Inside the Shadows: The CIA Agent Who Went Off Script in the Hunt for Bigfoot!

I’m 78 years old. For 27 years, I’ve been keeping a secret that could get me killed. In 1997, the CIA sent me to the forests of Washington State. They told me I was tracking something for a classified operation. They said I’d be home in six months. What I found in those woods, what they’d really been doing since the 1950s, wasn’t what they told me at all. The thing they sent me to monitor—what people call Bigfoot—wasn’t what I thought. And what the government was doing to them was worse than I could have imagined. I went off script, started asking questions, and the government erased me for it. My name was Michael Case. You can call me Case. This is what happened.

Chapter 1: The Assignment

Before 1997, I was a field operations officer. I started in 1975, right after Vietnam. Did two tours in the infantry, came home in 1973 with a Purple Heart and nothing to show for it. The VA wasn’t helping. I was 23 and felt like I’d already lived a whole life. That’s when the CIA recruited me.

Two guys in suits approached me, said they’d read my file, said I had skills they needed. I believed them. I spent the next 22 years believing the agency was protecting people, making the world safer. It took me until I was 53 to learn the truth.

I spent those years in Eastern Europe—mostly Berlin, Prague, Warsaw, Budapest—following money, tracking weapons, watching Soviet remnants try to stay relevant after the wall came down. Boring work—surveillance, dead drops, assets who were more scared than useful. But I was good at it. 22 years without a blown cover. Three commendations I’ll never be able to prove I got. And I had a wife, Laura. Met her in 1976—State Department cultural attaché, smart, funny, beautiful. We married six months later.

By the mid-90s, we were roommates. She’d stopped asking where I’d been at State Department parties. We’d stand on opposite sides of the room.

In early 1997, I came home from Romania after being gone for four months. “Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” she replied. That night in bed, she finally spoke. “When you retire, we need to figure out if this is still working.”

“Okay, I mean it,” I said.

“I know.” She turned over and went to sleep.

Two weeks later, I got called into Langley. My station chief was a guy named Brennan—career officer, 30 years in, cold eyes. “You’re being reassigned,” he said. “Domestic Pacific Northwest.”

I laughed. “That’s FBI territory.”

“Not this one.” He slid a folder across the desk, thin, maybe 20 pages. “Read it. Memorize it. Burn it. You deploy Monday.”

I opened it. The first page had a title in bold: Project Coldwood—Eyes Only, Compartmented. Below that, asset monitoring and threat assessment, indigenous population, remote wilderness area, civilian encounter mitigation protocols.

I flipped to the second page—photographs, black and white, grainy. Something standing in a clearing, bipedal, large, covered in dark fur. Another photo: a footprint in mud. Massive. Five toes. I looked up at Brennan. “Is this a joke?”

“Keep reading.”

Maps, topographical surveys, population estimates, movement patterns, but no clear explanation of what these things were—just subjects and assets and population management. There was a list—16 names, agents deployed before me. Next to each name was a status:

Anderson, J. 1956, 1957, retired
Foster, R. 1963, instit
Chen, D. 1984, 1985, retired
Morrison, K. 1992, 93, status unknown.

There was a section called engagement protocols, but most was blacked out. What I could read: Under no circumstances should agent initiate direct contact with subjects. Observation only. Any deviation from protocol will result in immediate extraction and redacted.

The final page had a warning in red: Critical agent must maintain emotional distance. Anthropomorphization of subjects is prohibited. Despite appearances, subjects are redacted and must be treated as such.

I read that three times. What were they so afraid of?

“You’re telling me the CIA monitors Bigfoot?” I said. Brennan didn’t react. “Read it. Memorize it. Burn it. Deploy Monday.”

He walked to the door, stopped. “Six months. You observe, you report. You do not engage.”

“Clear?”

“Clear.”

“Good. You follow protocol exactly or people die.”

“People die?”

“Read the file, Case.” He left. I took it home, read it again, then burned it in my fireplace. But I couldn’t stop thinking about Morrison—status unknown.

Chapter 2: Into the Forest

I deployed to Washington State on March 17th, 1997. Laura drove me to the airport. We didn’t talk much. At the gate, she hugged me—quick, awkward. “Six months,” I said. She turned and walked away.

I didn’t know that was the last time I’d see her as my wife. My cover was forest service, wildlife survey researcher. Real job: surveillance, sector 7 of the Gford Pinch Show National Forest. They gave me a cabin, remote, 20 miles from the nearest town. No phone, no radio. Communication was dead drops.

