This Woman Captured The Clearest Bigfoot Image In Existence – Sasquatch Story

The Proof That Broke Me

Chapter 1: The Quiet Before

I never expected my life to become a cautionary tale. At seventy years old, I was content in my quiet routines, tucked away in a small house at the edge of a sprawling forest, half a mile from my nearest neighbor. For forty years, I’d lived here, first with my husband, then alone after he passed away five years ago. The grief was relentless at first, but when it finally settled, I found I loved the isolation. Just me, my garden, the deer that wandered through at dusk, and the endless trees stretching beyond my backyard. My children had moved to Canada years ago for work. They called once a week, visited maybe twice a year. I had my peace, my safety, and my solitude. But everything changed one September, and I still wonder if I ever truly understood what happened.

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It began with small things—garbage cans knocked over in the morning. I assumed it was bears or raccoons, the usual suspects fattening up for winter. I picked up the scattered trash, secured the lids better, and went about my day. But then my bird feeders started coming down. Three of them, hanging from hooks seven feet up on my porch posts. One morning, I found all three torn down—not just knocked off, but the metal hooks ripped clean out of the wood as if someone had yanked them with incredible force. The feeders themselves were crumpled, seeds scattered everywhere. I stood there in my nightgown, staring at the damage. Bears could knock down a feeder, sure, but ripping industrial-strength hooks out of solid wood? That seemed like something else entirely.

The next morning, I found the footprints. I was watering my tomato plants when I noticed them in the soft mud near my garden fence. At first, I thought they might be human—five distinct toe marks, the basic shape of a foot—but they were massive, nearly twice the length of my own and so deep the mud had been compressed into hard ridges around each print. Whatever made these tracks was heavy. I crouched down, my knees popping, and held my hand over one of the prints. My whole hand, fingers spread wide, didn’t even cover half of it. A cold feeling settled in my stomach. The forest was silent, no birds, no rustling leaves, just stillness. I went inside and locked the door.

That’s when the smell started. It’s hard to describe—imagine wet dog, but worse. Deeper, mustier, mixed with something that reminded me of spoiled meat left in the sun and underneath it all, a sharp, unwashed stench, like something that had never bathed in its entire life. The smell would come and go, usually at night. I’d be reading in bed or watching television, and suddenly it would drift through the house, thick and penetrating, making my eyes water. I started keeping all my windows and doors locked, even during the day. The September heat was brutal, and my little house didn’t have air conditioning, but I couldn’t bear the thought of that smell—or whatever was causing it—getting inside.

Chapter 2: The First Encounter

The worst was waking up at two or three in the morning with the stench filling my bedroom. I’d lie there in the darkness, heart pounding, afraid to move. The smell meant something was close, very close. Sometimes I heard sounds outside—heavy footsteps on the gravel driveway, or a low huffing noise that didn’t match any animal I knew. I’d pull the covers up to my chin like a child and wait for sunrise.

It happened on a Tuesday night in mid-September. I remember because Tuesday was the night my daughter usually called, but she texted earlier saying she had a work thing and would call Wednesday instead. So I was alone, more aware of it than usual. I went to bed around ten, but sleep wouldn’t come. The house felt wrong somehow—too quiet, but also too loud. Every creak of the floorboards, every settling noise seemed amplified.

Around midnight, I heard something outside my bedroom window—a rustling in the bushes, then what sounded like something large brushing against the side of the house. My bedroom was on the first floor, facing the backyard and the forest beyond. I’d lived in that room for decades and never felt afraid. But that night, lying in the darkness, I was terrified.

The rustling continued. Then I heard it—a sound I could only describe as sniffing. Like something was standing right outside my window, pressing its nose against the screen, breathing in my scent. Long, deliberate inhales. The smell hit me then, so strong I almost gagged. That same rotten, unwashed stink, but concentrated now, overwhelming.

I couldn’t just lie there. I had to know what was making that sound. Moving as quietly as I could, I slipped out of bed and crept to the window. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely grip the curtain. I pulled it back just an inch, just enough to peek outside.

At first, I couldn’t process what I was seeing. My brain kept trying to make it something normal—a person, a bear, anything that made sense. But it wasn’t any of those things. There was a creature standing maybe ten feet from my window, easily seven or eight feet tall, covered entirely in dark brown fur that looked coarse and thick. Its shoulders were impossibly broad, making its head look almost small by comparison. The arms hung down past where its knees should be, ending in massive hands with fingers that looked too long. It wasn’t moving, just standing there in my backyard, facing my house, watching.

