Bigfoot Visited Their Cabin Every Thanksgiving, Until Something Strange Happened – Sasquatch Story

The Thanksgiving Knock

It’s been years now—almost 20, I think. But sometimes it feels like it was just last Thanksgiving. My name’s Tom, and I was there every year with my family at that cabin in the hills. It wasn’t a holiday without him. We thought he was some sort of spirit. Maybe a guardian. Or… well, I don’t know what we thought. We never questioned it. Not until he didn’t show up that year.

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You’re going to think I’m crazy. Everyone who’s heard the story thinks I am. But I still have that footage—a few seconds of blurry video where you can just make out the figure of a massive creature walking into the woods. It’s nothing definitive, nothing solid enough to convince anyone, but I remember the sound, the smell, and the way his eyes seemed to connect with ours.

I shouldn’t be telling you this, but it’s been years, and I still wonder what happened. It’s not about Bigfoot anymore. It’s about something else. Something much darker, and stranger, and ultimately more human.

The cabin sat twelve miles up Forest Road 47, past where the pavement ended and the cell signal died. Dad bought it in 1989 for almost nothing because nobody wanted to drive that far for a weekend place. But for us, it was everything.

Every November, we’d pack the truck on Wednesday morning and make the three-hour drive from Portland. Me, Dad, Grandma, and my little sister Sarah. The radio would fade to static about halfway up, and you’d start seeing your breath inside the cab, even with the heater running full blast.

The cabin itself was small, two bedrooms and a main room with a stone fireplace Dad built himself one summer. Pine trees pressed in close on three sides, and out back there was nothing but forest for miles. November up there meant frost on the windows by morning and stars so bright they hurt to look at.

We’d arrive around noon, unload the truck, and Dad would get the fire going while Grandma started prepping the turkey. Sarah and I would haul in firewood and check the propane tanks. It was the same every year, down to the smallest detail.

And every year, without fail, he’d show up.

That first knock would come just after dinner on Thanksgiving night. Three sharp raps on the back door. Always three, never more, never less. We’d hear it through the crackling of the fire and the sound of Grandma washing dishes, and we’d know he was there. Part of the family. That’s what Grandma called him. Part of the family.

We never opened the door. We’d just leave a plate of food on the back step and by morning it would be gone. Clean, like someone had licked it. I know how that sounds, but that’s how it was.

The tradition started before I was born, back when it was just Dad and Grandma at the cabin. Dad told me once, when I was maybe ten, that the first time it happened, he thought it was a bear. He grabbed his rifle and went to the back door, ready to scare it off. But Grandma stopped him. She said she’d heard those knocks before, years ago, when she was young up in the hills near her childhood home in Montana. She knew what it was. Or at least she knew it wasn’t a bear. So they left food out, and the knocks came back the next year. Then the year after that.

By the time I was old enough to remember, it was just part of Thanksgiving. As normal as mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie. Sarah was born when I was seven, and she grew up with it, too. She never questioned it. To her, Bigfoot was like Santa Claus, except he came in November instead of December, and he never left presents—just took the food we left.

Sometimes I’d stay up late, trying to catch a glimpse through the back window. But Dad said that wasn’t allowed. “You don’t spy on family,” he’d say. “You respect their privacy.” So we never looked. We just listened. Three knocks, always at the same time, around 10:00 after we’d finished eating and cleaned up. You could set your watch by it.

Grandma would prepare the plate special. Turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, and a dinner roll. She’d wrap it in foil to keep it warm, then set it on the back step just before the knocks came. And we’d wait. The fire would pop and hiss. The wind would move through the pines. And then, clear as a bell, three knocks.

After that, we’d go to bed. In the morning, the plate would be on the step, empty and clean. No footprints in the frost. No sign anyone had been there, except the food was always gone.

That November in 2005 started the same as every other year. We drove up on Wednesday, the truck loaded with groceries and our overnight bags. The weather was colder than usual. Snow had already fallen once in early October, and there were patches of it still clinging to the shadows under the trees. The drive took longer because of ice on the road. Dad had to go slow around the curves, and twice we slid a little coming out of a turn, but we made it.

