Truck Driver Stumbles Upon a Sasquatch Roadkill – Bigfoot Encounter Story Compilation

The Shadows of Monongahela

Chapter One: The Footsteps in the Dark

I’m not the kind of man who believes in monsters. I’ve hunted these mountains for twenty years, and the biggest thing I ever worried about was a black bear or maybe getting lost in a whiteout. But what happened to me and my buddies last November changed everything. I’m telling this story because people need to know what’s really out there in the deep woods.

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The official report says it was a bear attack, but that’s not the truth. Bears don’t plan. Bears don’t hunt humans like we’re prey. And bears sure as hell don’t seal you in a cave to die.

Me, Ken, and Bobby—three regular guys, not trophy hunters, just looking for a long weekend away from our wives, a few beers around a fire, and maybe some venison if luck was on our side. Ken was the tracker, Bobby the camp manager and cook. We’d picked a spot twelve miles into the Monongahela National Forest, far past where most hunters bother to go. Ken had scouted it in spring and found plenty of sign—rubs, scrapes, well-worn paths leading to water.

We drove up Friday morning, Ken’s pickup bouncing along forest service roads that got narrower and rougher with every mile. When the road ended at a small clearing, we loaded our packs and hiked another three miles to our campsite. It was perfect: a flat area beside a creek, sheltered by big trees, with good sight lines in case something wandered through.

Setting up camp took most of the afternoon. We pitched our tents in a triangle around the fire pit, hung food high in the trees to keep bears away, and tested our radios. The weather was crisp, cool, and still. Ken found fresh deer sign within a hundred yards of camp; confidence was high.

That first evening was everything we’d hoped for. Steaks grilled over the fire, cold beers, and plans for the morning. Ken wanted the ridge to the north, Bobby and I would take the valley bottom, following the creek downstream to a meadow. We’d meet back at camp by noon.

Around midnight, I woke up needing to take a leak. The fire had burned down to coals, the forest dead quiet except for the creek’s babble. I stepped outside and walked twenty feet into the trees. As I finished, I heard something—a low grunt, like a pig but deeper, coming from across the creek.

I froze, listening. No more sounds. Bears make all kinds of noises, I told myself, and went back to bed.

Chapter Two: Signs and Shadows

We were up before dawn, coffee brewing on the camp stove, rifles loaded. The morning was cold enough for our breath to steam, but we warmed up quickly once moving. Ken headed up the ridge, Bobby and I followed the creek.

The first few hours went as planned. Plenty of deer sign—tracks in the mud, fresh droppings, places where they’d browsed. Bobby spotted a small doe around ten, but she was too far for a clean shot. We let her walk.

Around noon, heading back to camp, Bobby stopped dead. He was staring at something in the mud beside the creek. When I caught up, I saw it—a footprint, clear as day, huge, maybe eighteen inches long and eight wide, five distinct toe marks. It looked almost human, except no human foot is that big. The toes were thick and spread, the print deep, like whatever made it was heavy.

Bobby held his boot up for comparison—his size eleven looked like a child’s shoe next to it. We found two more prints heading into thick brush, spaced like the stride belonged to a giant.

We took pictures, marked the spot with orange tape. Back at camp, Ken was cleaning a nice six-pointer. We showed him the photos; his pride turned to confusion. Ken had hunted longer than both of us combined. After studying the photos, he shook his head. “Never seen anything like it,” he muttered.

That second night felt different. Maybe it was the tracks, maybe the forest seemed quieter than usual, but none of us slept well. I kept waking to small sounds—twigs snapping, leaves rustling. The kind of noises you hear in the woods, but somehow louder, more deliberate.

Around two in the morning, I heard that same grunt, closer now, just outside the circle of light from our dying campfire. I grabbed my flashlight and rifle, stepped outside. Bobby and Ken were already awake, flashlight beams darting around their tents.

Ken’s voice came back tense and low. He’d been hearing movement for the past hour—something big walking around our campsite, staying just far enough away that the flashlights couldn’t catch it.

We spent the next twenty minutes listening, watching. Whatever it was, it went quiet. In the morning, we found more tracks—a complete circle around our camp, always about thirty yards out, huge, five-toed, deep. Whatever had made them was walking upright.