The moonlight was bright enough that I could see details I didn’t want to see. The fur wasn’t uniform—it was shaggy in places, matted in others. The chest was massive, barrel-shaped, and the face…the face was the worst part. Flat, almost humanlike in structure, but wrong. The nose was broad and flat, the eyes set deep under a heavy brow, and the mouth hung slightly open, showing large yellowed teeth. It was looking directly at my window, directly at me.

I must have made a sound—a gasp, a whimper, something—because its head tilted slightly, like it was acknowledging me. My phone was on my nightstand. I grabbed it, my hands trembling so badly I almost dropped it. I managed to open the camera app, my fingers fumbling over the screen. I held the phone up to the gap in the curtain and took a photo. The flash went off. For a split second, the creature was illuminated in stark white light. I saw every detail with terrible clarity—the texture of its fur, the reflection in its deep-set eyes, the way its massive chest expanded with each breath. Then it turned, not quickly, not in a panic, just calmly turned its body and walked toward the forest. It moved on two legs with a gait that was almost human, but not quite. Each step looked effortless despite its size. I watched it disappear into the trees.

I stood there for what must have been an hour, phone clutched in my hand, staring at the empty backyard. When I finally looked at the photo, my blood ran cold. It was crystal clear, better than I had any right to expect from a phone camera in the middle of the night. You could see the muscle definition under the fur, the individual strands of hair on its arms, the way its weight was distributed on its feet. This wasn’t blurry. This wasn’t ambiguous. This was proof.

Chapter 3: Unbelievable Truths

I didn’t sleep the rest of that night. I sat on my bed with all the lights on, staring at that photo. Every time I looked at it, I felt the same jolt of fear and disbelief. This thing had been standing in my backyard. This thing was real.

Around six in the morning, I called my daughter. She answered on the fourth ring, her voice thick with sleep. I tried to explain what I’d seen—a creature, I said, something huge and covered in fur, standing right outside my window. I saw it. I took a picture. There was a long pause on the other end. She asked if I was feeling okay, if I’d been sleeping well. She suggested maybe I’d seen a bear and my eyes had played tricks on me in the darkness. Bears can stand on their hind legs, she reminded me. Maybe that’s what it was.

I told her it wasn’t a bear. It walked on two legs like a person. It had a face. It was watching my house. Another pause, longer this time. She asked if I wanted to come visit them in Canada for a while. A change of scenery might be good. She said living alone out there could make anyone’s imagination run wild.

I felt something crack inside me. My own daughter thought I was making this up—thought I was lonely and confused and seeing things that weren’t there. I didn’t send her the photo. I couldn’t bear the thought of her dismissing it, explaining it away, treating me like I was losing my mind. We ended the call awkwardly. She made me promise to call her if I needed anything. I said I would. Both of us knew I wouldn’t.

After that first clear sighting, I thought maybe it was a one-time thing. Maybe the creature had just been passing through and I’d never see it again. I was wrong. It came back two nights later, same time around midnight. I heard the footsteps on my porch first—heavy, deliberate thuds on the wooden planks. Then the smell seeped through the walls, that horrible rotting stench. I stayed in my bedroom with the door locked, my dresser pushed against it for good measure. The creature circled my house. I could track its movement by the sound of its footsteps and the creaking of the porch as it walked across. It stopped at each window and I imagined it peering inside, looking for me.

When it reached my bedroom window, I held my breath. I heard that same sniffing sound—long inhales right against the screen. Then it moved on. This became a pattern. Every two or three nights it would return, always between midnight and four in the morning. Always the same routine—circling the house, checking the windows, sometimes scratching at the walls with what must have been its claws. The scratching was the worst sound—long dragging scrapes against the wood siding, like fingernails on a chalkboard, but deeper, more aggressive.

Chapter 4: The Evidence Trap

I started sleeping with all the lights on. I know that sounds childish, but I couldn’t stand the darkness anymore. At least with the lights on, I could see my surroundings, could convince myself that if something broke in, I’d have a fighting chance of seeing it coming. I pushed my dresser in front of my bedroom door every night before bed. It was heavy, and I’m not young, but fear gave me strength. I’d strain and push until it was wedged tight against the door. Then I’d pile other furniture on top—my nightstand, a chair, whatever I could manage.

