I Caught Footage of What Bigfoot Does with Human Bodies – Shocking Sasquatch Discovery
The Gravekeeper of Schemania County
My name’s Ray Dobson. I’m 58 now, and this is November 2025—cold rain tapping on my trailer roof as I speak. I shouldn’t be telling this, but it’s been eleven years. Back in late September 2014, early bow season, I was just another hunter who thought legends were for tourists. I’d sit in the Gifford Pinchot timber, listening to wind in the firs and the distant log trucks, thinking about elk and my mortgage. Not monsters.
.
.
.
The night everything changed was quiet—too quiet. No crickets, no owls, just that damp smell of moss and old earth. What stuck with me most was a sour, wet fur smell I’d never noticed before. I know what people think when they hear “Bigfoot.” I used to laugh right along with them. Now I’ve got footage I won’t show anyone. And a cavern in my head I can’t stop walking back into.
Inside the Timberline Tap Room, there’s a different kind of quiet. Glasses clink. Neon beer sign buzzes. Classic rock leaks from the jukebox. Underneath, you can still hear rain on the tin awning if you listen.
I was at my usual corner table, bowcase propped against the wall, hands wrapped around a sweating bottle of Rainier. The place smelled like spilled beer, fryer grease, and wet wool from guys coming in out of the drizzle. Normal. Safe.
Sheriff Dan Hower sat on the next stool, talking low with a couple loggers. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but in a small bar, everything travels. I caught the words “old cemetery,” “dug up,” and “not like coyotes.” One of the loggers laughed—an uneasy laugh men use when they’re scared of sounding scared. “Probably that Bigfoot crap again,” he said. Tourists love it. Everybody chuckled. I did too, shaking my head. Graves get messed with all the time—kids, bears, whatever. I told myself that, twice in my head, like it made it truer.
Still, when I stepped outside, the night felt thicker. The mist smelled like cold river and fresh turned dirt. A semi rolled by on Highway 14, its brakes hissing. Then the sound fell away into the trees.
Driving home with the wipers thudding, I kept seeing that cemetery in my mind. I told myself it was nothing, just talk. That night, lying in bed, I woke to a heavy thud against the back wall of the trailer. Then another, then a third—three knocks, spaced out like someone thinking about each one. I told myself it was just a loose branch in the wind, but the air inside tasted like damp earth. I never did figure out what those three knocks were.
Most mornings out there started the same: thermos of coffee, shotgun on the rack, truck heater clicking and wheezing as it tried to keep up. Gravel pinged the undercarriage as I eased up the logging road. Radio off. Just the hum of the engine and the muted shuffle of the tires. The forest smelled like wet cedar and diesel. Needles glistened under a low sky that never quite made up its mind to rain.
I checked my trail cams one after another, little red LEDs winking when I popped them open. Just deer, elk, one neighbor’s cow that liked to wander. At the second gate, I ran into Ranger Kelly Ruiz. Her rig idled, hood steaming in the chill. We leaned on my tailgate, hands wrapped around travel mugs. Wind hissed through the tops of the firs like static.
“You hearing any weird reports up your way?” she asked.
“Just the cemetery thing,” I said. “Sheriff says kids or bears. I’m leaning bears.”
She shrugged, eyes on the tree line. “We’ve had some calls, people saying they heard knocks. Whoops. You know, Bigfoot stuff.” She said it like a joke, but her jaw was tight.
I snorted. “Yeah, well, Bigfoot’s welcome to pay my mortgage if it’s out there.” I told myself it was nothing. People get cabin fever. They start hearing things.
Later that afternoon, moving through the timber with my bow, the woods went oddly still. No bird chatter, just the creak of a high branch rubbing another. The faint tick of water dripping from moss. I caught a whiff of that same sour wet fur smell from the other night. I stood there, breath steaming, watching my own exhale drift away like smoke. I didn’t see anything. No movement, no sound but the wind.
But going back through the footage that evening, laptop fan humming on my kitchen table, my thumb hovered over the trackpad a long time. There was a patch of shadow on one frame that didn’t match the others—too tall, too upright. I told myself it was just a tree trunk, but shadows don’t move between frames. And I couldn’t explain why my hands smelled faintly like grave dirt after a day I’d never gone near the cemetery.
