“Sasquatch Spoke To Me” – Old Man’s Terrifying Bigfoot

I never planned to tell anyone about what happened to me last April. Not really. I’ve been living in the mountains for over 15 years now, ever since I retired from the mill. It’s just me, my cabin, and the land. Quiet. Peaceful. Or it used to be. This past spring, though, something changed everything I thought I knew about these woods. And it’s all because of what I found — and what found me.

The First Signs: The Strange Shifting of My Woodpile

It started small, like any unsettling thing. I’m an old man, and I’ve been on my own for most of my retirement. I live 8 miles up an old mountain road that’s barely even a road anymore, just dirt and gravel. At first, I thought it was just my memory playing tricks on me. The logs I stacked in neat rows, for instance, started to look different every time I came out to fetch more. They weren’t messed up, just… rearranged. The big ones were on top. Or sometimes, the pieces were sorted by length in ways that made no sense to me.

But it kept happening. Every morning I’d find the woodpile altered again. I’m not a fool, I thought. My memory’s not that bad. But after a few weeks of it, I began to wonder: who—or what—was doing this? I couldn’t figure it out, and the feeling of being watched started to creep over me.

The Footprints: An Encounter with Something Unseen

The turning point came on April 8th. I went out to my garden to start planting for the spring. That’s when I saw them. At first glance, they looked human, but these were no ordinary prints. The toes weren’t shaped like any person I’ve ever seen—more like fingers gripping the earth. And the size. My boots are large, but these were twice their size. I froze, staring at those impressions in the soil. Whoever made them had to be huge, and they were far too deep to be just some prankster. It was like they’d been made by something far heavier than a person.

The woods seemed quieter after that. But not in the way you’d expect. There was no peace in that quiet. I started to hear things at night. Heavy footsteps—too heavy for a person—circling my cabin. They were slow, deliberate. At first, I thought it might be a bear, but the steps were too… purposeful. A bear would have just crashed through the brush, but whatever was out there seemed to be trying to hide, moving with a strange kind of caution.

A Midnight Visitor: The Creature at the Water Pump

Then one morning, I woke to find that the area around my water pump was soaked. Not from a leak, but like someone had been there during the night using it. There were muddy handprints on the handle. But there were no human tracks. Only the same massive prints that I’d found in my garden. Something had been drinking from my pump. And it was smart enough to approach from the rocky ground, making sure to leave as few tracks as possible.

For days after that, I checked the pump every morning. And each time, I found more signs that whatever this was, it was returning. There were muddy handprints, coarse hair caught on the metal—dark brown, nearly black. Not bear hair. Not deer hair. This was something different.

The Exchange: Gifts and Missing Crops

By mid-April, things started to take an even stranger turn. One morning, I woke up to find a pile of split logs on my front porch—good wood, split and ready to burn. I hadn’t done it. I’d been using up the firewood from my own pile. It didn’t make sense. Whoever—or whatever—was visiting me was clearly intelligent enough to know that firewood was a valuable commodity, and it seemed to have left this as a kind of… trade.

Things started disappearing from my garden too. Not just a few bites here and there like deer or rabbits, but entire plants ripped from the roots—lettuce, spinach, radishes. Whoever was doing this wasn’t just taking the plants, they were taking what was valuable and leaving the rest behind. It was like they knew what to harvest and what to leave alone.

I began to feel it, more and more. The sensation of being watched, all the time. It wasn’t just at night. It was during the day, too. When I was working in the garden or splitting wood, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was out there, observing me.

The Meeting: Sasquatch Appears

Then, on April 19th, I decided to set up a little test. I left a pile of carrots out on the stump where I usually split kindling, then sat in my kitchen to wait. For hours, nothing happened. But as the sun began to set, I saw movement at the edge of the woods. And that’s when I saw it—it being the most massive creature I’ve ever laid eyes on. Standing at least eight feet tall, covered in dark, coarse hair, it moved with a grace that seemed impossible for something so large.

It approached the stump cautiously, examined the carrots for a moment, then began eating them one by one. It wasn’t a bear. It wasn’t any animal I recognized. And it wasn’t mindless either. It understood reciprocity—after taking my food, it placed something in return: a handful of wild berries. Then, without a word, it disappeared back into the woods.

I stood there, trembling, watching it vanish. This was no simple creature. This was a being that understood exchange. A being with thought and intelligence.

The Shelter: A Home in the Forest

The following day, I discovered where the creature was living. I could see it from my window—about a hundred yards into the forest. A crude shelter, made of branches and pine boughs. It wasn’t like anything a person would build, but it was sturdy. The branches were bent and woven in a way that showed intelligence, but not human knowledge. No tools had been used, only the earth itself.

I watched for days as the creature followed its routine—visiting the pump, rearranging my woodpile, leaving gifts, then retreating back to its shelter before dawn. I began to realize that this wasn’t some lone animal. This was a creature with a home, a family, and a purpose.

The Visit: Sasquatch Comes to My Cabin

On April 23rd, everything changed. I woke up feeling ill. Dizzy. Weak. I could barely stand, and when I tried to get up, I collapsed, hitting my head on the counter. I must have blacked out for a minute. Blood ran down my forehead. And that’s when I heard it—the sound of voices outside my cabin.

Not the usual night noises. No, these were words—deep, rumbling voices speaking in a language I didn’t understand. They sounded concerned, like they were discussing something important. Then came three knocks at my door. Three deliberate knocks, like someone was coming to check on me.

I was too weak to get up, so I just called out. And that’s when they came in.

The Encounter: Sasquatch and His Family

The largest creature ducked through my door first. It was more massive than I could have imagined—eight feet tall, covered in dark brown hair. Its face was both primitive and intelligent, with dark, thoughtful eyes. It wasn’t a mindless beast. It was a someone—someone who seemed to understand exactly what was going on.

Behind him came two others—a female and a young one. They moved with purpose, clearly understanding their surroundings. The male—who I later learned was called Thrum—examined my injury with surprising care. He gently touched my head wound, then communicated with the others in low rumbling sounds. The female—called Rootno—went out and returned with plants she’d gathered from the forest. She used them to treat my wound, and when I looked at her, I realized: this wasn’t some random animal. These beings were capable of deep thought, knowledge, and compassion.

Thrum, Rootno, and Quicklearn, as I later called the young one, stayed with me through the night. They fed me, tended my fire, and communicated in a strange, broken language. Over time, I began to understand that they were not just wild creatures. They were beings who had been living here long before I arrived. And they had a deep understanding of nature that was both alien and familiar to me.

The Departure: A New Kind of Family

Before they left, they showed me how to care for my wound, where to find the medicinal plants in the forest, and how to use them. They left me with a detailed map of the surrounding area, marking safe places, water sources, and where the best plants for healing grew. They even showed me how to signal them if I ever needed help again.

Most strikingly, they made it clear: I was now part of their family. They would return in three days, as Thrum promised