Chapter Three: The Hunt Becomes the Hunted

Sunday morning, we packed up and moved camp deeper into the valley. Ken thought we were being watched and wanted distance between us and whatever was leaving those tracks. We hiked two miles downstream to a spot where the creek bent sharply around a hillside, more isolated but with better sight lines.

We spent the morning hunting, but our hearts weren’t in it. The excitement of opening weekend had been replaced by unease. Every shadow made us stop and stare, every bird call made us grip our rifles.

Around noon, Ken found something that turned unease into fear—a crude lean-to made from broken branches and dead logs, big enough for something the size of what we’d been tracking, recently used. The ground was packed hard, bones scattered nearby—deer mostly, but some that looked like smaller animals. The smell was a mix of rotting meat and something wild and musky.

Ken took pictures and backed away. When he returned and showed us, we decided we’d had enough. We were packing up and heading home.

While we broke down camp, the noises started. At first, just occasional wood knocks—the sound of something hitting tree trunks in a rhythm. Tap tap tap, then silence, then tap tap tap from another direction. Ken said he’d heard of this before—some hunters claimed Bigfoot used wood knocking to communicate.

As we packed, the knocking got closer, more frequent. Soon it was all around us—north, south, east, west. Like we were surrounded.

Bobby suggested banging on a tree to show we weren’t afraid. Ken and I shut that down fast.

By the time our packs were loaded, the wood knocking had stopped. The forest was silent, no birds, no insects, no wind. The kind of quiet that makes your ears ring and skin crawl.

We started hiking toward the truck, moving fast. Twenty minutes in, we heard the first howl—behind us, back toward the old campsite, like nothing I’d ever heard before. Not quite human, not quite animal, raising every hair on my neck. The sound echoed forever.

Then an answer, from our left, then another from the right. We were being tracked by multiple creatures, talking to each other.

Ken took point, Bobby brought up the rear, I stayed in the middle. We picked up the pace, half-jogging when the terrain allowed. Every few minutes another howl, always from a different direction, always closer. It was clear we weren’t just being watched—we were being herded.

Chapter Four: The Encounter

An hour into our hike, we crested a small rise and Ken dropped to one knee, fist raised. He pointed ahead to a cluster of boulders fifty yards away. At first, I saw nothing. Then, one of the shadows moved.

It was massive, at least eight feet tall, covered in dark brown hair. It stood upright like a man, but built like a gorilla—arms hanging almost to its knees, shoulders so broad it looked like it could flip a car. The thing just stood there, watching us, making no attempt to hide.

We stared at each other for what felt like an hour, probably only thirty seconds. Then the creature let out a roar that shook the trees and started walking toward us—slow, deliberate, like it knew we couldn’t get away.

All three of us turned and ran. We crashed through the brush, branches tearing at our clothes and packs, not caring about the noise. Behind us, heavy footsteps, small trees pushed aside like weeds.

Ten minutes later, Bobby stumbled and went down hard. When Ken and I turned to help, we saw them—three creatures coming through the trees in a line, driving us toward something. They moved with purpose, not random like animals, but like hunters.

Bobby’s ankle was twisted; Ken and I half-carried, half-dragged him toward a steep hillside, hoping to lose them. The creatures followed at a steady pace, never closer, never falling behind.

We reached the base of a cliff and realized our mistake—no way up with Bobby injured, and the creatures had us trapped.

Ken made the call. “Spread out, get ready to fight.”

I had my grandfather’s .306, Ken a .308, Bobby a twelve-gauge loaded with slugs. Enough firepower for a grizzly, we hoped it would be enough.

The first creature broke from the tree line forty yards away. In the afternoon light, I saw it clearly—face almost human but wrong, jaw too big, brow heavy, eyes deep-set and small. Arms longer than any person’s, hands ending in thick black fingers.

Ken fired first, shot high in the chest. The creature stumbled but didn’t go down. It roared—a sound I’ll never forget, part scream, part rage. The other two appeared on either side and charged.