There’s a little family plot up one spur road, small, fenced with rusted wire. Old stones sunk sideways, newer ones bright and smooth. My wife Jenny is up in town, proper cemetery. But that little hillside had always made me uneasy. Maybe because it’s half-forgotten.
That week, I’d dropped a big doe on a legal tag, dressed her out, and hung her from a gambrel in a locked shed on a private lot I lease. Next morning, I drove up at dawn. Frost edged the grass. Breath hung white in front of my face. The forest was quiet, just the distant rumble of a log truck down in the valley.
When I opened the shed, the chain was hanging loose. The gambrel was swinging empty, squeaking softly. No blood on the floor. No drag marks, just a faint scuff like something tall had ducked under the doorway. And that smell—wet fur and turned earth—stronger here, making the back of my throat prickle.
“Bear got lucky,” I muttered. Smart bear. I said “bear” out loud three times. It didn’t fit.
On the way back, curiosity pulled me toward that little family cemetery. The wire fence clicked when I unhooked it, wind making the dry grass hiss. A crow barked once and went silent. One of the newer graves, 2012, had a long, narrow trench at the head, like something had burrowed down and then backed out. Dirt piled on one side. No paw prints, no claw marks, just big deep impressions, heel to toe, like bare feet spaced wide apart.
I crouched, breath fogging the prints, heart hammering in my ears. “Damn kids,” I whispered, though no kid I knew had feet that big.
That night, back in my trailer, the fridge hummed and clicked, cycling on and off. I sat at the table cleaning my rifle, TV flickering silent in the corner. Phone buzzed—text from my daughter Megan asking if I could come to her school thing next week. I told her I’d try. I stared a long time at those words before hitting send.
Around midnight, just when I’d finally drifted, there came three knocks again on the back wall. Slow, deliberate. I lay there holding my breath, telling myself it was thermal cracking in the wood. That’s all. But the air smelled like wet fur and dirt again, just for a moment.
I never did find where that doe went.
The sound of rain on the roof can be comforting. That night, it felt like someone drumming their fingers above my head. The trailer ticked and settled. The refrigerator hummed. The clock over the sink clicked each second. I had my old laptop open, SD cards spread out like a gambler’s hand. One trail cam had pinged way more times than usual. I told myself it was just elk traffic, maybe a stray hunter.
The first clips were nothing—branches moving, a raccoon waddling past, a spike bull. Then came one timestamped 2:13 a.m., two nights after the missing doe. The woods were washed in dim infrared, all gray tones. The mic hissed softly with static. Far left of the frame, between two firs, something stepped in. It filled that gap like a moving tree. Shoulders too wide, head brushing a low branch. The wet fur smell came back to me so strong I almost gagged just looking at it.
My thumb hovered over pause. Whatever it was, it walked upright, smooth, deliberate. It stopped, turned toward the camera like it knew exactly where it was, then kept going, out of frame. I rewound that clip so many times the laptop got hot on my knees. Finally, I pushed my chair back, heart pounding.
“Someone screwing with me,” I muttered. “Some idiot in a suit, some Bigfoot nut.” I said it half as an insult. But who breaks into a locked shed, takes a 120-pound doe without a sound, then goes joywalking in the dark in a costume on posted land?
I went to the door twice that night, checking the deadbolt. Stood on the porch with a flashlight, beam catching the mist, the distant whoosh of cars on the highway, the soft drip of water off the roof. Nobody there.
I told myself I’d go back up in daylight, check for bootprints, find the prankster. But I slept in my clothes with the gun leaning by the bed, listening to the fridge, the rain, and the silence between.
I never found any bootprints that matched.
The cemetery in town where Jenny’s buried is lit at night by one of those sodium lamps—ugly orange light buzzing like a mosquito in your ear. The air up there smells like cut grass and exhaust from the road. Safe in a way.
The little hill cemetery out near my lease is different. No lights, just a sagging fence and a few plastic flowers faded to gray. On clear nights, the stars feel close enough to touch, but the darkness between them is thick.
I parked below the rise, engine off, hood ticking as it cooled. The only sounds were a distant dog barking, a faint owl hoot, and my own heartbeat in my ears.
I’d brought my binoculars, my old Sony camcorder, and a thermos of coffee. I told myself I was there to catch grave robbers—teenagers, maybe some messed-up methheads. Not, you know, Bigfoot.
