Security Guard Reveals Truth About Government’s Bigfoot Operation – Shocking Sasquatch Experiment

Three Knocks in the Dark

My name’s Ray Molina, and by the time you hear this, I’ll probably be gone. I was a night security guard up near Randall, Washington, in the foothills of Mount St. Helens, starting October 2009. Cold rain, dark fir trees, nothing remarkable.

I shouldn’t be telling this, but it’s been years and my lungs are shot and my daughter deserves the truth. People hear “Bigfoot” and they roll their eyes. I did, too. For eight years, I laughed off that Bigfoot talk while I badged in for the night shift at a place the government pretended didn’t exist.

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What changed wasn’t some movie moment. It was a noise: three slow knocks on steel. I remember the smell of bleach and wet fur drifting down that bright white hallway, the buzz of the fluorescent lights, and me standing there with my clipboard realizing the sound was coming from inside the secured animal wing. I know how it sounds. But I still hear those three knocks.

You can probably hear the rain on the roof in this recording. That’s what it sounded like back then, too. Hitting the hood of my ’99 Ford, wipers smearing pine needles as I drove that lonely road to the lab.

The Lab With No Name

November 2009, outside Randall, Washington. Midnight with steady rain coming down like it always did that time of year. The place didn’t have a name on the sign. Just USDA Research Facility 42B and a keypad gate. I wore a cheap uniform, carried a sidearm, and kept a spiral notebook with times and license plates. Ordinary work, quiet work, the kind where you spend more time awake than thinking.

Local guys at the Cedar Mart would sit around the coffee pot talking about Bigfoot sightings up along the river. Big rocks thrown at tents, whoops in the treeline, shadows moving between cedars at dusk. I’d laugh, say, “Yeah, your Bigfoot just likes Busch Light.” I didn’t believe in Bigfoot. I believed in overtime pay and keeping the lights on for Maya, my daughter, who was seven and asked too many questions I couldn’t answer.

But the first week, standing under that amber security light, I heard those woods. Just wind, I told myself. Just branches scraping concrete and animals doing animal things. Then around 2:00 in the morning, when the generator hum was low and my radio was quiet, I heard it. Three slow knocks somewhere beyond the fence, out past the gravel service road where the treeline went black.

I wrote “possible woodpecker” in the log. I’ve never heard a woodpecker that heavy since. Never heard one knock in sets of three with rhythm like that. Like something with intention. And I still wonder what was knocking back there in the dark, standing just outside the light, patient as stone.

In the Halls

February 2010. Mount St. Helens foothills. Graveyard shift with freezing fog rolling in off the ridge. They told us 42B was a livestock research site. Disease control. Nothing exciting. Agricultural stuff. Biocurity protocols. The kind of government work that makes your eyes glaze over when you try to explain it at a barbecue.

But we had an animal wing. You needed two key cards and a palm scan to enter. And I never once saw a cow go in there. Never saw a pig, a sheep. Nothing you’d call livestock in eight years.

We had dew on the inside of the window some mornings. Condensation beading up on glass that should have been dry. Smelled like bleach and something under the chemicals. Something organic. Like a wet dog that hadn’t seen sunlight. That wet fur smell stuck in the back of your throat, made you want to clear it every time you walked that hallway.

Other guards joked about it. “Must be where they keep the government Bigfoot,” they’d say, grinning over coffee like it was a punchline. I laughed, too. “Yeah, Bigfoot on a taxpayer payroll, drawing benefits.” I didn’t believe in Bigfoot. I believed in air filters not being changed enough and ventilation systems older than my truck.

One night I’m doing rounds. Standard sweep, checking doors, logging temperatures. I pass the double doors to the animal wing. Red sign: “No unauthorized entry.” My reflection pale in the little wired glass window. Inside, just sterile light. Quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you notice your own breathing.

Then through the concrete, like someone knocking on the foundation of the world. Three knocks. Slow, heavy, deliberate. The metal door trembled under my hand when I touched it. I felt it in my wristbones, up through my elbow, a vibration that didn’t match anything mechanical I knew.

