‘A Bigfoot Family Is Living On Our Property… And It’s Getting Worse’ – BIGFOOT STORY COMPILATION – Part 1
THE WATCHERS IN THE PINES
Part One: The Things That Learn Us
Chapter One: The Handprint
I am writing this from a cheap roadside motel because I can no longer sleep in my own home.
Yesterday morning, just before dawn, I found a handprint pressed into the mud beneath our bedroom window. It was still fresh, the edges sharp, as if whatever made it had only just stepped away. The fingers were too long. Too thick. They spread wider than any human hand ever could.
.
.
.
Whatever left that mark had been standing there—silent and patient—watching us while we slept.
That was the moment I finally understood that staying meant dying.
For weeks before that morning, strange things had been happening on our farm. Gates opened during the night despite heavy latches. Chickens found dead with marks around their necks that looked disturbingly like fingers. Footprints in the soft earth behind the barn—twice the size of my boots, walking upright.
I’ve been a farmer for forty-three years. I know bear tracks. I know coyotes, wolves, and feral dogs. I know how animals behave when they are hunting.
And I know how animals behave when they are afraid of something bigger than themselves.
What had moved onto our land was not normal. And it was getting bolder every day.
So I loaded my wife—still weak from her stroke, still struggling to speak—into our old pickup truck and drove until the sun rose behind us and the forest disappeared in the rearview mirror.
But the truth is, this didn’t begin with me.
It began with my wife.
Chapter Two: What She Could See
My wife has been sick for three years.
First came the stroke. It stole her words, leaving her speech slow and tangled, like her thoughts had to fight their way out. Then the doctors told us early dementia was setting in. Some days she barely spoke at all. Most days she just sat and stared, as if watching something far away that the rest of us couldn’t see.
I thought the illness had taken her from me piece by piece.
I was wrong.
Now I think it gave her something else.
Our farm sits on thirty acres at the edge of thousands more—state forest stretching farther than the eye can see. We bought the land young and foolish, dreaming of children and self-sufficiency. The children grew up and moved away. Life grew quiet.
Too quiet.
Last fall, after my doctor noticed a tremor in my left hand, I started keeping a journal. He said writing might slow things down—Parkinson’s, he called it, gently. So every night, after settling my wife into bed, I sat at the kitchen table and wrote.
Egg counts. Fence repairs. Weather notes.
Normal things.
Until April.
Chapter Three: The Tree Line
It started on an ordinary morning.
I wrapped my wife in her favorite quilt and settled her onto the front porch with a cup of tea that she rarely finished. She liked watching the world wake up—the birds, the deer grazing near the tree line, the way the sunlight crept across the fields.
I was checking the chicken coop when I heard her making urgent sounds.
Not the soft, confused noises she sometimes made—but sharp, insistent.
When I looked up, she was pointing.
Toward the forest.
Her eyes were locked on the trees, wide and focused. She was trying to say something, struggling to force words past her damaged speech.
I followed her gaze.
I saw nothing.
Just pines. Shadows. The dark, dense wall of forest that bordered our land.
She kept pointing all morning, growing more agitated when I couldn’t understand. That night, I wrote it off in my journal.
Probably a deer. Maybe a bear. Spring is here.
But it didn’t stop.
Every morning after that, she watched the same patch of forest. Always the same place—about a hundred yards from the house, where the trees grew thick and the shadows never fully lifted.
By the end of the week, curiosity gnawed at me.
So I watched her instead.
Chapter Four: Something Upright
I hid near the barn, where I could see both my wife on the porch and the forest beyond.
For twenty minutes, nothing happened.
Then her posture changed.
Her back straightened. Her head turned sharply. That intense focus returned.
And then I saw it.
Something moved in the shadows between the trees.
Something large.
At first, I thought it was a man. It stood upright, moving with intention rather than the wandering unpredictability of an animal. But the proportions were wrong—too tall, too broad through the shoulders.
And the way it moved…
Careful. Deliberate.
Like it knew it was being watched.
I crouched lower, my heart pounding. The figure lingered for several minutes before melting deeper into the forest, swallowed by shadow and pine.
That night, my wife spoke for the first time in over a year.
“Why don’t you invite them inside?”
Her voice was clear.
Lucid.
Gone again by the time I reached her bedside.
Chapter Five: They Watch
After that, her moments of clarity came at night.
“They’re out there.”
“They don’t like loud noises.”
“They’re getting closer.”
Then one evening, she whispered something that stayed with me.
“The big one is teaching the little ones.”
That was when I started carrying my shotgun.
Not openly. I didn’t want to frighten her. But it was always nearby.
I began walking the property line more often.
And I found the tracks.
Human-shaped—but enormous. Eighteen inches long. Wide. With toes that looked more like fingers.
There were several sets.
Different sizes.
A family.
They stayed just inside the forest, always close enough to watch the house.
Always learning.
Chapter Six: The Family
Late April brought my first clear sighting.
Three of them stood just inside the tree line.
One massive adult—at least eight feet tall—covered in dark, matted hair.
Two smaller ones beside it. Juveniles. Mimicking the adult’s movements.
They watched us openly.
The adult pointed at me. Then at my wife. Then back at me.
Communication.
When our eyes met, I felt something cold and ancient settle into my chest.
Then they left—loudly.
Crashing through the forest as if to remind me how quiet they could have been.
That night, my wife said:
“They’re not bad. Just curious.”
Chapter Seven: Broken Rules
Curiosity turned to boldness.
Handprints appeared on windows. On the barn door. On the chicken coop.
Too small to be the adult.
The young ones were testing boundaries.
When I confronted them at the forest edge, the adult stood between me and the juveniles.
She growled.
Did not retreat.
The rules had changed.
That night, the footsteps came.
Circling the house.
Knocking.
Three slow raps.
Over and over.
My wife stared at the wall, eyes wide with recognition.
She knew what it meant.
By dawn, I knew too.
We were no longer being observed.
We were being pressured.
Chapter Eight: The Decision to Run
The knocking became routine.
The scratching.
The testing of doors.
Until the night glass shattered in the kitchen.
A carved piece of wood lay on the floor—marked with symbols I did not understand.
That was when I decided to leave.
Before dawn, I loaded my wife into the truck.
They stood across the driveway.
All of them.
Watching.
The largest stepped forward, placed a hand on the hood, and looked at her.
She rolled down the window.
“We have to go.”
He nodded.
They stepped aside.
We drove away.
Chapter Nine: What Remains
Four months have passed.
My wife is better now.
But she says they’re still there.
Waiting.
Sometimes I wonder if we were guests on our own land.
And whether we were ever meant to understand what they wanted.
Some mysteries are not meant to be solved.
Some forests are not empty.
And some watchers never stop watching.
END OF PART ONE