Around midnight, the temperature dropped hard. My breath steamed. The coffee went lukewarm in the cup. Somewhere in the trees, a branch snapped. I eased the binoculars up. The hilltop was just grass and stones and shadows. Then, from the far side of the cemetery, I caught that smell again. Wet fur, damp soil. It rode the air like fog.
I hit record on the camcorder, the plastic buttons loud in my own ears. The red light glowed.
For a long time, nothing moved—just the wind and the dry grass making a soft “sh” sound. Then the grass on the far edge parted like someone tall was pushing through it. I saw nothing clear, just a suggestion of height, of bulk. The plastic flowers near one grave trembled. Dirt shifted.
Sheriff Dan’s voice came back to me. Not like coyotes.
My hands shook. I told myself it was dark. Eyes play tricks.
From up on that hill, something gave a low, almost human sigh. The camcorder mic picked it up just barely. I replayed it in my head all night. I never did get a clear view of who or what was moving that dirt.
Thanksgiving week. Megan was with her mom. The trailer felt too quiet. So I went back up. I told myself it was just to lock my gates, maybe check a cam. Truth is, I couldn’t stop thinking about that sigh on the tape.
The sky was cold black. No moon, just a spray of stars. My boots crunched on frozen mud. The air smelled metallic, like cold iron and old leaves. My breath came in little clouds that vanished quick.
I’d set a new trail cam on a tree overlooking the path past the cemetery, pointed toward the timber. This time, I brought my camcorder and a night vision scope I’d borrowed from a buddy.
Around 2:00 a.m., the crickets cut out. The whole hillside went dead silent. Even the distant highway noise seemed to fade. Then came that wet fur and earth smell—strong enough to taste.
Through the scope, the world turned green and grainy. That’s when I saw it. Tall, broad, walking upright along the fence line with a shape in its arms—the way you’d carry a sleeping child.
The body. It was a body. I will go to my grave saying that—hung limp, bare feet, a pale hand swinging. I remember my own hand clamping over my mouth, my breath fogging the eyepiece, my shoulder pressed against the cold truck door.
The Bigfoot—and I hate how natural that word feels now—stepped over the fence like it was nothing. Grass bent under its weight. It never stumbled. It moved into the tree line, careful, cradling that body. I heard no twigs snap, just a deep rhythmic crunch of its steps fading into the forest.
I fumbled the camcorder, thumb mashed on record, but I only caught a few seconds. A shape between trees, that arm, that hand. Maybe it was someone passed out. Maybe it was a dummy. I told myself every version of that until dawn.
Somewhere beyond the trees, something gave a low two-note whoop that echoed through my chest.
I never figured out if that body was newly dead or long gone.
Winter in the gorge is mostly gray and damp, but that year we got real snow. It muffled everything. Trucks on the highway sounded distant, like toys pushed across carpet. My trailer walls held the cold. The heater clicked on and off, struggling.
I stopped thinking of myself as a hunter and more like—well, a guard trying to watch a prison he couldn’t see. Every spare minute I was either in the woods or hunched over my laptop, the fan whirring, trail cam clips stuttering across the screen.
A pattern started to show. Fresh graves in that hill cemetery—and in two others further out—would be fine for a week or so. Then on a stormy night, the cameras near the tree line would trigger. Always between 1 and 3:00 a.m., always that wet fur soil smell lingering where it had passed. Always that low, distant two-note whoop sometime after.
I told myself I was doing this to protect the town, stop some sick freak. But when I watched the footage frame by frame, my chest tightened. In one clip under blowing snow, you can see a tall shape standing still for almost a full minute beside a headstone. Its shoulders rise and fall like it’s breathing hard. It reaches out slow, hesitant, and brushes snow off the name on the stone.
I won’t say the name here, but I recognized the family.
“That’s a Bigfoot,” I whispered to myself in the dark kitchen, the fridge humming beside me. “That’s a damn Bigfoot.”
Saying it out loud didn’t make it less real.
I started leaving apples on a stump just beyond my gate. A stupid idea, but I had to know if it noticed me. They went missing three times. No tracks I could follow, just faint impressions in the moss, too vague to prove anything. On the third morning, a single crow feather was stuck under my wiper blade. Black, wet, gleaming. No footprints in the frosty gravel.