Bobby’s shotgun boomed twice. One creature spun and fell, dark blood spattering the leaves. I put a round center mass into the biggest one; it dropped to one knee but kept coming, pulling itself forward like a wounded gorilla.

Then everything went to hell.

The wounded creature Ken shot reached us first, grabbing Ken around the waist and lifting him off the ground. Ken screamed, trying to bring his rifle around, but the grip was too strong. I heard ribs crack.

I tried to get a clear shot when the second creature hit me from the side—like being tackled by a refrigerator. I went down, my rifle flying into the brush. The creature pinned me, reaching for my throat. Its breath was horrible, like rotting meat and wet fur. Up close, its eyes were completely black.

Bobby was still fighting, working the shotgun, putting rounds into anything that moved. But more creatures were coming. The one on top of me was too heavy, its fingers closing around my neck. I started to see spots—then Bobby’s shotgun went off right above my head. The blast caught the creature in the skull; it rolled off, thrashing and making a sound like a wounded horse.

I scrambled away, looking for my rifle. Ken lay twenty feet away, the creature still holding his body, shaking it like a rag doll. Ken wasn’t moving.

Bobby backed toward the cliff, shotgun trained on the tree line, face white as paper, hands shaking. Two more creatures emerged, moving carefully now that they’d felt our bullets. One dragged its left leg, blood matting the fur.

The wounded creature I’d shot was still crawling toward us with one good arm. Bobby put another slug into its head, and it finally stopped moving.

But there were still three left, and Bobby was almost out of ammo. I found my rifle, chambered another round. One creature circled to our left, trying to flank. I led it like a moving deer and squeezed the trigger—the bullet caught it in the shoulder, spun it around, but didn’t drop it. These things were tough.

The creature that killed Ken dropped his body and turned toward us, blood on its hands and chest. It roared, then charged. Bobby’s last shot took it square in the chest at fifteen yards. The slug knocked it back, but it kept coming. I put my final round into its head just as it reached us. The impact snapped its neck back and it finally went down.

But our relief lasted only seconds. More howls echoed from the forest. Not just one or two, but a whole pack. We’d killed three, but there were others, closing in.

Chapter Five: Flight and the Tomb

Bobby grabbed Ken’s rifle and whatever ammo he could find. I reloaded mine with my last rounds. We couldn’t carry Ken’s body; we’d be lucky to get out alive.

We started climbing the cliff face, looking for any way out. The rock was loose and crumbly, heavy packs slowing us down. Behind us, the creatures crashed through the brush, getting closer.

Near the top, Bobby’s pack caught on a ledge and tore open—half his gear tumbled down. We didn’t stop to gather it, just kept climbing, hands bleeding from sharp rock.

At the top, I found a narrow ledge leading around the face toward a gap in the ridge, barely wide enough for one person, a hundred-foot drop below. Bobby went first, back pressed against the wall, sliding inch by inch. I followed, trying not to look down.

Halfway across, howling came from below. I looked down—two creatures at the base, one started climbing like a spider, fast, covering in minutes what took us an hour.

We reached the gap just as the creature pulled itself over the top behind us. Bobby squeezed through first, then me. The opening was tight. As I pulled myself through, massive fingers brushed my boot. I kicked backward, connected with something solid. The creature grunted and released its grip.

On the other side, we found ourselves in a different valley, rough terrain, fallen logs, boulders. We had no choice but to keep moving.

We could hear the creatures behind us, howling across the ridge. We hiked all afternoon, stopping only when absolutely necessary. Bobby’s ankle was worse, every step painful, but he never complained. Slowing down meant dying.

As the sun set, we realized we were lost. Ken had been our navigator—without him, we were guessing. Two hours of light left, the creatures still following, howling every thirty minutes, always closer.

We found a small cave just as darkness fell, a hollow in the rock ten feet deep, six wide. We crawled inside, pulled dead branches across the opening, tried to rest. Sleep was impossible. All night, heavy footsteps circled, occasionally stopping at the mouth. Once, something pushed against the branches, testing them. We sat in the dark, rifles ready, waiting for them to break through. But they never did.

