BIGFOOT Slaughtered 9 Hunters, Sole Survivor Reveals The Horrifying Truth!

The Nippigon Ten

Chapter 1: The Last Man

This Bigfoot slaughtered ten hunters in the Canadian backcountry, and I’m the only one who walked out to talk about it. My name is Reed Patterson. Eleven days ago, I stumbled out of the bush north of Lake Nipigon, Ontario, covered in blood that wasn’t mine, forty pounds lighter, so hypothermic the paramedics didn’t think I’d make it to Thunder Bay. They’ve recovered nine bodies so far, or parts of bodies—scattered over fifteen square miles of forest and rock. Experienced men, most ex‑military or law enforcement, armed and trained to live off the land. They found torsos dragged high into black spruce, arms lodged in crotches of trees twenty feet up, skulls caved in like kicked pumpkins. Some remains needed dental records to figure out who they’d been.

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The official report blames a rogue bear. A big boar that “developed atypical predatory behavior.” That reads nicely in a file. It doesn’t explain what I saw. It doesn’t explain how something eight and a half feet tall moved through fortified camp faster than I could track with my eyes, or how it snapped my friend Danny’s spine like he was a dry branch. It doesn’t explain why every satellite phone we had died inside twenty‑four hours, why our GPS units started showing us standing in the middle of Lake Superior, or why every single trail camera we set—thousands of dollars in high‑end thermal imagers—ended up corrupted or missing. One camera survived long enough to be logged into evidence. It captured the thing in full daylight, clear as the face in your mirror. That SD card disappeared from the evidence locker before the forensic techs could pull the raw file.

The detective across from me in this little metal interview room doesn’t believe any of that. I can see it in the way he taps his pen against the file folder, the way his partner leans on the wall near the door with that blank cop stare. They think I’m lying, or crazy, or both. They want to know why ten armed men died while I lived. They want to know what I did during the three days I don’t remember, and how I walked for miles while my best friend’s body was already decomposing three kilometers behind me. They want a rational explanation. I don’t have one. What I do have is memory—the parts my brain hasn’t blocked out yet—and the knowledge that whatever we went looking for up there is still out there, hunting, defending its territory from things like us.

The detective slides a glossy photo across the table. Aerial shot from a chopper: nine black body bags in a clearing ringed by turnout gear and yellow tape, their shapes wrong against the snow that fell three days after I ran. He taps the edge of the picture with his pen. “You’re telling us one animal did this,” he says. “One.” I swallow, my throat raw. “Not an animal,” I say. “Not the way you mean it.”

Chapter 2: The Call

If you want to know where this really starts, it isn’t in that clearing. It’s eighteen days before the first scream, back in Duluth, under fluorescent shop lights. October 23rd, 2024, I was elbow‑deep in a blown transmission at Henderson’s Auto when my phone buzzed on the workbench. Danny’s name flashed on the screen. Danny Kowalski has been my best friend since we were ten and he dared me to jump off the railroad trestle into the St. Louis River. He’s the guy who still believed in monsters long after we grew out of Halloween costumes. He’s also the guy who turned his grandfather’s campfire stories about “wild men of the North” into a full‑time obsession.

“Reed, you got to hear this,” he said without hello, his voice already halfway to manic. I wiped grease off my hands and put the phone between my ear and shoulder. He launched into it: a funded expedition into the Nipigon backcountry, real money, real logistics, not just two guys and a cooler. “They’re calling it the Nipigon Expedition,” he said. “Eight hunters, ex‑military, ex‑LEO, two weeks in the bush. They’ve got a guide, thermal rigs, satphones, full support.”

I muttered something about fairy tales and transmissions. Danny kept talking over me. Three hikers gone near Oman Lake in July. A September hunting party that fled and left sixty grand in gear on the ground. A recovery where one ranger quietly told a cousin—who told Danny—that a body had been found thirty feet up in a tree, wedged in the branches, partially eaten. “You think a bear dragged him up there?” he said. “Because the guy who found him doesn’t.”

I’d heard versions of this before. The Patterson‑Gimlin film. The Freeman footage. Casts from Washington and British Columbia showing dermal ridges and midtarsal breaks and all the other jargon that means “maybe, but probably not.” Usually I tuned it out. That day, something in his voice hooked me. Maybe it was the way he said “funding,” like this wasn’t just another weekend fool’s errand. Maybe it was the way he said, quietly, “They need two more guys. I told them about us.”