The cabin looked the same as always, small and dark against the trees, the metal roof dusted with frost. We unloaded in silence, our breath fogging in the cold air. I carried in firewood while Sarah helped Grandma with the groceries. Dad checked the water lines to make sure nothing had frozen over. By late afternoon, the fire was going and the cabin was starting to warm up.

Thanksgiving day came on cold and clear. No clouds, just blue sky and bright sun that made the frost on the trees sparkle like diamonds. Grandma cooked all morning. Turkey in the oven, stuffing on the stove, pies cooling on the counter. Sarah and I played cards at the kitchen table. Dad sat by the fire reading an old paperback he’d brought from home. Everything felt normal. Everything felt right.

But then night came.

We ate dinner around six, all of us crowded around the table, passing dishes and talking about nothing important. After we finished, Grandma cleared the plates while Dad added logs to the fire. Sarah and I washed up, and then we waited.

10:00 came. No knocks. We sat there in the firelight, listening. The wind moved through the trees outside. Somewhere far off, an owl called—but no knocks.

Sarah looked at Dad. Dad looked at Grandma. Nobody said anything.

We waited another ten minutes. Still nothing.

“Maybe he’s late,” Dad finally said. His voice sounded thin in the quiet cabin.

We waited until 11:00, then midnight. Still no knocks. The plate Grandma had prepared sat on the back step, cooling in the freezing air. When we finally went to bed, none of us could sleep.

Morning came gray and cold. I woke up before everyone else and went to check the back step. The plate was still there. The foil hadn’t even been touched. Frost had formed on top of it, white crystals covering the turkey and stuffing. I stood there in my boots and jacket, staring at that untouched plate, and felt something wrong settle into my chest.

By the time Dad came out, the sun was up, but the air was still freezing. He looked at the plate, then at me.

“Maybe he’s sick,” I said.

Dad shook his head. “Or maybe something scared him off.”

We brought the plate inside and threw the food away. Grandma didn’t say anything, but I could see the worry in her eyes.

After breakfast, Dad decided we should look around, just to make sure everything’s okay, he said. So we bundled up and headed out into the woods behind the cabin. The ground was hard with frost, crunching under our boots. The trees were dense, blocking out most of the light. We walked for maybe twenty minutes, following the natural path that led deeper into the forest.

That’s when we found the footprints. Huge ones, bigger than any human print I’d ever seen. They were pressed deep into a patch of soft mud near a creek. Each one maybe eighteen inches long and six inches wide. Five toes, clearly visible. They led away from the cabin, heading north into the thicker trees.

Dad crouched down next to them. He didn’t say anything for a long time. Finally, he looked up at me.

“Bigfoot,” he said quietly.

It was the first time I’d heard him say the word out loud.

Sarah, who was standing behind us, whispered, “Is he okay?”

Dad stood up slowly. “I don’t know.”

We followed the tracks for another hundred yards, but they disappeared where the ground got harder and rockier. We searched for another hour, calling out into the trees, but there was no response, just the wind and the cold.

When we got back to the cabin, Grandma had packed up our things.

“We’re leaving,” she said. Her voice was firm. Final. “Something’s wrong. We shouldn’t be here.”

We drove home that afternoon in silence.

The smell started showing up about a week later, back at our house in Portland. It came at night, drifting in through the crack under the back door. Wet fur and moss mixed with something earthy and wild.

The first time I noticed it, I thought maybe a raccoon had died under the porch. But when I checked, there was nothing there, just that smell, thick and heavy in the cold November air.

Sarah smelled it, too. She came into my room one night around 10:00, her face pale. “Tom, it’s him,” she whispered. “He followed us home.”

I wanted to tell her she was crazy, but I’d been thinking the same thing. The smell would come and go. Always at night, always around 10:00. The same time the knocks used to come at the cabin.

Dad noticed it too, but he wouldn’t talk about it. He’d just close all the windows and turn up the heat like that would make it go away. Grandma lit sage and walked through every room of the house, muttering prayers under her breath. But the smell kept coming back.

Then one night, about two weeks after we’d left the cabin, I heard something outside my bedroom window. Not knocks—footsteps, heavy and slow, moving through the grass in our backyard. I got up and looked out, pulling back the curtain just an inch.