My son called one evening. We talked about normal things at first—his job, the weather in Canada. Then I mentioned I’d been having trouble sleeping, noises outside at night. I told him, “I think there’s an animal coming around.” He asked, “What kind of animal?” I hesitated. If I said bear, he’d tell me to call wildlife control. If I said what I really thought it was, he’d think I was crazy. I settled on something in between. Something large, I told him. Very large. It walks on two legs and looks through my windows.

The silence on the other end lasted too long. He suggested maybe I was seeing bears. They do that sometimes, he said. Stand up on their back legs. It can look really strange in the dark. Maybe the isolation was getting to me. Living alone out there, half a mile from anyone else. Maybe I should think about moving somewhere with more people around.

I told him I wasn’t leaving my home. This is where I’d lived with his father, where I’d raised both of them. I knew every inch of these woods, every animal that lived here. What I was seeing wasn’t a bear. He offered to pay for me to come visit them in Canada—a long visit, a few months to clear my head. I told him I was fine and ended the call. I still didn’t send either of them the photo. What was the point? They had already decided I was a lonely old woman seeing things in the dark.

I knew I needed more evidence. The photo I’d taken through my window was clear, but it was just one image, one moment in time. If I could capture the creature on video, show it moving, show it circling my house night after night, maybe then someone would believe me. I’d seen those doorbell cameras advertised on television—the ones that record when they detect motion. I ordered one online and paid extra for fast shipping. When it arrived three days later, I spent an entire afternoon reading the instructions and trying to install it. I’m not good with technology. My husband used to handle anything electronic, and after he died, I just muddled through with the basics. But I was determined to get this camera working. It took me four hours, two YouTube videos, and a brief moment where I almost cried in frustration, but I finally got it mounted next to my front door and connected to my phone.

That night, I went to bed feeling more prepared. If the creature came back, I’d have video evidence. Clear, undeniable proof.

Chapter 5: The Breaking Point

I didn’t have to wait long. Around one in the morning, my phone buzzed—motion detected at the front door. My heart jumped into my throat. I grabbed the phone and opened the app. The live feed showed my front porch illuminated by the camera’s infrared light, empty. But I could hear something, a scraping sound, like something dragging along the side of the house. Then I heard footsteps, heavy and deliberate, coming around from the back. They grew louder, closer. My bedroom window was open just a crack for air, and through it, I heard the creature approach the front of the house. The footsteps stopped. Silence. Then the floorboards of my porch creaked.

I crept to my bedroom door and pressed my ear against it. I could hear it out there just beyond the front door—more creaking, a heavy thud, like something large shifting its weight. Then the scratching started again, this time on my front door. Long dragging sounds, wood splintering under whatever was making those marks. My phone buzzed again—recording saved. Whatever was out there stayed for almost ten minutes around my house. I could hear it moving around on the porch, occasionally scraping at the door or the walls. The smell was so strong I could detect it even through the closed bedroom door. Finally, the footsteps moved away. I heard it circle around the house again, back toward the forest.

When I was sure it was gone, I checked my phone. The camera had captured everything. The recording showed something massive in the frame—a weird humanoid face, yet not quite human. More like a Neanderthal, you know. The camera’s night vision made everything look a bit strange, but it was still pretty clear. It was the same creature I’d seen before—seven or eight feet tall, covered in thick fur, arms hanging almost to its knees. But this view was different. This was a front-facing view, and I could see its face clearly—flat nose, deep-set eyes with an eerie glow, heavy brow ridge, and the mouth. The mouth was the worst part in this recording. As it stepped closer to the camera, it opened its mouth slightly, revealing large yellowed teeth. It wasn’t snarling or threatening, just breathing, mouth open, like it was testing the air.

It stopped directly in front of my door. The camera angle meant I was looking at it almost straight on, like it was staring directly into the lens. For several seconds, it didn’t move. Just stood there—this massive creature on my front porch looking at my door. Looking, I realized with horror, at the entrance to my home. Then it moved to my window at the side of the house. It raised one of its huge hands and pressed it against my living room window. The glass flexed inward from the pressure. I could see the individual fingers, thick and long, pressing against the glass. It was testing, testing to see if the window would give way. My entire body went cold watching that. This wasn’t just an animal wandering through my yard. This was something intelligent, something that understood that doors and windows were barriers that could potentially be breached.

After a few seconds, it lowered its hand and stepped off the porch. The camera caught it walking away, moving on two legs with that strange, almost human gait. Then it disappeared from frame.