When was the last time I’d done anything that didn’t involve busted engines and cheap beer? My life had shrunk to the size of that garage. I stared at the oily concrete. “When?” I asked. He laughed, knowing he’d won. “Fly into Thunder Bay November second. Meet the team on the third. Bush by the fourth. Two weeks and we come home with footage that proves it or nothing at all, and I finally shut up.”

I thought of my sister in Minneapolis, who’d given up inviting me to family stuff. Thought of the empty apartment I went home to every night. Thought about being thirty‑six and feeling fifty. “Fine,” I said. “But I’m not promising to believe anything.”

Chapter 3: The Team

Thunder Bay in early November is gray. Gray sky over gray water, wind biting off Lake Superior, the smell of wet metal everywhere. We met the others at a place called Pine Point Lodge, a big log building that had seen too many hunting seasons and not enough repairs. The lobby smelled like woodsmoke, stale coffee, and the faint sour of ten thousand wet boots.

Eight men sat around two pushed‑together tables with maps spread between coffee cups and Molson bottles. When Danny and I walked in, all conversation dipped for a second while they sized us up. The man who stood was older, early fifties, iron‑gray hair, eyes that didn’t match his easy smile. “You must be Danny and Reed,” he said, extending a hand. “I’m John Vulkar. Appreciate you coming on.”

Danny had told me enough to pick out the types: Travis, corrections officer from Michigan, shaved head, tattoos crawling out from under his sleeves. Kyle, late twenties finance‑looking kid with gear too new and too expensive, cradling a Remington 700 like it was his ticket into the club. The Neville brothers, Andrew and Thomas, from Saskatchewan, matching scars on their left hands from some childhood bet gone wrong. Marcus, big enough to make everyone else look average—six‑two, two‑thirty, quiet, coiled. And Gregory, the oldest, with a weathered photographer’s face, calloused hands dancing over a laptop as he scrolled through specs for thermal cameras like someone reciting prayers.

“We’ve got every inch covered,” Gregory said later, voice reverent. “Thermal, IR, HD, time‑synced. If something breathes warm air near us, we’ll have it.” He looked at Danny and me like we were congregation members he was thrilled to see.

We were still missing one—the guide. When he walked in, the room shifted. Anishinaabe, mid‑forties, long black hair tied at the nape, a face that looked like it had been carved with knives. “This is Joseph Windigo,” John said. The old stories clicked in my head—Wendigo, eater of men—and I saw Danny’s eyebrows lift. Joseph neither smiled nor shook hands; he nodded once around the table.

“We leave at 0600,” he said. “Road for seventy miles, logging tracks for thirty, then boots, three days north to base. You carry what you bring. If I say we move, we move. If I say we leave, we leave. No arguing. You argue, I walk. You don’t want to be out there without someone who knows the land.” His gaze moved from face to face and snagged on mine for half a heartbeat longer than I liked, like he was weighing something I couldn’t feel.

That night, the others drank. Stories flowed: deployments overseas, close calls with grizzlies, near‑drownings on northern rivers. I stepped outside at one point to get away from the heat and voices. The lodge’s lights faded quickly into darkness; the tree line began maybe fifty yards from the porch. Black spruce and jack pine formed a wall. The sky overhead glowed faintly from the city behind us.

Joseph was out there, cigarette ember floating in the dark like a firefly. He didn’t seem surprised to see me. “You know why they call them cold cases?” he asked, voice low. I shrugged. “Because by the time anyone realizes someone’s gone, the forest has already taken them,” he said. “No footprints, no blood. Maybe a boot. Maybe a backpack. That’s it.”

He flicked ash away. “I’ve guided twenty years. I’ve seen things I don’t put on paperwork. Heard wood knock when no one’s there to knock. Found fish int he canopy. Found hunters’ camps like they’d been hit with a tornado.” He looked at me. “Your friend”—he jerked his chin toward the windows, where Danny’s laugh cut through the glass—“he wants to find something. That makes him brave. It also makes him blind. You? You’re scared already.” He took one last drag and ground the butt under his boot. “That might keep you alive. Stay in the lodge tonight. Don’t wander. There are things out there that like to know who’s on their land.”

I took his advice. Not that it helped much.

Chapter 4: Tracks and Proof

The drive north started in light snow and ended in cold sunshine. Asphalt turned to gravel, then to rutted tracks that only half deserved to be called roads. The forest thickened, swallowing the last cell towers, the last houses, the last sense of civilization. We crossed rivers over old logging bridges, planks groaning under the weight of the trucks. At some point, the radio stations dissolved into static and Joseph killed the dial.