I told myself it was the wind. But when I picked that feather up, the smell of damp fur and dirt rose around me just for a second, like someone very large had just stepped away.
I still don’t know if the apples meant anything.
The thaw came and with it the mud. Boots sucked at the ground with each step. Fog hung low, glowing faintly in my head. The forest smelled like rot and new growth layered over that now familiar wet fur note hovering somewhere ahead.
A storm had undercut the bank near a small church cemetery down the county road. Half the town talked about it at the diner. Bones going to wash out if they don’t fix that slope. I just listened, stomach turning.
That night, I parked far back off the road, engine off, the tick of cooling metal loud as gunshots in the quiet. I waited. Around 1:30 a.m., the two-note whoop floated through the trees, closer than I’d ever heard it. My whole body went cold.
Through the night vision scope, there it was, stepping carefully along the edge of the cemetery, head swinging like it was watching the eroded bank. Then it dropped to its knees—big dark shape—and started pulling at the dirt with both hands. Dirt showered downhill in sheets. No wild flailing, just steady work.
When it stood again, it cradled a shape to its chest. Smaller this time, wrapped in cloth or a bag.
I followed. I know how insane that sounds. I know people will say I should have called the sheriff, the news, somebody. But I couldn’t picture Dan Hower tripping through those woods with a flashlight and a gun, bumping into whatever that was.
My boots slid on wet rocks as I stayed back, keeping the headlamp off, following only the green glow of the scope. Branches scraped my jacket. A creek chattered over stones somewhere to my right.
The Bigfoot—can’t call it anything else anymore—moved with a weird mix of power and care. Stepping over logs, ducking under branches so the shape in its arms never bumped. We climbed higher. The air got colder. My lungs burned, breath harsh and loud in my ears.
Then the trees opened up into a narrow ravine. I killed the scope for a second and saw with my own eyes a dark hole in the rock, half-covered by ferns and roots. The Bigfoot ducked inside, taking that body with it.
I stopped thirty yards back, heart hammering, mud soaking through my knees as I crouched. The smell coming out of that hole was like wet stone, old leaves, and something sweet, like dried flowers layered over the now familiar musk.
I told myself to turn back, to leave it alone. Instead, I hit record. I never did understand why I kept going forward. I only went a few yards in. My body wouldn’t let me go further. That’s the truth. People imagine they’d be brave. But once the dark wraps around you like water, things change.
The rock under my hands was slick. Water dripped steadily from somewhere above, landing in a shallow pool with a patient plink. Plink, plink.
The camcorder screen threw a sickly gray light onto the walls. The smell hit me first—not rot like you’d expect, more like an old cellar that used to be a flower shop. Damp stone, a faint sweetness, and under all of it that heavy wet fur musk.
My eyes adjusted. Shapes emerged. Along the walls, on natural rock ledges and in shallow niches were bodies. I’m not going to describe them—not how they looked. That’s not the point, and I’ve got no interest in turning this into some horror show.
What matters is, they were arranged. Each one laid out straight, arms folded or at sides. Some had ferns laid across the chest. Others had little stacks of pebbles by their hands. One had a row of crow feathers fanned out above the head. No gnaw marks. No scattering. No sign of an animal cache.
I remember the sound of my own breathing on the tape, ragged and fast. Then I saw her ring. On a finger catching the dim light was a silver band with a dent in the side where Megan had dropped it years ago. The same as my wife Jenny’s wedding band?
My knees went out. The camcorder tilted, frame sliding off the ledges and down to the damp floor. Had the bank in town eroded? Had some storm exposed her grave? Had I been so busy watching this hill that I’d missed what was happening to my own family? I still don’t know. The dates don’t line up right. I’ve checked more than once.
Something shifted in the dark across the cavern. A massive shadow moved between ledges. A low rolling sound started up, almost like someone humming through a chest full of gravel. Not angry, not pleased—just there.
The camcorder picked up a silhouette then. Broad shoulders, long arms, head down. The Bigfoot walked slowly along the ledges, touching a foot here, a hand there, careful not to disturb anything. At one point, it paused beside the one with the feathers. The wet fur smell wafted toward me on a draft. It made a sound like an exhale that turned into a moan.