The motion sensor light Dad had installed was on, casting harsh white light across the lawn. And there, at the edge of the light, I saw a shape—tall, massive, covered in dark fur. It stood perfectly still, facing the house, facing my window. I couldn’t see its face clearly, but I could see its eyes. They reflected the light, glowing faintly in the darkness.

We stared at each other for what felt like hours, but was probably only a few seconds. Then it turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows beyond our fence. My heart was pounding so hard I thought I’d pass out.

The next morning, there were footprints in the grass—the same huge prints we’d seen at the cabin. Dad called the police. They came out and took photos, asked questions, filed a report. One officer suggested it might be someone in a costume playing a prank. Another said it was probably a bear. But I knew what I’d seen, and I knew what Bigfoot was.

The question was: what did he want? Why had he followed us home?

Dad decided we had to go back to the cabin. “Maybe we left too soon,” he said. “Maybe he needs our help.” Grandma argued against it, but Dad was insistent. So, the next weekend, we drove back up Forest Road 47, the truck rattling over the frozen gravel.

It was early December now, and snow had fallen again, covering everything in white. The cabin looked abandoned, buried in drifts up to the windows. We had to shovel out the front door just to get inside. The air inside was freezing—colder than outside, somehow. Our breath came out in thick clouds as we unloaded our bags and got the fire started.

I kept looking out the back window, watching the treeline, expecting to see that massive shape emerge from the forest. But there was nothing. Just snow and pines and gray sky.

That night, we prepared a plate of food just like we used to. Turkey sandwiches, chips, and cookies. Grandma wrapped it in foil and set it on the back step. We sat by the fire and waited. 10:00 came and went. No knocks. 11:00. Midnight. Still nothing. Sarah started crying quietly. Dad put his arm around her, but I could see the confusion in his face.

Maybe we were wrong, I said. Maybe he didn’t follow us. Maybe he’s just gone.

Dad didn’t answer.

We went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. I lay there in the dark, listening to the wind howl around the cabin, thinking about those glowing eyes in our backyard.

Around 3:00 in the morning, I heard something. Not knocks—a voice, low and deep, like distant thunder. It was coming from outside, somewhere in the trees behind the cabin. I got up and went to the window. The snow was falling again, heavy flakes swirling in the darkness. And there, barely visible through the storm, I saw him. Bigfoot. He was standing about fifty feet from the cabin, his massive form dark against the white snow. He wasn’t moving, just standing there watching the cabin.

As I watched, he raised one arm and gestured toward the trees. It was unmistakable. He wanted us to follow.

I woke Dad. Together, we pulled on our boots and jackets and slipped out the back door. The cold hit us like a physical force and the wind drove the snow into our faces, but we could still see him ahead of us, moving slowly through the trees. We followed, our flashlights cutting through the storm. He led us deeper into the forest, past places I’d never been before.

After maybe twenty minutes, he stopped. We caught up and stood there, breathing hard, snow covering our shoulders and hair. He was standing next to an old oak tree, its trunk split down the middle by lightning years ago. And at the base of the tree, partially covered by snow, was another Bigfoot—smaller, not moving.

We approached slowly. The smaller Bigfoot was lying on its side, curled up against the base of the tree. Even through the falling snow, I could see it was breathing—shallow and labored. Dad knelt down beside it, brushing snow off its shoulder. “It’s hurt,” he said.

The larger Bigfoot made a sound, low and mournful. It was the saddest thing I’d ever heard. He knelt down on the other side, and I realized what I was seeing. This was his family. The smaller one might have been his mate or a child or a sibling. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he’d brought us here because he trusted us. Because for twenty years, we’d left food for him. Because we’d been kind.

“We need to get her warm,” Dad said. He looked up at me. “Run back to the cabin. Get blankets, the first aid kit, anything we can use.”

I ran through the storm, following our footprints back through the trees, my lungs burning from the cold and the exertion. When I burst through the cabin door, Grandma and Sarah were awake, standing by the fire. “Bigfoot!” I gasped. “He needs help. There’s another one. She’s hurt.”

Grandma didn’t hesitate. She started gathering blankets while Sarah grabbed the first aid kit from under the sink. We ran back together, all of us, carrying everything we could.