Seventy miles in, we stopped. “Road ends,” Joseph said. It didn’t; it became something rougher, more memory than route. We pushed on until even his truck refused to go. Then we unloaded: packs, rifles, Pelican cases full of electronics. The air bit at any skin it could reach.

“Prints,” Joseph called, crouching. We clustered around him. In the mud beside the track lay a footprint that hit like a physical blow. Human in shape. Not human in any detail. Seventeen inches long, eight across at the ball, toes splayed slightly, each one clearly defined. No boot tread, no heel from a rubber sole. Just the impression of something heavy, barefoot, and upright.

“Jesus,” Kyle breathed. “That’s—”

“Could be a hoax,” Travis cut in. “Guy with carved wooden feet. Messing with us.”

“Hoaxers don’t hike fifty miles in the bush to plant jokes for nobody,” Gregory said. He was already measuring, camera clicking. Joseph’s eyes were on the treeline, not the print. “It was here at first light,” he said. “Frost hasn’t taken it yet. That way.” He jerked his chin toward the forest.

We went the opposite direction.

The first day on foot was all muscle and lungs. Pull seventy pounds across uneven granite, weaving around blowdowns, bushwhacking through stands of saplings that whipped at your face, and you stop thinking about monsters. You think about your calves, your shoulders, your next breath. We hit a river by late afternoon, built camp on a bench above it. The cameras went up: one on each cardinal point, overlapping coverage, motion‑triggered. Gregory synced them to a laptop, muttering happily. Drones of the digital age.

That night, the forest went quiet.

You don’t notice ordinary quiet until it’s gone. No chickadees, no ravens, no wind shifting through needles. Just the soft hiss of the river and the occasional creak of a tree. Around midnight, when Marcus and I were on watch, the knocking started. Three loud, hollow cracks from somewhere south. Pause. Two more. Pause. Three. The sound of wood on wood, deep enough that you felt it in the log under your boots.

“What the hell is that?” Marcus whispered.

“Someone with too much time and a baseball bat,” I tried. It came out thin. The pattern went on for a few minutes, then stopped. Ten minutes later it started again, but from the east. It circled us. Measuring. Communicating. Whatever language it spoke, it didn’t include us.

Danny’s eyes glowed in the firelight when we told them in the morning. “It’s here,” he said. “It knows we’re here.” Those two statements carried very different meanings depending on what you believed.

On day three, we found the dead moose. Thirty minutes off our line of march there was a faint smell of carrion. We followed it into a thicket. The bull lay across a fallen tree like a trophy draped on a mantel. The torso was half gone. The ribs looked snapped, not cut. The spine was severed like someone had bitten through a bundle of straws.

“Bears don’t do this,” Gregory said softly. “Not like this.” No drag marks, no sign of struggle in the surrounding ground. It hadn’t tried to run—or hadn’t had time. Something had hit it hard enough, fast enough, that it died where it stood.

The abandoned camp came later that afternoon.

Six tents, sagged and shredded. Cots overturned, sleeping bags slashed, an overturned stove lying in a smear of something brown and crusted. It looked like a storm had hit a gear catalog. The worst part was what wasn’t there: no bodies, no boots left behind by people running, no half‑packed packs. Just blood. Dark blotches on nylon, spattered up a tree trunk, soaked into trampled moss.

“This matches the September group,” Joseph said. “Outfitter in Nipigon reported six men leaving trucks at the trailhead, said they never came back. Police found this. No one wanted to talk about it.” His mouth tightened. “Now you see why.”

One of the trail cameras still clung to a spruce. Its cable had been cut clean, housing cracked but intact. Gregory almost ran to it. The memory card slid into his laptop with a small click. We crowded around.

Night footage. Tents lit from within, fire dim in the center of the frame. Two men by the flames, talking. Time stamp: 23:47, September 18th. Nothing. Then, at 23:49, the treeline behind them rippled. Something stepped into view. The camera tried to adjust, autofocus struggling. For three or four frames it found focus.

I saw a body that shouldn’t exist. Tall enough that its head nearly brushed the lowest limbs. Broad enough that its silhouette made the men look child‑sized. Hair hung in tangled mats off its arms and chest. Its face turned toward the lens. Deep‑set eyes flared in reflected firelight. It looked directly at us, across weeks and pixels.

Then it lifted an arm, snapped a branch like a twig, and hurled it. The last frame froze on a blur of bark. The feed went black.

Nobody spoke. The forest around us seemed to lean in.

“We’re leaving,” I said. “We have proof. That’s enough.” Gregory’s hands shook. “It’s not enough,” he whispered. “Not yet.”