Once a week, I’d leave a report, pick up instructions. The cabin was basic—one room, wood stove, cot, small table, propane lantern, outhouse out back. I unpacked my gear—camera traps, binoculars, night vision, motion sensors, and a sat phone.

Emergency only. Sealed in a case with a note: Use only if compromised or injured. Non-emergency use will result in immediate extraction and termination of assignment.

Then I found an envelope sealed, marked: Open after first week. I put it in the drawer.

The first week was quiet. I hiked, set up cameras, marked trails—just forest, nothing unusual. On day seven, I opened the envelope. By now, you’ve seen nothing. This is normal. Subjects are highly intelligent and aware of human presence. They avoid surveillance deliberately. Your presence has been noted by them. They are observing you. Be patient. Continue standard protocols. Do not attempt to accelerate contact. Observe only.

I read it twice. They are observing you. I looked out at the forest. It felt different now.

Chapter 3: The First Encounter

Week two, I found the first track. Early morning, checking a camera near a creek. There in the mud was a footprint—large, maybe 16 inches, five toes, deep impression. The forest was quiet, but I felt watched. I photographed it, made measurements, took a casting. Fresh, maybe hours old. Whatever made it was heavy—600 pounds, maybe—and it walked on two feet.

That night, I wrote my report: Track located. Size consistent with briefing materials. Subject monitoring my movements. No visual contact. Continuing surveillance.

The response came the following week: Good. Subject has accepted your presence. Maintain protocols. Visual contact should occur within 2 to 3 weeks. Observe only.

Week three, something changed. I was making dinner when I heard something outside—subtle, like something placed on wood. I opened the door. On the porch was something new—a small pile of stones, river rocks arranged in a circle. In the center, a carved wood figure—a representation of me with binoculars.

I looked out at the darkness. It was out there watching. I had been sent here to find them, to count them, to mark them for death. But this wasn’t animal behavior. This was communication, culture.

Over the next two weeks, it became routine. I’d leave food, find things left in return—more carvings, always detailed. A bear, perfect proportions; a bird in flight, wings spread; a tree, roots and branches. They were showing me their world.

Each time I didn’t report it, I wrote a different report. I couldn’t hide it all. Subject displays advanced cognitive behavior. Tool use confirmed. Symbolic communication through carved artifacts. Gift exchange suggests cultural complexity. Request clarification on classification and mission objectives.

Three days later, the response: Agent Case, you are deviating from protocol. Gift exchange is prohibited. Observe only. Any further deviation will result in immediate extraction. Your questions are not relevant. Follow orders.

Then at the bottom, handwritten: They’re lying to you. KM Morrison, status unknown.

He’d written this somehow. He was trying to warn me.

Chapter 4: The Truth Revealed

I couldn’t sleep. They’re lying to you about what? I went through my notes—tool use, carvings, gift exchange, communication. These weren’t animals. But the briefing treated them like threats to be managed. Why? What had Morrison discovered?

Week seven, I decided to find out. I started searching for evidence of previous operations. The file had listed coordinates. I remembered some. I hiked to the first one—five miles northwest. Three hours to get there. What I found made me feel sick.

Burn patterns—old but visible. Not from forest fire. Too controlled. Specific zones burned deliberately. I walked the perimeter. Shell casings—weathered brass, high caliber, military grade. Then bones—not human, larger. Burned, blackened, scattered.

I knelt down. Massive femur maybe, but not from any animal I recognized. Wrong size, wrong shape. Someone had killed something here and burned the evidence. I hiked to two more sites over the next week. Same thing at both—burn patterns, casings, bones, sights of killing.

The third site was the worst. I found a skull partially intact—blackened but recognizable. Large, heavy brow ridge, sagittal crest, massive jaw, but wrong for an ape. Wrong for any primate I knew. Face too flat, cranium too rounded, too human.

I sat there staring at it. Something broke inside me. For 22 years, I’d believed the agency protected people—that we were the good guys doing necessary work. But this wasn’t protection. This was extermination.

I buried the skull, covered it with dirt and stones, and I knew I wasn’t working for the right side anymore. That night, I decided to find Morrison’s camp. He’d deployed from ’92 to ’93, five years before me. Same area, status unknown. His camp had to be somewhere.

I spent the next week searching. Day nine, I found it—eight miles from my cabin, hidden in a ravine. The camp was destroyed—tent shredded, poles broken, gear scattered. Not by weather, not by animals, but by people. Deliberately destroyed.