“That’s a Bigfoot,” I whispered, tears in my eyes, voice shaking. “That’s a Bigfoot, and it’s—it’s grieving.”
I don’t know if grieving is the right word. It’s the only one I’ve got. The silhouette turned very slowly in my direction. I never saw its face, just the shape of a head, the slope of shoulders, the impression of height against the rock. We stayed like that for two, maybe three breaths. The dripping water kept its slow rhythm. Then it stepped back out of the direct line of sight and the humming stopped.
I backed out of that cave without turning my back fully, boots slipping, heart in my throat. I never have figured out if it knew exactly who I was.
I went back once more. Just once. A storm had rolled in from the west. Wind tearing at the treetops, rain slanting in sheets. Trees groaned, one somewhere far off, cracking and falling with a long crash. The sky flashed and thunder rolled down the hills.
I told myself I was checking for landslides. I told myself the cave might flood, that those bodies might wash down into some creek where kids played. Truth is, I couldn’t stop thinking about my wife’s ring and whether my mind had finally snapped.
I reached the ravine, soaked through, water squelching in my boots. The entrance to the cavern was harder to see in the heavy rain. The smell was stronger now—like damp fur, wet rocks, and that strange sweet note.
I stayed outside this time, crouched behind a fallen log, camcorder braced on it, rain pattering off my hood. Lightning flashed, lighting the ravine in stark white for half a second. The cave mouth flickered like a blinking eye.
Then I saw movement. The Bigfoot emerged, hunched against the rain, carrying something in both arms. It took me a second to understand—not a body this time, but a coffin lid broken loose, clutched to its chest like a shield. Behind it, in the cave mouth, I could just make out shapes—those same ledges, but fewer bodies than before, some empty spaces where they’d been.
The Bigfoot laid the coffin lid gently against the ravine wall, then turned back into the cave. When it came out again, it held a bundle, not large, wrapped carefully in what looked like a blanket or torn tarp. Lightning flashed again. In that split second, I saw its hands—big, yes, but gentle in the way they cradled that bundle, protecting it from the rain.
That’s what shocked me more than anything else. Not the bodies, not the cavern—the care. I’d spent months telling myself I was watching some monster stash trophies, but what I saw through the lash of rain and the hiss of wind through the firs was more like a caretaker of the dead.
I know how crazy that sounds. I hate hearing myself say it.
The Bigfoot paused at the mouth of the cave, head turning like it was scenting the air. My heart stopped. The camcorder’s little red light blinked. Then, from somewhere behind me, a branch snapped under my weight. I flinched. The Bigfoot’s head snapped in my direction.
The sound that came out of it then wasn’t a roar—not like movies—more like a deep, panicked bellow, rising and falling, echoing off the ravine walls. My whole body locked up. For a second, I thought it was coming for me, but it didn’t step closer. Instead, it pivoted, clutching the bundle tighter, and vanished back into the cave. Lightning flashed one more time. The entrance glowed and then went dark.
I sat there in the pouring rain, the camcorder still running, my breath ragged on the audio.
“That’s a Bigfoot,” I whispered, voice breaking. “That’s a Bigfoot, and it’s trying to save them from us.”
I never did press any further into that cavern after that night.
You’d think after seeing something like that, you’d tell someone. Sheriff, Ranger, news station, your pastor. I tried. I sat in my truck outside the sheriff’s office, engine idling, listening to the blower fan and the ticking of the turn signal I’d forgotten to turn off. People walked in and out, doors opening with little bursts of office noise, phones ringing, printers whirring.
What was I going to say? “Hey, Dan. I found a cave where a Bigfoot keeps human bodies like some kind of funeral home.” I pictured the look he’d give me, the quiet calls to check if I’d been drinking again, if the grief over Jenny had finally cracked me. I put the truck in drive and went home.
Nights got worse. The fridge cycling on would jerk me awake. The heater clicking felt like footsteps in the hall. I’d sit on the edge of the bed, listening to the wind rubbing a loose branch on the roof, telling myself it was just weather. Sometimes half asleep, I’d smell that wet fur and earth smell and bolt upright, heart pounding. The smell would be gone by the time I fully woke. Maybe it was in my head. Or maybe it hung on me from that cave and never really left.
Megan noticed. “You look rough, Dad,” she said one Sunday on my couch, TV murmuring some game show in the background.