Chapter 6: The Cost of Proof

I watched that recording fifteen times that night. Each time I felt the same mix of terror and validation. This was proof. This was undeniable. Whatever this creature was, I’d now captured it on video.

I stopped going outside except in full daylight. My garden, which I tended lovingly for years, went completely wild. The tomatoes rotted on the vine. Weeds took over the flower beds. I couldn’t bring myself to go out there, to stand in the open with the forest just thirty yards away. I had my groceries delivered. The delivery person would leave them on the porch, ring the bell, and leave. I’d wait until I heard their car drive away, then quickly open the door, grab the bags, and retreat back inside. The whole process took maybe thirty seconds, but my heart would pound the entire time.

My neighbors started to worry. One afternoon, an older man who lived about half a mile down the road knocked on my door. We’d exchanged pleasantries over the years, but weren’t close. He called out through the door, said he’d noticed I wasn’t outside much anymore. Was everything okay? I answered through the closed door, told him I was fine, just staying inside more. The weather had been bad. I hadn’t been feeling well. Excuses that sounded flimsy even to my own ears. He said if I needed anything to give him a call, left his number in my mailbox. I never called. The isolation was suffocating but also necessary. Inside my house, with the doors locked and the windows closed, I felt relatively safe. Outside was where the creature lived. Outside was dangerous.

I stopped talking to most people. My weekly calls with my children became shorter and more strained. They’d ask how I was doing and I’d say fine. They’d ask what I’d been up to and I’d make something up. Worked in the garden, went for a walk, watched some television. All lies. The truth was I spent most of my time sitting in my living room, watching the tree line, waiting for night to fall so I could barricade myself in my bedroom and wait for the creature to return. Because it always did return.

Chapter 7: The Final Night

Late one night in early October, it came back. I’d almost been expecting it. Three nights had passed since the last visit, and the pattern was consistent. Around two in the morning, my phone buzzed—motion at front door. I was already awake, sitting up in bed with the lights on. I grabbed my phone and opened the camera app. The live feed showed the creature on my porch again. This time it was closer to the camera—so close that its body filled almost the entire frame. It was looking up at the camera, not just glancing at it, but staring directly at the lens like it knew what the camera was, like it understood it was being watched.

My hands were shaking as I watched. The creature tilted its head slightly, studying the camera. Then it did something that made my blood turn to ice. It opened its mouth wide and made a sound—not the howl or huffing I’d heard before. This was different. A low rumbling vocalization that I could hear even through my closed bedroom door and window. It was communicating something—a warning, a threat, I didn’t know.

Then it turned its attention to my front door. It reached out with one massive hand and grabbed the door handle. I watched in horror as the handle turned. The door was locked, of course, but seeing that handle rotate sent a spike of pure fear through me. The creature released the handle and stepped even closer to the camera. Too close. Its face filled the entire frame. I could see every detail—the texture of its fur, the deep-set eyes glowing in the infrared light, the broad flat nose, and the mouth. The mouth was open, revealing those yellowed teeth.

I did something stupid, something I shouldn’t have done. I opened my regular phone camera app and took a screenshot of the live feed. The result was an incredibly clear image of the creature’s face, staring directly at the camera, teeth bared, fur slightly backlit by the infrared. It was the clearest image I’d ever captured. Clearer even than the first photo. This was a closeup of something that shouldn’t exist, captured in such detail that you could count its teeth.

After a few more seconds, the creature stepped back and left the porch. I heard it circle around the house like usual, checking windows, scratching at the walls. But this time felt different. More aggressive, more purposeful. It knew I was documenting it and it didn’t care.

Chapter 8: The Aftermath

The next morning, I made a decision. I had two photos now, two undeniable pieces of evidence. If I showed them to my children, they’d have to believe me. They’d have to see that I wasn’t making this up.

I sent both photos in a group text message. No explanation, no preamble, just the two images. My daughter called within five minutes. She asked me what these photos were. Where did I get them? Why was I sending them? I told her the truth. These are what I’ve been seeing. This creature has been coming to my house almost every night. This is what I’ve been trying to tell you about.

There was a long silence on the other end. Then she asked if I’d edited these photos, if I’d used some kind of app or computer program to create them. The question hit me like a slap. My own daughter asking if I’d fabricated evidence, asking if I’d manufactured proof of something that was terrorizing me night after night. I told her I didn’t know how to edit photos. I barely knew how to use my phone for anything other than calls and texts. These were real. This was real.

