my broken rifle.
Fresh footprints in the dirt around the house. Massive, clearly defined. They were watching me even now.
The drive back to Chicago passed in a blur. Relief at escaping alive warred with grief. The destruction was devastating, but the violation of Margaret’s grave cut deeper.
I never reported the destruction. Who would believe me? The insurance company would demand evidence. I was alone with knowledge I couldn’t share, couldn’t prove, couldn’t escape.
Chapter 15: The Curse of Silence
Sarah helped finalize the sale. A young couple from California bought the ranch, but lasted less than a year before fleeing. Strange sounds, livestock vanished, equipment destroyed—Tom Kowalsski told me their story. The creatures were still there, still protecting their territory.
The ranch remains empty, officially for sale, but attracting no buyers. Local agents whisper about curses. Even desperate buyers sense something wrong.
I keep the trail camera footage on a digital drive hidden in my closet. Thirty-six minutes of proof. Sometimes, I watch it again and remember the intelligence in those eyes, the deliberate malevolence in every movement.
Michael worries about my mental health. Sarah calls weekly. David sends cards from distant cities. They live in a world where monsters exist only in movies.
Chapter 16: The Truth That Remains
I’ve considered writing down everything I experienced, creating a record to warn future victims. But who would believe it? Science dismisses cryptid encounters. Law enforcement treats such reports as evidence of instability. My own family would think I’d lost my grip.
So I remain silent, carrying knowledge that grows heavier with each day. Somewhere in the mountains, intelligent predators maintain territory humans enter at their peril. They possess cunning to avoid detection and strength to eliminate any threat.
They remember faces, hold grudges, and demonstrate a capacity for methodical revenge. The footage captured more than an animal attack—it documented the existence of beings that challenge everything we know.
I was lucky to escape. The young couple were wise to retreat. Others won’t be so quick. The wilderness is vast, and these creatures exploit human arrogance and skepticism.
Every news report about missing hikers reminds me of that night. I wonder if ancient eyes are watching new victims, calculating the perfect moment to strike.
Chapter 17: Legends and Monsters
Who would listen to an old man’s tale of monsters in the forest? Who would believe that the stuff of nightmares walks on two legs, leaving footprints too large for any known animal?
The footage remains hidden. The creatures endure. And somewhere in the wilderness, they’re still watching, still waiting, still protecting territory humans enter at their own peril.
My name is Robert Patrick, and this is why I’ll never go home again.
End of Story