When we got back to the oak tree, Dad had cleared more snow away. The injured Bigfoot’s breathing was weaker now. The larger one was making that mournful sound again, over and over. Grandma knelt down and opened the first aid kit. Her hands were shaking, but her face was calm. “We need to keep her warm,” she said. “That’s the most important thing.”

We wrapped the blankets around the injured Bigfoot, tucking them in carefully. Her fur was matted and wet, and there was a wound on her side, deep and red. It looked like she’d been attacked by something with claws—maybe a cougar, maybe something else. Dad used gauze from the first aid kit to clean the wound as best he could. The injured Bigfoot made a small sound, almost like a whimper. The larger one moved closer, reaching out with one massive hand to touch her face gently. It was the most human gesture I’d ever seen from something that wasn’t human.

We stayed there all night, taking turns keeping watch, making sure the blanket stayed in place, checking her breathing. The larger Bigfoot never left her side. He just sat there in the snow, holding her hand, making soft sounds.

As dawn broke, gray light filtering through the storm, the injured Bigfoot’s breathing finally steadied. She opened her eyes, dark and deep, and looked at us. Then she looked at the larger one and made a soft chirping sound. He chirped back.

Grandma smiled, tears on her cheeks. “She’s going to be okay,” she whispered.

We stayed until the sun was fully up, until the storm had passed. Then we carefully stood and backed away, giving them space. The larger Bigfoot stood as we retreated. He was enormous in the morning light, at least eight feet tall, his dark fur glistening with melted snow. He looked at each of us in turn, his eyes intelligent and aware.

Then he did something I’ll never forget. He pressed his right hand to his chest over his heart. Then he pointed at us, then back at his chest. I understood—family. We were family.

Dad nodded. He pressed his own hand to his chest and pointed back. The Bigfoot made a low sound—not mournful this time, but something else. Gratitude, maybe, or acknowledgment. Then he carefully helped the injured one to her feet. She was unsteady, leaning heavily against him, but she could stand. Together, they began walking deeper into the forest, moving slowly. We watched until they disappeared among the trees.

When we got back to the cabin, we were exhausted, frozen, and covered in snow. But something had changed. We’d crossed a line that couldn’t be uncrossed. We’d seen Bigfoot up close—not just his silhouette in the darkness, but his face, his hands, his pain. We’d heard his voice. And we’d helped him.

The rest of that weekend, we didn’t leave the cabin much. We kept the fire going and tried to process what had happened. Sarah asked questions I couldn’t answer. Are there more of them? Where do they live? Why don’t people know about them? I didn’t have answers. None of us did. All we knew was that they were real, they were intelligent, and they’d trusted us.

On Sunday, as we were packing up to leave, I heard three soft knocks on the back door. Not loud and sharp like before, but gentle, almost tentative. I opened the door. There was no one there, but on the step, arranged carefully, were three stones—smooth river stones stacked, one on top of the other, balanced perfectly. A gift. A thank you.

I called Dad and Grandma over. We stood there looking at those stones and Grandma started crying. “He came back to say goodbye,” she said.

That night, back in Portland, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the way Bigfoot had pressed his hand to his chest, the way he’d looked at us with those deep, intelligent eyes. I’d spent my whole childhood thinking of him as something mysterious, almost mythical. But now I understood. He was just a person—not human, but a person with a family, with emotions, with the capacity to trust and to love. And we’d been part of his family for twenty years.

The knocks came back that Thanksgiving. We were at the cabin as always, and right at 10:00, we heard them. Three sharp raps on the back door. Grandma prepared the plate with shaking hands, her face glowing with joy. We left it on the step and waited inside. In the morning, it was gone, clean, just like always.

Things went back to the way they’d been, or at least they seemed to. But something fundamental had changed in me. I couldn’t stop thinking about what we’d seen—about Bigfoot and his injured companion, about the way he’d communicated with us, the stones he’d left as a gift.

I started reading everything I could find about Bigfoot sightings—books from the library, websites, old newspaper articles. I learned about the Patterson-Gimlin film from 1967, about the countless reports from the Pacific Northwest, about the footprint casts and hair samples that never quite proved anything. And I understood why. The people who’d encountered Bigfoot—really encountered him—didn’t want to prove it. They wanted to protect him, just like we did.