She said the photos looked fake—too clear, too perfect. With all the grainy, blurry photos of alleged creatures out there, these looked almost professional. They looked too good to be real.

My son joined the call. He’d seen the photos, too. He was more direct than my daughter. He said they looked like they’d been generated by a computer. He’d seen AI-generated images that looked exactly like this—clear, detailed, but with something slightly off about them, something not quite real.

I tried to defend myself, tried to explain about the doorbell camera, about the live feed, about watching this thing circle my house night after night. My voice got higher, more desperate. I could hear myself sounding unhinged and couldn’t stop. They talked over me, used that calm, gentle tone people use with children or the elderly. Said they were worried about me. Said living alone was clearly affecting me. Said I needed to see a doctor just to get checked out, make sure everything was okay.

I ended the call, sat there in my kitchen staring at those two photos on my phone screen. They were real. I knew they were real, but knowing didn’t matter if nobody believed me.

Late October brought the worst night of my life. It started the same as always—around one in the morning, I heard the footsteps approaching, heavy thuds on the gravel driveway, then the smell seeping through every crack and gap in the house. I was in bed, already barricaded in my room with the dresser against the door. But this time was different. Instead of circling the house like usual, the creature went straight to my back door. I heard it testing the handle, rattling it in the frame. When the door didn’t open, it started pushing against it hard. The entire house shook with each impact. I could hear the door frame creaking, wood splintering. It was trying to force its way in.

I scrambled out of bed and grabbed my phone, called 911 with shaking hands. The operator answered, and I started babbling. Something was breaking into my house. Something huge and strong. It was going to get in. Please send help. Please. The operator tried to calm me down, asked if I’d been drinking, if I’d taken any medication. The questions felt like accusations. No, I screamed into the phone. I’m not drunk. I’m not high. Something is breaking down my door.

Another massive impact. The sound of wood cracking louder this time. I could hear the back door giving way. The operator was still asking questions, but I wasn’t listening anymore. I dropped the phone and shoved my bed against the bedroom door on top of the dresser, then my nightstand, then the chair from the corner. Everything I could move, I piled against that door. Through my bedroom window, I could hear it inside my house—in my kitchen, the sound of furniture being knocked over, glass breaking, crashing and smashing as it tore through my living room. It was destroying everything.

Then it reached my bedroom door. The pounding started immediately—massive impacts that shook the entire door in its frame. My furniture barricade shifted with each blow. The dresser scraped across the floor. The bed frame groaned under the pressure. I ran to my closet and shut myself inside, huddled in the dark, surrounded by my clothes and shoes, phone clutched in my hands. I could still hear everything—the pounding, the crashing, the door frame splintering. Then I heard it breathing on the other side of my bedroom door. Heavy, deliberate breaths. It was right there, inches away, separated only by a wooden door and a pile of furniture.

The assault on the door continued for what felt like hours, but was probably only thirty or forty minutes. Then suddenly, it stopped. Silence. No more pounding. No more breathing. Just quiet. I stayed in that closet until dawn. Didn’t move. Barely breathed.

When the first light of morning came through the crack under the closet door, I finally emerged. My bedroom door had held, but barely. The frame was cracked. The door itself had deep gouges in it like claw marks. My furniture barricade was scattered, pushed several feet back from the door. I opened the bedroom door carefully and looked out. My house was destroyed. The kitchen table was overturned, chairs broken, cabinet doors hung from their hinges. My living room looked like a tornado had hit it—furniture overturned, pictures knocked off the walls, glass everywhere, and the walls themselves gouged with long scratch marks, deep grooves in the drywall. My back door hung off its hinges, the frame completely shattered. But the creature was gone.

Chapter 9: The Aftermath and The Paradox

The police finally showed up around six in the morning. They’d been dealing with other calls. They said it had been a busy night. They walked through my destroyed house with flashlights, examining everything. They asked what happened. I tried to explain. Something broke in, something large. It tried to get into my bedroom, but couldn’t get through the door. One officer asked if anything was stolen. I looked around—nothing. Everything was just destroyed, not taken. The other officer examined the scratch marks on my walls, asked if I had any large dogs, any animals that could have done this. I said, “No, no pets. This was something from outside.” They found the footprints in my backyard, the massive prints in the soft dirt near the broken back door. Both officers crouched down to look at them. They glanced at each other, but didn’t say anything. They took photos, wrote everything down in their reports. One of them suggested I get security cameras installed, better locks, maybe stay somewhere else for a while until they figured out what was happening.