I searched through debris, found a backpack. Inside, clothing rotted and at the bottom, wrapped in plastic, a journal—waterlogged, pages stuck but readable. I sat down and read it.

June 12th, 1992: Arrived. Standard protocols. Nothing unusual yet. June 28th, 1992: First contact. Subject is intelligent, more than briefing suggested. Watching me as much as I’m watching it. July 8th, 1992: Subject left carved figure on porch. Intentional communication. Why didn’t briefing mention this?

July 15th, 1992: Started food exchange. Subject reciprocates cultural behavior, complex social structure. Why treat them like animals? July 30th, 1992: Confronted handler about discrepancies. Told to shut up and follow orders, but I’ve been reading between the lines, looking at coordinates, previous operation zones. August 3rd, 1992: Hiked to previous site. Found burn patterns, shell casings, bones. Jesus Christ. Previous operations weren’t surveillance. They were culling operations.

August 10th, 1992: I can’t do this. Can’t be part of this. These aren’t animals. They’re people. Different people. Nonhuman people. We’ve been systematically eliminating them for 40 years. August 12th, 1992: Studied operation history. Pattern is clear. Agent deploys, observes, maps populations, identifies families, then extraction. Six months later, kill teams come. Clean sweep. Burn evidence.

August 19th, 1992: Found them today. Main family group, maybe 12 individuals. Showed them my maps, burn zones, kill sites. They understood faster than expected. Saw one adult carving into bark. Warning symbol. Geometric pattern I haven’t seen before. They’re leaving tonight, moving east toward high peaks. Coordinated, organized. Never seen them move with such purpose. They know exactly what’s coming.

August 21st, 1992: Destroyed sat phone. Left cabin. Live in rough. Subjects helped before leaving. Showed me hidden places, natural caves, brought smoked fish. They understand we’re both targets now. Both hunted. I have to end entry.

The next page is blank. The final page had one more entry—different handwriting, shaky, hurried. If you’re reading this, you’re next. They’re not monitoring. They’re cataloging. You’re mapping targets for extermination. Get out. Warn them. Don’t trust.

It ended mid-sentence. Morrison disappeared after that—status unknown. I sat in that ravine for hours, the journal in my hands. Everything made sense now—the redactions, the vague language, the do not engage. They weren’t studying these creatures. They were hunting them.

Chapter 5: The Reckoning

For two years, I’d believed I was doing the right thing. I’d been sent to help, but I was part of the problem. I hiked back, mind racing. No, that’s not right. I wasn’t thinking clearly—just moving, one foot in front of the other.

Project Coldwood wasn’t surveillance. It was systematic extermination. I’d been sent to help the creatures, to monitor them, but I was marking them for death. That night, it appeared, standing at the clearing edge, 20 feet from the porch. The same one, silver gray patch on its shoulder.

We looked at each other. It made a sound, low, not threatening, almost like a question. I stood slowly, stepped off the porch. It didn’t move. I walked closer, stopped 10 feet away.

“They sent me here to find you,” I said. “To count you, to mark where you live, where your families are.” It watched. “But they didn’t tell me why. Didn’t tell me what happens after I leave.”

I pulled out Morrison’s journal, held it up. “Another man was here five years ago. He figured it out. They killed him.” I stepped closer. “They’re going to kill you too. All of you.”

The creature tilted its head. I pulled out the carved figure. “You made this. You’ve been watching me, trying to understand if I’m dangerous. I am dangerous. Not because I want to be, but because they sent me to be.”

I placed it on the ground between us. “I am dangerous. But I’m not doing it. I’m not helping them.” The creature stared at me. Then it did something unexpected. It reached down, picked up the carved figure, looked at it, then at me. It pointed at me, then at itself, then made a gesture—hands together, fingers interlaced.

Same. We were the same—both being used, both being hunted. I spent the next three days in the forest following the creature. It led me deeper—hidden valleys, remote areas.

We came to a clearing, small, protected, and there were more—maybe 15, maybe 20 adults, juveniles, young ones, families. They watched me approach, wary, but the one with the gray patch made a sound, gestured, and they accepted me.

I sat down, pulled out my maps, spread them, then showed them—burn zones, previous operation sites, areas where bones and casings were scattered. I pointed at their location, drew lines to the nearest burn zones. They understood.

Over two days, I showed them everything—the patterns, the timing, the six-month cycle between surveillance and extermination. They had to leave, go deeper—somewhere not on any map, somewhere I hadn’t documented.