I was in college when I made the video. It was 2009, four years after that night in the snow. I was home for Thanksgiving, back at the cabin with the family. After dinner, I took my phone and went outside, trying to be casual about it. I walked into the woods behind the cabin, following the old familiar paths. The sun was setting, casting long shadows through the pines, and that’s when I saw him. Bigfoot was standing near the creek, his back to me, drinking from the water.

Without thinking, I raised my phone and hit record. I got about ten seconds of footage before he heard me. He turned, water dripping from his hands, and looked directly at the camera—directly at me. For a moment, we just stared at each other. Then he shook his head. Not a random movement, but a deliberate gesture. No, don’t.

I lowered the phone. He nodded once, then turned and walked into the deeper forest. I stood there for a long time after he was gone, my phone heavy in my hand.

That night, I almost deleted the video. I should have, but I kept it. I told myself it was because I needed proof, needed evidence for myself that this had all been real. But that wasn’t true. I kept it because I was human. And humans want proof. Humans want to show others. Humans want to be believed.

I never showed it to anyone. The video stayed on my phone, then transferred to my computer, then backed up to a cloud drive, hidden, encrypted, locked away. Because every time I thought about posting it online or showing it to someone, I remembered the way Bigfoot had shaken his head, the trust he’d placed in us, the way he’d pressed his hand to his chest that snowy morning. Family—you don’t betray family.

Sarah got married in 2012. The wedding was beautiful, held in a garden in early September. During her speech at the reception, she talked about family traditions and the importance of staying connected to the people you love. She mentioned the cabin, the Thanksgivings we spent there, the memories we made. She looked at me when she said it, and I knew we were thinking the same thing—about the secret we carried, about the family member who’d never come to a wedding, but who’d been there in his own way for all the important moments.

After the reception, during the cleanup, Sarah pulled me aside. “Do you still have the video?” she asked.

I nodded.

“I’ve never watched it,” she said. “I don’t think I want to, but I’m glad you have it just in case.”

“In case of what?”

“In case we need to remember that it was real. That we didn’t imagine it.”

I understood, because sometimes in the years that followed that night in the snow, I’d wondered the same thing. Had it really happened? Had Bigfoot really led us to his injured companion? Had we really wrapped blankets around a cryptid and saved her life? It seemed impossible, like a dream or a story I’d made up.

But then I’d remember the weight of those blankets in my arms, the sound of that mournful cry, the way the injured Bigfoot’s eyes had looked at us with gratitude and trust, and I’d know it was real.

Dad died in 2015. Heart attack, sudden and quick. We held the funeral in Portland, but we took his ashes up to the cabin. It’s what he would have wanted. Grandma, Sarah, and I made the drive in November, just the three of us. The cabin felt smaller without Dad, emptier.

We scattered his ashes near the creek, in the same spot where we’d found the injured Bigfoot that night. As we stood there in silence, I heard a sound in the trees—a low, mournful cry. The same sound Bigfoot had made that night. Sarah grabbed my hand. Grandma closed her eyes and smiled. “He’s saying goodbye,” Grandma whispered.

We stood there for a long time listening. The cry came again, farther away now, echoing through the forest. Then silence. That night, we didn’t hear the knocks. But in the morning, there were three stones stacked on Dad’s grave marker. Smooth river stones, balanced perfectly. The same gift Bigfoot had left us all those years ago.

I took a photo of those stones. It’s the only picture I’ve ever taken of anything related to our encounters. I keep it on my phone in a folder marked “family,” because that’s what it is—a family photo, a memory of someone who came to say goodbye.

Grandma told me the rest of the story before she died in 2018. We were at her house in Portland, and she knew she didn’t have much time left. Cancer had taken everything from her except her memories and her voice.

“I need to tell you about Bigfoot,” she said one afternoon. “About how it really started.”

I pulled my chair closer to her bed. She told me that when she was young, growing up in Montana in the 1940s, her family had lived in a cabin even more remote than ours. One winter, when she was seven, her little brother got lost in the woods during a snowstorm. The search party looked for two days and found nothing. On the third night, there was a knock at their door. Three sharp raps. When her father opened it, there was her brother, wrapped in pine boughs and moss, unconscious but alive. And standing behind him, barely visible in the storm, was a massive figure covered in fur. Bigfoot had found the boy and brought him home.