I told them I had security cameras, showed them the doorbell camera footage on my phone. They watched the videos, watched the creature on my porch, pressing its face close to the camera, opening its mouth to show its teeth. Their expressions didn’t change. They thanked me for the footage and said they’d include it in the report. That was it. No shock, no disbelief, no acknowledgement of what they were clearly seeing. Just professional detachment.

My children arrived two days later, packed a bag for me, and after a brief evaluation, I was committed. The staff were kind, but treated me like I was fragile, breakable. They called me “dear” and “honey” and spoke in soft, gentle voices, like I was a child who needed comforting. In group therapy, we sat in a circle and shared. Others talked about their depression, their anxiety, their trauma. When it was my turn, I used to tell my story about the creature, about the visits, about the night it broke into my house. But the therapist would steer the conversation away, would ask me to focus on my feelings, not the events, would suggest that maybe the creature represented something else—fear of aging, fear of isolation, fear of death. I stopped sharing after the first week.

My photos are in a folder somewhere, filed under delusions, evidence of my break with reality. The staff have looked at them. Some are fascinated, say they look incredibly realistic. Others are dismissive, say they’re obviously fake. None believe they’re real. My children visit once a month. The conversations are careful and sad. They talk about selling my house. Say I can live with one of them in Canada when I’m feeling better. Somewhere safe, they say, somewhere with people around. I nod but don’t agree. That house is my home. The home I shared with my husband. The home where I raised them. I’m not ready to give it up. Even if I can never go back.

Chapter 10: The Unbelieved

They ask how I’m feeling. If I’m sleeping better, if I’ve been thinking clearly. I say yes to all of it. Tell them what they want to hear. That I understand now that I was stressed and confused. That living alone made me see things that weren’t there. I can see the relief on their faces when I say this. See them believing that the medication and therapy are working, that their mother is finally getting better.

But it’s all a lie. I know what I saw. I know what happened. The photos are real. The videos are real. Every scratch mark on my walls, every broken piece of furniture, every night of terror, all of it was real. I’ve stopped fighting, though. Stopped trying to convince anyone. There’s no point. When nobody believes you, when your own children think you’ve lost your mind, what else can you do but give up?

At night, I sit by my window and look out at the distant tree line beyond the courtyard wall. It’s far away, maybe a quarter mile, but sometimes I imagine I can see movement in those trees—a large shape watching from the shadows. The other patients have started calling me the Bigfoot lady. Some say it with pity, some with mockery. I don’t care anymore. Let them think what they want.

My house sits empty now. My daughter mentioned during her last visit that the neighbors have been reporting strange things—large footprints in my yard, sounds at night, something moving around the property. But nothing official has been done about it. Nothing investigated. Maybe the creature is still there. Maybe it’s looking for me. Or maybe it’s moved on, found someone else to terrorize. I don’t know.

I’ve had a lot of time to think in here about what happened, about why nobody believes me, about those two photographs that should have been proof but instead became evidence of my insanity. The staff psychologist told me something interesting last week. She said that in cases of paranoid delusions, the patient often creates increasingly detailed evidence to support their false beliefs. The more someone questions them, the more elaborate the proof becomes. She said my photos were actually a perfect example of this—too clear, too perfect, too convenient.

I understood then why nobody believed me. The better my evidence was, the more it proved I was crazy. If I’d captured blurry, indistinct images, people might have wondered if there was something to my story. But crystal clear photos of a creature that science says doesn’t exist? That was obviously fabricated, obviously the product of a disturbed mind. It’s a trap with no escape. Bad evidence means you saw nothing. Good evidence means you faked it. There’s no level of proof that would ever be enough.

My two photographs should have changed everything. Should have proven something incredible. Instead, they proved I needed to be institutionalized. That’s what I want you to know. That’s the real story behind the clearest images of something impossible that exists. And they’re sitting on a phone in a mental institution in the hands of a woman nobody believes.

The creature in those photos is still out there somewhere. Still walking through forests at night. Still watching houses from the tree line. Still existing despite our insistence that it can’t. But I’m in here. And the photos that should have mattered mean nothing. That’s the truth. The only truth that matters anymore.

If you ever see something impossible, think carefully before you try to prove it. The world doesn’t want proof—it wants comfort. And if your evidence is too good, you might lose everything trying to show them.