‘They Killed a Bigfoot’ – Terrifying BIGFOOT ENCOUNTER STORY Compilation
The Last Days in the Skokomish Triangle
Chapter One: Into the Twilight
I still wake up in cold sweats thinking about what happened in those woods. What we did out there changed everything. And I can’t shake the feeling that we brought something down on ourselves that we never should have messed with.
.
.
.
Three years have passed since that October, but the nightmares haven’t faded. Maybe sharing my story will help me sleep again, or maybe not. Back then, I wasn’t much of a hunter. My experience was limited to a handful of trips after deer and ducks, nothing that would ever test my limits. But I had three friends who lived for the thrill, who’d been hunting these forests since they were kids. When they called me up with a plan for “real hunting,” I figured they meant elk or maybe bear—something big, something that would push me.
We left before dawn, the truck loaded with rifles, ammunition, camping gear, and enough food for a week. From the start, the guys were acting strange, sharing inside jokes and exchanging glances when they thought I wasn’t looking. The paved roads gave way to gravel, then dirt, then barely-there tracks winding through the remote wilderness. We passed rusted logging equipment, abandoned camps, and miles of forest that looked untouched for decades.
After six hours of driving, the road ended at a creek. We shouldered our packs and began the hike. The trail was more animal path than anything made by humans, winding uphill through ancient forest. The trees were so massive that three people couldn’t have wrapped their arms around them. The canopy overhead blocked most of the sunlight, leaving us in perpetual twilight.
The guys checked GPS and a hand-drawn map, pointing out landmarks as we climbed—odd rock formations, twisted dead trees, meadows grazed by deer. It was clear they’d been here before, or at least studied the place carefully.
After three hours, we reached a clearing surrounded by towering cedars. It was an old campsite, with a fire ring of river stones and logs arranged as benches. As we set up camp, one of the guys started talking about the area’s reputation—a place so remote, loggers hadn’t worked it in decades, and locals whispered about it after too many drinks.
That night, as we sat around the fire, he told stories—tales of massive creatures walking upright, covered in dark fur, strong enough to destroy camps, smart enough to stay hidden. Hunters had found footprints the size of dinner plates, loggers had heard howls that didn’t match any known animal, and families living at the forest’s edge kept their children inside after dark. Pets disappeared, hunters vanished, and every few years, someone would find a campsite torn apart as if by a tornado.
The most detailed account came from an old trapper who’d found shelters made from interwoven branches, piles of sorted vegetation, and tools fashioned from stone and wood. He’d encountered the creature face to face—eight feet tall, covered in fur, almost human, but not quite. They’d locked eyes, and the trapper described the smell as a mix of wet animal and rot, so strong it made his eyes water.
My friend showed us photos of footprint casts, old newspaper clippings, and even a recording of the strange calls heard in the forest. He was convinced this area was home to at least one such creature and had planned the trip hoping for an encounter.
That night, lying in my sleeping bag, I listened to every sound—the snap of a twig, the rustle of leaves, wondering if it was a deer or something else. I didn’t sleep well.
Chapter Two: Signs and Shadows
The next morning, we split up to cover more ground. The plan was to look for deer, but also keep an eye out for anything unusual. We moved slowly, stopping often to listen and observe, keeping the wind in our faces so our scent wouldn’t carry. But something felt off. The forest was too quiet. Even in deep wilderness, you expect birds, squirrels, insects. Here, there were stretches where the only sound was our footsteps crunching through dead leaves.
Occasionally, we heard bird calls that stopped abruptly, or the crash of something large moving through the underbrush. But whenever we investigated, we found nothing. Beneath it all was the constant feeling of being watched.
I was following a deer trail along a ravine when I found the first tracks—pressed deep into the soft earth by the stream. They weren’t human, and they weren’t bear. Five distinct toe marks, a heel print, but sized for something much larger. I called the others over, and we spent twenty minutes examining and photographing the prints. They were fresh, likely made within the last day or two. The stride length indicated something with legs much longer than a human’s.
We followed the trail for almost a mile, up out of the ravine and onto a ridge overlooking the forest. The tracks moved with purpose, following efficient routes, avoiding places where they’d be easily spotted.
On the ridge, we found a tree used as a scratching post—the bark shredded from four to eight feet up, gouges deep enough to suggest claws that could tear through wood like paper.
Then we reached a clearing that had been used recently. There were shelters made from branches, piles of pine cones and berries, and scattered bones—deer, rabbits, even a bear. All had been cracked open methodically, arranged in neat piles. The smell was overwhelming, that same mix of wet fur and decay.
As we prepared to leave, one of the guys spotted fresh footprints—smaller, but still much larger than human, and two sets side by side. There were at least two creatures, traveling together.
We spent the rest of the day and most of the next tracking them through dense forest. The terrain grew rougher, the feeling of being watched stronger. Several times we heard low-pitched calls, too organized to be random animal noise.
On the third day, the forest went silent. Not just quiet, but absolutely still. No birds, no insects, not even wind in the trees. The smell hit us again, stronger than before. We froze, communicating with hand signals, rifles ready.