After that, Grandma said, “My mother left food out every winter, and every winter the knocks would come. Three times, always at night. It was a debt we owed, a thank you that never ended.” She looked at me with her fading eyes. “When your father and I bought the cabin, I started the tradition again. Because I wanted to honor what that creature had done for my family. I wanted him to know that kindness isn’t forgotten.”

“Did Dad know?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I never told him the whole story. I just said it was something my mother used to do, and I wanted to keep it going. He trusted me. And over the years, it became real. Bigfoot found us. Or maybe it was his son or grandson. I don’t know how long they live. But the connection stayed.”

She paused, breathing slowly.

“That night, you helped the injured one. That meant everything. You didn’t just repay the debt. You became part of something bigger. You showed that humans can be kind, can be trusted.”

“Do you think he’s still out there?” I asked.

“I know he is,” Grandma said. “And he’ll remember you. Remember all of us. That’s how Bigfoot works. They remember. They don’t forget.”

She died three days later. We buried her next to Dad, and we took her ashes to the cabin that November. When we scattered them by the creek, I heard that familiar mournful cry in the distance. And in the morning, there were three stones on her grave marker. I left the stones there. They’re probably still there now, unless the weather’s knocked them over. But even if they’re gone, the memory isn’t. I carry it with me every day. The memory of a family tradition that became something real, something important, something that changed how I see the world.

I don’t go to the cabin anymore. Sarah and I sold it in 2019 after Grandma died. It felt wrong to keep going without her. The new owners are nice people—a young couple from Seattle. I didn’t tell them about Bigfoot. How could I? They’d think I was crazy. Or worse, they’d go looking for him, cameras in hand, ready to prove to the world that cryptids exist. I couldn’t let that happen.

Sometimes I wonder if Bigfoot still goes there—if he knocks on the back door at 10:00 on Thanksgiving night, expecting to find a plate of food. I wonder if the new owners hear him and think it’s the wind, or if they’ve started their own tradition, leaving food without understanding why. I hope they do. I hope somehow they feel that pull, that connection.

I still have the video—ten seconds of shaky footage showing a massive figure drinking from a creek. You can’t see his face clearly, can’t see any details that would prove what he is. Just a large shape covered in dark fur moving with impossible grace through the forest. Sometimes I watch it late at night when I can’t sleep. I zoom in on different parts, trying to see more, but the resolution is too low, the lighting too poor. It’s just another blobby Bigfoot video, the kind that fills YouTube and never convinces anyone of anything.

I could post it. I could upload it to the internet and let the world pick it apart, analyze it, debate it. Maybe it would go viral. Maybe people would believe. But I won’t, because that would break the trust. And family doesn’t break trust.

Last Thanksgiving, I was alone in my apartment in Portland. Sarah was with her husband’s family in California. The cabin was someone else’s now. Dad and Grandma were gone. It was just me, a TV dinner, and a bottle of wine.

Around 10:00, I heard three soft knocks on my apartment door. My heart stopped. I stood up slowly and walked to the door. Through the peephole, I could see the empty hallway. Nobody there. I opened the door. The hallway was quiet and bright. No massive figure, no glowing eyes, just fluorescent lights and worn carpet. But on my doormat, arranged carefully, were three stones—smooth river stones balanced one on top of the other.

I knelt down and touched them gently. They were cold. Real. There.

I looked up and down the hallway, but it was empty. I brought the stones inside and set them on my kitchen table. I sat there for a long time, just looking at them, tears running down my face.

He’d found me. Bigfoot had found me. Even here, miles from the forest, far from the cabin and the creek and the woods where we’d shared that impossible night. He’d found me because that’s what family does. Family finds you. Family remembers. Family doesn’t forget.

The stones are still on my table. I’ll keep them there. And every Thanksgiving at 10:00, I’ll remember. I’ll remember the knocks, the smell of wet fur, the mournful cry in the snow. I’ll remember trust and kindness and the secret we kept.

I’ll remember Bigfoot.

And I’ll be grateful that for a little while, I was part of something bigger than myself. Something real.