As dawn crept in, the sounds stopped. We waited another hour before moving the branches and looking out. Tracks everywhere—massive five-toed prints around the cave mouth.

Chapter Six: The Escape

We had to get out. Bobby’s ankle was swollen, we were down to our last energy bars and half a water bottle. Worse, still lost. Every ridge looked the same, every valley led deeper into wilderness.

We decided to follow the valley downstream, hoping for a larger creek or river leading back to civilization. It was slow going with Bobby limping, but we made progress.

For hours, the forest was quiet. No howls, no wood knocking, no sign we were being followed. Then, around noon, Bobby spotted movement on the ridge above—at first, a black bear, but then it stopped, turned, and stood on two legs. It watched us for several minutes, then disappeared.

Ten minutes later, another on the opposite ridge. Then another behind us. They were tracking us like wolves, staying high, watching our movement, out of rifle range.

The harassment started in the afternoon. Rocks thrown from the ridges, not trying to hit us directly, but close enough to let us know they could. The rocks were big, some the size of footballs, shattering on impact. If one hit a person, it’d be lights out.

We picked up the pace, but so did they. Soon, they were ahead, behind, both sides—herding us again.

Late afternoon, the valley narrowed, creek running between two steep ridges, only one way forward, one way back. Halfway through, Bobby stopped—one of the creatures stood in the creek, nine feet tall, built like a linebacker, blocking our path.

We turned to go back, but another was behind us, carrying a club—a thick tree branch. We were trapped.

Bobby raised his rifle, aimed at the closer target. At thirty yards, even with shaking hands, it should’ve been easy. But when he pulled the trigger, nothing happened. Empty chamber.

I had three rounds left. I worked the bolt, first shot into the chest, staggered but kept coming. Second shot to the shoulder, spun it, but still moving. Third shot to the head—it finally went down, but the other was already moving, charging up the creek, club raised.

Bobby was frantically trying to reload, but his hands shook. The creature swung the club like a baseball bat. Bobby tried to duck, but his injured ankle slowed him. The club caught him across the head with a sickening sound. He went down and didn’t get up.

I don’t remember picking up Bobby’s rifle. I don’t remember running. Next thing I knew, I was crashing through thick brush, pack abandoned. Behind me, the creature howled—rage or triumph, I didn’t know. I ran until my lungs burned, then kept running.

As darkness fell, I found myself among hills honeycombed with caves and rock shelters. Most were shallow, but near the top of an outcrop, I found a narrow opening leading back into the mountain. Just wide enough for me to squeeze through, no way the creatures could follow.

I crawled back as far as I could, fifteen feet, until the passage narrowed. There, I sat in complete darkness, listening to my breathing and heart hammering.

Chapter Seven: The Tomb and the Light

I don’t know how long I waited before I heard them outside. Heavy footsteps, pausing at different cave mouths, investigating. Once, all light was blocked as something large moved past the entrance.

Then scraping—something being dragged across rock, closer to my cave. They weren’t trying to reach me. They were sealing me in.

The scraping continued for hours, grunts of effort. Gradually, the faint light filtering in began to dim. They were piling rocks in front of the opening, building a wall to trap me inside.

I crawled forward, felt only solid rock—stones fitted so tightly no light came through. I was sealed in a tomb.

Panic hit me. I clawed at the rocks until my fingernails broke, hands bleeding. The stones were too big, too tightly wedged. My breathing quickened as reality set in. I was going to die in this hole, no one would ever find my body.

I tried to control my breathing, think rationally. The cave extended back fifteen feet, air stale but not poisonous. Maybe a day or two before oxygen ran out. My water bottle was lost, only a half-empty pack of beef jerky in my jacket. No flashlight, no matches, no way to signal for help.

I spent the first day trying everything to escape—feeling for loose rocks, cracks, digging at the floor. Nothing worked. The cave was solid granite, the barrier built to last.

Hunger wasn’t bad, thirst was worse. My mouth felt like cotton, lips cracked. I sucked on the jerky for moisture but it made me thirstier.

The worst part was the silence. In darkness, my senses sharpened—heartbeat, air, stomach rumbling. From outside, nothing.