“You’re checking the door like every five minutes.”
“I’m just being careful,” I said. “Been some grave vandalism out our way.”
She made a face.
“Could be people,” I said. “Could be some Bigfoot nut. I don’t know.” The word “Bigfoot” tasted different then—less like a joke, more like a secret between me and something that could crush me like a soda can, but chose not to.
I lied to Ranger Ruiz when she asked if I’d seen anything. Told her my cams had been quiet.
I started sleeping with the camcorder on the nightstand, SD card tucked under the tray where I keep my keys. I made two backup copies and hid them in places I won’t share here.
I told myself I was protecting the town from panic. Protecting Megan from growing up with a dad on YouTube as that crazy Bigfoot corpse guy. But there was another layer I don’t like admitting. I think I was protecting the Bigfoot, too. I never did decide if that makes me sane or complicit.
Time does a strange thing when you’re trying not to think about something. Whole years go by and you’re still circling the same night. I sold my lease on that timber lot—too many excuses to go back. Moved my trailer closer to town where the street lights smear everything orange and you can hear trucks downshifting on the grade at all hours.
The forest is still there, but it’s a darker smear on a distant ridge instead of my backyard. I stopped hunting that drainage. Told the guys at the bar I was just getting old—knees not what they used to be. They razzed me. Called me a softy.
Someone said, “What? You scared of that Bigfoot talk now?” I laughed too loud.
Sometimes on errands, I’d take the long way home, drive the road past the Hill Cemetery. The wipers squeaked across the windshield, radio catching and losing some country station, turning the singer’s voice into static and ghosts.
From the road, the cemetery looks normal. Grass, stones, plastic flowers that never rot. There were a couple of bad storms those years. People talked about minor slides, but nothing like what I’d feared. No reports of bodies washing out, no mass grave headlines.
Once in 2019, I pulled into the wide spot by the trailhead that leads eventually toward that ravine. Just sat there with the engine off. The forest smelled like rain and pine sap through the cracked window. Somewhere back in the trees, a woodpecker knocked—rapid fire. Ordinary, the way sound carries in those woods.
I closed my eyes and listened for a second, just a heartbeat. I thought I heard that two-note whoop way off, like it had to push through miles of timber and time to get to me. Maybe I imagined it. Maybe it was just some truck’s brake squealing in the right rhythm. I put the truck in gear and drove away without getting out.
I never did go back on foot, so that’s why you’re hearing my voice on this old digital recorder now. The rain’s lighter tonight. You can probably hear the soft patter on the roof and the low hum of the fridge. The porch light throws this weak yellow cone onto the gravel. Beyond that, just darkness and the faint silhouette of the tree line.
I still have the footage. Not all of it. Some I deleted in a panic years back, but enough. The clip of the Bigfoot walking between the graves, carrying that limp arm, the grainy cavern shot where you can just see the ledges, the ferns, the shapes, the lightning flash catching it with that bundle in its arms.
Sometimes I think about uploading it. Let the whole world see. Make them carry this weight with me. But I picture helicopters over the forest, news vans at the trailhead, men with guns and tranquilizers tromping into that ravine. I picture that cavern ripped open, bodies hauled out under blue tarps, the Bigfoot hunted down or locked away.
And then I think about the way it brushed snow off a headstone. The way it shielded that bundle from the rain.
I say Bigfoot now the way you’d say a person’s name you don’t fully understand. Not a punchline, not a monster—just something that knows more about our dead than we do.
Last week, I was almost asleep when I woke up to a sound on the wall behind my bed. Knock. Five, six seconds of silence, my heart pounding. Knock. Another long pause. I held my breath. Knock. Same slow rhythm as before. Three knocks. The air smelled just faintly, like damp fur and distant graves.
I got up, stood at the back door with my hand on the knob, listening to the wind in the trees, to the quiet tick of the kitchen clock, to my own blood rushing in my ears. I didn’t open it. I just stood there. And after a while, the smell faded, and the night went back to ordinary noises.
Maybe it was the house settling. Maybe my brain’s finally stitching old fear onto new sounds. Or maybe that Bigfoot was reminding me that I’m not the only one keeping a secret.
I still hear those three knocks some nights, just as I’m drifting off. I never know if they’re real, or just the sound of that cavern closing behind me one last time.