The trail led us to a clearing surrounded by massive pines. Standing in the center, with its back to us, was the creature we’d been tracking. At least eight feet tall, maybe nine, with shoulders broader than any human, covered in dark brown fur. It was sorting stones or pieces of wood with deliberate, purposeful movements, completely unaware of our presence.
We watched, transfixed, as it manipulated objects, pausing to consider its work, scratching itself, adjusting its position. This was intelligence, problem-solving, behavior that was uncomfortably familiar.
Then my friend raised his rifle. We tried to stop him, but he was focused, whispering, “We’ll be famous.” The shot cracked through the silence, hitting the creature center mass. It spun, blood spraying across the pine needles, and roared—a sound of pain and rage that shook the trees.
But it didn’t go down. It charged, moving faster than seemed possible, crashing through the undergrowth. We fired, bullets hitting home, but it kept coming. Only after three more direct hits did it finally collapse, sliding through the pine needles, chest heaving.
Up close, it was overwhelming—hands twice the size of mine, thick black nails like claws, muscle definition visible under the matted fur. But the face was the worst. Not quite human, not quite animal, features heavy and primitive, yet arranged in a way that reminded me of myself. The eyes, even in death, held intelligence.
We’d killed something that had been living peacefully, and the guilt was immediate.
Chapter Three: Vengeance in the Pines
Before we could process what we’d done, a sound echoed from deeper in the forest—a low moan, then a wail of grief and rage. Something had discovered what we’d done to its companion.
Heavy footsteps approached, branches snapping, the ground shaking. The smell intensified, mixed now with something that spoke of rage and violence. Through the trees, we glimpsed a massive form, even larger and darker than the first, with scars on its face and murder in its eyes.
It charged with focused rage. We opened fire, but it zigzagged, using the trees for cover. Our bullets hit, but didn’t slow it down. It hit us like a natural disaster, grabbing the man who’d fired the first shot and lifting him effortlessly. The sound of bones breaking was audible even over our shouting.
The creature used him as a shield, then threw him aside and turned on the rest of us. One friend tried to run, but didn’t get far. Blood pooled in the pine needles. The creature stalked us, playing with us, drawing out its revenge.
My last friend tried to make a stand with a branch, but the creature snapped it and finished him. I was alone, facing a nightmare. Panic took over—I threw down my rifle and ran, crashing through the forest, branches tearing at me, roots tripping me.
Behind me, I heard the creature following, not rushing, but savoring the hunt. I ran until I could run no more, then collapsed by a creek, lost and terrified.
Chapter Four: Lost and Hunted
I spent three days wandering through the forest, drinking from streams, eating berries, sleeping fitfully in makeshift shelters. The first day, I was consumed by fear, jumping at every sound, expecting to see those eyes in the darkness.
By the second day, the terror faded into hypervigilance. Hunger, thirst, and exhaustion set in. The forest seemed endless, every ridge and stream looking the same. I tried to follow water courses, but they only led deeper into the wilderness.
On the third day, I stumbled onto an old logging road, overgrown but man-made. I followed it for hours, finally spotting a ranger station. The ranger gave me food and water, called for search and rescue.
The search for my friends lasted two weeks. Helicopters, search dogs, volunteers combed the area. They found our campsite, our trails, even the clearing where it happened. Blood, bullet casings, trees with bullet holes and gouges. But no bodies, human or otherwise.
The official report blamed a bear attack, though there hadn’t been grizzlies in that part of the country for fifty years. It was a neat explanation, but I knew the truth.
I can’t go into the woods anymore. The smell of pine needles, the sound of branches creaking, brings it all back. I’ve tried therapy, medication, everything, but nothing helps. I know what happened, and I know telling the truth would get me locked up.
Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if we’d left that first creature alone. Maybe they would have let us go, maybe not. We destroyed their peace, and paid the price.
Chapter Five: Shadows at the Door
Lately, the dreams have changed. I wake to find muddy footprints on my porch, scratches on the siding eight feet up, just like the marks in the forest. I think it found me.
Last week, my dog hid under the table, whimpering. I heard heavy footsteps in the yard, motion sensor lights flickering, but saw nothing. The smell was there, wet fur and rotting fruit.
I’ve prepared for this moment—supplies in the basement, escape routes planned, a go bag ready. But I know I can’t run forever. The creature tracked me across hundreds of miles. It won’t give up.
This has to end, one way or another. Maybe it’s justice for what we did. We killed something trying to live peacefully, and now the consequences have caught up.
As I write this, the house is quiet, the way the forest was before our first encounter. Shadows move past the windows—too tall, too broad, with that distinctive gait. It’s circling the house, learning the layout, planning its approach.
My phone battery is almost dead. If someone finds this account after I’m gone, please don’t make the same mistakes. Don’t go looking for these creatures with violence in your heart. They remember everything. They have their own justice, and they never forgive.
We thought we were hunters. We were wrong. We were prey.
End.