I told myself it was machinery cycling. Wrote “pipe noise” in the log, black ink on white paper, my handwriting smaller than usual. And I walked away with my heart hammering, boots squeaking on polished floor, wondering what kind of machine knocks three times like a polite neighbor asking to be let in.

At Home

September 2011, Randall, Washington, 9:30 in the evening with early fall settling in and crickets singing their last songs before frost. My nights off were simple. Old yellow lamp over the kitchen table, stack of bills sorted into piles, Maya’s school drawings taped to the fridge with alphabet magnets. One was this big brown stick figure with giant feet and sad eyes drawn in crayon. “That’s Bigfoot,” she said. “We learned about Bigfoot at school.”

I laughed. “Bigfoot’s just a story, kiddo.” Something folks say when they hear a raccoon in the trash or a bear knocking over garbage cans. I didn’t want her scared of the woods. I didn’t want to be the kind of dad who talked about monsters hiding in trees.

The TV behind us ran some cheap documentary. Shaky footage of dark shapes between trees, people whispering “Bigfoot” like it meant everything. Like saying the name out loud would make it real. It made me tired. I thought about the lab, about that animal wing, about that wet fur smell that never washed out of my jacket no matter how many times I ran it through the machine.

Later that night, I stood on the back porch, smoking in my socks. The porch light buzzed and flickered, throwing yellow light across the yard. The woods were just black shapes beyond the fence. Smell of wet leaves, the faint metallic scent of the river half a mile away. Cold air that tasted like coming snow.

I heard footsteps in the brush. Heavy, deliberate, not the quick scatter of deer. Then silence, complete silence, like the forest was holding its breath. “Deer,” I told myself. Just a deer, maybe an elk passing through. I didn’t believe in Bigfoot. Not at my house, not in my yard, not where Maya slept.

When I went back in, right as I slid the deadbolt, there were three soft knocks on the back wall. Clear as day. Maya slept through it, her breathing steady from the room down the hall. I lay awake staring at the ceiling, wondering who or what knocks on drywall from the outside at 2 in the morning.

The Evidence

April 2012, service road behind facility 42B. Dawn with light drizzle turning everything gray and soft. We’d had three nights of rain. The gravel road out back turned to brown soup, puddles reflecting flat white sky. I was doing shift change, clipboard under my arm, boots already soaked through.

That’s when I saw the prints. They came out of the treeline, crossed the soft edge of the road, and stopped at the inside of the perimeter fence. Each one was wide, long—longer than my forearm. No tread, no boot heel, just bare, clean impressions with a kind of toe spread you only see on a barefoot sprint in sand. Except this was muddy clay, deep, deliberate, like something heavy had walked slow and careful.

I stood there, breath clouding in front of my face, telling myself this had to be some kind of hoax. Maybe the dayshift guys were messing with me. Maybe the scientists were doing stress testing for fun, seeing how security would react to manufactured evidence. Real funny, I called toward the trees. My voice sounded small, swallowed by fog and distance.

I wrote in the log: “unidentified large tracks discovered, possible prank.” I did not write the word Bigfoot. I remember thinking, I don’t do that Bigfoot stuff. I don’t believe in Bigfoot. I’m not one of those people who sees patterns in mud and calls it proof.

But the mud stank like disturbed earth and wild must. Something animal and old. And somewhere inside the building, faint through the concrete and rebar, I heard it again. Three dull knocks. Not pipes, not machinery. Something alive. Something deliberate.

The Truth

August 2013, control room B at 42B, 1:15 in the morning. My supervisor had me fill in on camera duty while the tech went for a smoke. One feed labeled “B sublevel holding three” showed a white wall and a steel door with a little slot near the bottom. There was a stack of external hard drives and old DVDs in the corner. Dusty cases with Sharpie labels: “Bioacoustic trial 7. Sasquatch vocal loop 3. Subject response audio 14.”

Half of me thought they were just using “Sasquatch” as a joke project name. You know how places do that. Code names that sound ridiculous on purpose. I clicked one out of boredom, headphones on. The sound that came out was low, mournful, rising like a siren, then dropping into silence. Then another, shorter, closer, then a third. Three in a row. Same rhythm, same desperate quality.