Chapter 6: A New Beginning

On the third day, they started moving, packing, preparing to leave. Before leaving, the one with the gray patch approached. It held out its hand. In it was a carving larger than the others, more detailed—two figures, one small, one large, the large figure handing something to the small figure.

The small figure pointing the way. A guide, a protector. It placed the carving in my hand. Then it did something I’d never seen. It pointed at Michael’s stick figure again, standing next to the creature, then it made a gesture—hand to its own chest, then moving that hand to where Michael’s figure was, like a heartbeat.

Then the hand stopped, dropped. His heart. I said. My voice broke. Something happened to his heart. The creature nodded. Then it did something that made my breath catch. It placed both hands on its own chest, pressed down, pumped over and over. Compressions.

“You tried to save him,” I whispered. The creature’s hands kept pumping, demonstrating. Then the hands stopped, trembled, pulled back. It had tried and failed.

The creature made a sound—something between a sob and a sigh. Then it pointed at the five stick figures again—its family—pointed at itself, made a gesture—two figures together.

I understood it had lost its family, watched them die, been unable to save them, and then years later it had found my son, alone in the forest, having some kind of medical emergency. Michael had been alive when it found him—alive long enough to sit together, to draw this picture, to show the creature it wasn’t afraid, that it understood the creature had lost someone too.

Michael had seen this grieving thing in the forest. Had tried to comfort it, had drawn them together, had drawn the creature’s lost family, had drawn the creature crying. And then Michael had collapsed.

And the creature had tried everything it knew, had tried to keep his heart beating, had tried to save him the way it couldn’t save its own family. But its hands were too big, too strong. It didn’t know human medicine. Michael had died in its arms.

And for 30 years, the creature had been carrying that failure, had kept Michael’s things, had worn his jacket, had led me here—all of it an apology, a memorial, a 30-year vigil of grief and guilt.

“You stayed with him,” I said. The creature nodded. “He wasn’t alone.”

Another nod. “And you tried to save him.” The creature’s shoulder shook. I looked at this thing—this creature that had spent three decades watching over my son’s grave, that had tried to save a human child, even though humans had probably killed its entire family.

That had chosen compassion over hatred, that had protected Michael’s memory, had guided me through my grief, had waited until I was strong enough to hear the truth.

“It wasn’t your fault,” I said. “You didn’t fail him.”

The creature looked at me, those old eyes full of pain. I reached out my hand. “Thank you for being there, for trying, for not leaving him alone.”

The creature stared at my hand, then slowly reached out its own. We touched palms—two fathers, both carrying guilt they shouldn’t have carried, both finally letting it go.

The creature made a soft sound. Then it stood slowly, reached up, took off Michael’s jacket—the jacket it had worn for 30 years—and held it for a long moment. Then it draped it over the Kairen, over Michael’s grave, arranged it carefully, made sure the NASA patch was visible.

Then it picked up the pouch, set it beside the jacket, giving me permission to take them, to bring them home if I wanted. The creature placed one hand on its chest, then pointed at the Kairen, then at me.

“I protected him for you, for us both.”

“I know,” I said. “Thank you.”

The creature nodded one final time, then turned and walked away into the forest.

Epilogue: The Truth Set Free

That was a year ago. Michael died July 15th, 1994. He was eight years old. He wandered into the forest, maybe following that sound I’d heard—maybe just exploring. He found a creature mourning its own dead family.

And my son sat down with that grieving thing and tried to comfort it. Drew them together. Drew the creature’s lost family. Showed it he wasn’t afraid.

And then something inside Michael failed—his heart. Something sudden, something no doctor could have predicted. The creature tried everything it knew to save him. And when it couldn’t, it buried him with respect, kept his things safe, wore his jacket for 30 years as penance.

Once a year on July 15th, I hike back to that clearing. It takes me two days now, but I always make it. And every year there are fresh things on Michael’s Kairen—berries, stones, flowers. The creature is still there, still watching over him.

This past July, I made the hike, brought flowers. When I was leaving, I heard something in the trees, turned around, and saw movement—silver gray, disappearing into shadows. I raised my hand and heard a sound back, low, soft.

My son died in the forest. And something found him. Something that understood loss. Something that tried to save him and couldn’t. Something that spent 30 years making sure I knew the truth—that Michael wasn’t alone when he died, that something kind was with him, that he was protected, honored, remembered.

People can believe it or not. I know the truth. Michael wasn’t alone when he died. And neither was I. And after 30 years, that’s enough.