I tried to stay positive, thinking about my wife and kids, but as hours dragged by, those thoughts faded. More and more, I thought about Ken and Bobby, wondering if their bodies were still lying where they’d fallen.

By the second day, I was weak from dehydration. Jerky gone, mouth dry, couldn’t swallow. I stopped trying to move rocks, no strength left. I must have dozed off—woke to scraping outside the cave.

For a moment, I thought I was dreaming. Then I heard it again—rock against rock, someone moving the barrier. Hope flared. Maybe a search party, maybe someone found our campsite.

I pressed my ear to the wall, listened. Scraping continued, then stopped. I waited for a voice, but only silence.

Suddenly, light seeped through cracks—thin beams of moonlight, blinding after days in darkness. One final scraping, heavier, then footsteps moving away.

I waited—an hour, maybe three, too afraid to move, thinking whatever opened the cave was waiting outside. Eventually, thirst won over fear. I crawled forward, worked at the rocks. The barrier was partially dismantled, a gap just wide enough to squeeze through.

I pushed aside stones and crawled into the night. The forest was empty—no creatures, no search party, just moonlight and wind in the branches.

Chapter Eight: Alone in the Wild

I sat outside the cave, trying to make sense of what happened. Why would the creatures that killed my friends and sealed me in a cave come back to let me out? It made no sense. Maybe it wasn’t them. Maybe a bear knocked some rocks loose, maybe the barrier shifted.

But the rocks were too big, too deliberately placed. I was free, but lost, no food, water, or direction.

My rifle was still in the cave, but I was too weak to crawl back. Even if I had it, only two rounds left—not enough if the creatures returned.

I picked a direction downhill and started walking. My ankle twisted, every step painful, but I kept moving. Staying meant dying.

For two days, I stumbled through the forest, following game trails and creek beds, eating berries, drinking from puddles. I lost fifteen pounds, and by the time I reached a forest service road, I could barely walk.

The strange thing—I never saw or heard the creatures again. No howls, no wood knocking, no footprints. It was like they vanished, or decided I wasn’t worth pursuing.

A park ranger found me collapsed by the road Wednesday morning, delirious from dehydration and exposure, mumbling about monsters, caves, dead friends. They got me to a hospital, pumped me full of IV fluids, called my wife.

When I was coherent enough to tell my story, nobody believed me. The sheriff listened politely, took notes, but I saw it in his eyes—he thought I was suffering from trauma and hallucinations.

The park service launched another search for Ken and Bobby, but never found their bodies. After a week, the official report listed their deaths as a bear attack.

I tried to tell people what happened, showed Bobby’s photos of the first footprint, but digital photos can be faked. I described the creatures—their size, intelligence, the way they hunted us like prey.

Most listened with polite attention, the kind you give someone who’s been through something terrible but might not be thinking straight. My wife believed me, or said she did. My kids were too young. Friends treated me like I’d suffered a breakdown.

The worst part was going to Ken and Bobby’s funerals, listening to people talk about the bear attack. Their families deserve the truth, but what could I say? That their husbands and fathers were murdered by creatures that aren’t supposed to exist? That the park service and sheriff’s department were covering it up or too incompetent to recognize what happened?

I kept quiet, let people believe what they wanted.

Chapter Nine: Aftermath and Mystery

It’s been three years since that hunting trip. I’ve had time to research what happened. I know what I saw. I know what killed my friends. And I know that the forests hold secrets, things that science hasn’t explained, things that don’t fit into neat categories.

Sometimes, late at night, I take out Bobby’s phone and look at those photos—the massive footprint in the mud, the lean-to shelter, the blood on the leaves. I remember the howls, the wood knocking, the intelligence in those dark eyes.

I don’t know why they let me go. Maybe it was mercy. Maybe curiosity. Maybe some twisted sense of justice—punishing us for entering their territory, then sparing the last survivor.

Whatever the reason, I’m alive. But I’ll never forget what happened in the deep woods of Monongahela. And I’ll never go back.

If you ever find yourself deep in those forests, listen for the wood knocks. Watch for the footprints. And remember: not all monsters are imaginary.

Some are real. And they’re watching.

End.