My skin went tight. The hair on my arms stood up. “Field recordings,” the tech said when he came back. He saw what I was listening to and smirked. “You’re not one of those Bigfoot guys, are you?” Like it was a test. Like believing would disqualify me from being taken seriously. I said, “I don’t believe in Bigfoot. I just work doors.” But my voice shook more than I liked.

On the monitor, something made the camera hitch like whatever was behind that door had hit the wall hard enough to shake the mount. There was no audio on that feed, just the tiny shake and the flicker of the overhead light. Then, faintly through the ductwork above us, I heard it. Three heavy knocks, clear, rhythmic. The tech didn’t react, just sipped his coffee and adjusted a dial. Maybe he didn’t hear it. Maybe he’d learned not to hear it.

The Parent

May 2015, sublevel B corridor at 42B. Stormy night with thunder rolling across the foothills. They briefed us in a tiny room with a flickering projector. No phones, no notes. Sign the sheet on your way out. A man in a suit I’d never seen before called it a behavioral response trial. Another scientist slipped and said, “the shocking Sasquatch experiment,” then laughed like it was nothing, like we all knew what we were doing here and the code words didn’t matter anymore.

They never used the word Bigfoot on the slides. Just “specimen” and a string of letters and numbers. Test protocol 914C. Subject bio-response threshold. Cold phrases that turned living things into data points. But we all knew what the guys in town would have called whatever was behind those doors.

My job was simple. Guard the sublevel corridor while they ran the test. Keep unauthorized personnel out. Log the time. I heard the equipment warming up. A low electronic whine like a big TV left on mute. Getting higher, sharper. A sharp, clean smell filled the hallway, like ozone after lightning, like the air before something breaks.

Then through the heavy door of holding three came a sound that cut right through the concrete. A deep guttural roar, then three hard knocks, metal on metal. The floor trembled under my boots. Dust shook loose from the ceiling tiles. I put my hand on the door, could feel the vibration up my arm, like a train going by far underground, like something massive hitting steel with everything it had.

I whispered without meaning to, “Bigfoot.” First time I’d said it in that building without a joke wrapped around it, without sarcasm protecting me from what I meant.

Someone inside yelled, “Increase amplitude.” The whine rose. Another roar, deeper, more desperate. Another three knocks, this time staggered like the rhythm was breaking, like whatever was making the sound was losing strength, losing hope.

I checked the safety panel. The light showed “stimulation sound/floor.” I thought “shocking experiment”—not just a nickname, not just bureaucratic shorthand. They were using electricity, sound. Something that hurt. Testing how much pain a Bigfoot could take before it stopped responding.

I didn’t write that in the log.

The Goodbye

December 2015. Sublevel B at 42B, 3:06 in the morning with a blizzard screaming outside. A storm had rolled in off the mountain. The lights flickered once, twice, then went to red emergency strips along the floor. Generators kicked in with a hiccup.

On sublevel B, the air smelled different. Less bleach, more metal, like hot wires and damp fur left too long in a small room. Something about the ventilation failing, about filters stopping. Let the real smell through.

I did a sweep with my flashlight. When I turned the corner by holding three, I saw that the observation slot in the door—one I’d never seen open—was slid half back, just a sliver. Just enough. I should have called it in. I should have backed away, followed protocol, waited for backup. But the red floor lights made the hallway feel like a tunnel. And there was that old heavy knocking in my memory.

Inside, the room was bigger than I’d imagined. White walls fading to gray in the emergency light. And crouched in the far corner, blocking something smaller behind it, was a shape, large, breathing, real. I won’t try to tell you I saw a clear face. That would be a lie. I saw bulk. I saw a back like a hillside rising and falling with slow breaths. Long arms wrapped protectively around a darker knot of movement behind it. Something small, something young, something being shielded.

The smell hit me stronger. Earth, wet hair, old rain-soaked bark, and under it something warm and alive. Not animal, not human, something between.

Then it moved. Turned just enough that I caught the angle of a heavy head and the suggestion of eyes that glinted once in my flashlight beam. Not reflecting—looking. Aware.

Terror should have been the only thing I felt. Instead, I felt shame. Deep, immediate shame. I thought, “That’s a Bigfoot, and that Bigfoot is terrified, and I’m part of why.” It didn’t lunge, didn’t roar. It lifted one massive hand, silhouette only, and tapped the wall beside the door. One, two, three knocks, soft compared to before, like it knew exactly how much force would reach me through the metal, like it was trying to communicate without scaring me.

I stepped back, heart pounding in my throat, wanting to say something, wanting to apologize. The generator coughed, the main lights flickered back, and the slot snapped shut with a loud metallic bite. On the other side, I heard one long, low exhale.

The End

July 2025, County Hospice near Tacoma. Late evening, visiting hours over and night settling in. A few months ago, when they told me the cancer was everywhere, I had my son-in-law bring the toolbox from under the old porch. Inside, the phone was swollen, battery bulging, the disc scratched. He said, “What’s so important in here, Ray?” I almost said Bigfoot right then. Almost dumped eight years of Bigfoot concrete and Bigfoot doors and Bigfoot experiments in his lap. Instead, I said, “Old work junk. Just need to see it again.”

That night, I coaxed that phone to boot up one last time. The clip played once, shaky. A hallway screen, a shadow far too large to be any normal person sliding past, the faint shape of long arms, the suggestion of stooped shoulders, and caught by the phone mic just before the angle changed: one low, breathy whoop, then very faint, three dull knocks.

It’s not proof. Not for a world that wants 4K and multiple angles. For me, it was a punch to the chest. I hovered over the idea of sending it to some Bigfoot channel, to a reporter, to anyone. I imagined headlines. Government Bigfoot operation exposed. Shocking Sasquatch experiment revealed. But all I could see was that Bigfoot in holding three, putting its body between the sound and the smaller shape behind it, protecting with everything it had. And I thought, what right do I have to expose it now?

In the end, I copied the video to a cheap USB drive and left the phone uncharged. Gave the drive to my lawyer with instructions for Maya to decide, not me. I know how that sounds, like I’m dodging responsibility, like I’m still scared of the government more than I care about Bigfoot. Truth is, I care about my daughter more than both.

Last week, when the pipes banged in the wall behind my bed, three sharp knocks in a row, the nurse said, “Old building makes noises.” I just smiled. I chose to believe Bigfoot was somewhere far away from that lab now, and that the knocks were a reminder, not a threat.

Rain starting again. You can hear it on the window frame. Somebody’s machine down the hall is beeping out a rhythm that doesn’t quite match my own.

September 2025, same hospice room, just after midnight with rain pattering soft against glass. I don’t have much air left, so I’m going to say this plain:

For eight years, I worked security for a government Bigfoot operation in the foothills of Mount St. Helens. I watched them run a shocking Sasquatch experiment on a Bigfoot, maybe more than one. I smelled Bigfoot sweat and fear in those halls. I heard Bigfoot knock three times on steel like a prisoner trying to remember its own name, trying to hold on to something human in a place that treated it like livestock. I saw just once, in red emergency light, a Bigfoot curl its body around a smaller one the way I used to curl myself around Maya when thunder scared her. Protective, gentle, everything a parent should be.

Maybe I misread some things. Maybe my memory is bent around the guilt. I know what people think when they hear Bigfoot. They think lies, hoaxes, lonely men wanting attention. People who see patterns in mud and call it revelation.

I don’t want attention. I want a little peace before I go. So here’s the truth as I know it: Bigfoot is out there. The government knows. They tested how much pain Bigfoot can take because that’s what governments do with things they don’t understand. And I stood there, hand on the door, pretending I was just a guard doing his job.

I can’t prove it to you. Not in a way that’ll satisfy anyone who’s never felt a building shake with three living knocks. Not in a way that’ll convince people who need clean footage in laboratory conditions. But when the lights go off in this room and the machines quiet down, I still hear Bigfoot in the dark. Not roaring, not chasing, just knocking three times. Gentle, like a neighbor you never met while you were both alive.

If you’re listening to this, then I guess I finally told someone. And wherever Bigfoot is tonight, in those damp green trees under a gray sky, breathing that cold blue air, I hope Bigfoot forgives me. Because I still hear the three knocks. And I still don’t know if they were asking for help, or saying goodbye, or just reminding me that some things are real whether we believe in them or not.