Chapter 5: The Night of Screams

We didn’t leave. That’s the truth that keeps me awake: we had a window. We chose to stay.

We moved camp a mile north onto a rocky ridge Joseph said was easier to defend. Paranoia had finally overtaken curiosity; we set our tents in a small horseshoe with a rock face at our backs. Trip wires and cans. Motion sensors. Cameras pointed inward and outward. We talked through contingencies like a squad prepping for an operation: fields of fire, sectors, signals.

“Most predators don’t want a fight,” Vulkar said by the fire. “We show teeth, we might bluff it.” That was the plan—bluff something that had broken a bull moose’s spine like twigs.

After dark, the woods pressed close. The wind died. Scent hung heavy—cold earth, old leaves, an undercurrent of rot. Around nine, a scream broke the dark.

I’ve heard cougars, bears, foxes, even loons in the middle of the night. This wasn’t any of those. It started low, beyond hearing, a pressure in the bones, then climbed and climbed into a pitch so high and sustained that my molars throbbed. It seemed to come from all directions, ricocheting off rock. It cut off midsound, leaving silence like a held breath.

“North ridge,” Marcus said tightly. Vulkar organized a response: no one fired blind, we tightened perimeter, radios on. The scream came again, closer. Then again, farther. Three different points in less than a minute. One, or more than one? Nobody wanted to say the latter.

Around eleven, our radio crackled: “Base, this is John. We’re moving. Trail… gone. Compass is—” Static chewed his words. “—backtrack. Regroup.” We never got a location. At 1:12 a.m., Travis came through once, voice ragged, gasping like he’d been running. “It’s in the trees, it’s in the trees, it—” The transmission cut out. We never heard him again.

We waited for dawn with weapons in our laps, backs against rock, fire banked low so our pupils wouldn’t be blown. The forest around us was full of small sounds—branches ticking, something moving over stones, the occasional too‑heavy footstep just beyond where the firelight died. Every nerve in my body was screaming by the time the first grey seeped into the east.

“We go at first light,” Joseph said. “Back to the trucks. We’re done.” For once, everyone agreed. We packed hard and fast. Gregory’s cameras, the laptops, the evidence—everything that had felt so important now weighed nothing compared to distance and time.

The attack came before we finished.

Chapter 6: The Slaughter

It started with rocks. Not pebbles—fist‑sized stones slamming into the edge of camp from the west. Trip wires jingled. Marcus pivoted, pistol up. A rock the size of a bowling ball flew in from nowhere and hit him square in the chest. It sounded like a sledgehammer hitting a side of beef. He left his feet, hit a tree, slid down. His eyes rolled back. He didn’t move again.

“Contact!” Vulkar shouted. The camp turned into a tangle of bodies and muzzle flashes. Another rock smashed a camera off its mount. Cans on cords rattled like crazy. Something huge moved between trunks, here, then there, faster than I could track.

Then it stepped into the open. For one terrible heartbeat, it was right there, framed by two spruces at the edge of camp, maybe thirty feet out. Firelight and morning grey combined to show every detail. Reddish‑brown fur, tangled and matted with something dark. Chest wide and barrel‑like, shoulders sloped and massive. Arms long enough that its hands hung mid‑thigh. The face was the worst of it: not a monster’s mask, just wrong humanity—brow too heavy, eyes too deep, nose too broad, mouth too wide.

It looked at us, at each rifle, each shaking hand. I felt the weight of its attention like a hand pressing on my skull. Joseph fired first, the old Winchester booming. I saw the bullet hit high in the shoulder, saw dark splash. It flinched the way a man flinches at a bee sting, then roared.

That scream up close was indescribable. It hit like a physical force, slamming into the soft parts of my head. My vision went white at the edges. My knees wobbled. Somewhere in that wash of sound, it moved.

One second it was at the treeline. The next it was in the middle of camp. Danny vanished from beside me in a blur of fur and flannel. I heard something crack—later I knew it was his back. Joseph fired point‑blank into its torso; it swatted him aside with one arm. He flew six feet and landed twisted, neck at an angle that made my stomach lurch. The Neville brothers tried to fall back in a two‑man formation like they were on a range. It grabbed Andrew, lifted him, and flung him into a tree. His skull made a sound like a dropped melon.

I don’t remember deciding to run. One second I was in camp; the next I was sprinting downslope, branches slapping my face, pack slamming my kidneys. Danny was ahead of me, limping, stumbling. I grabbed his arm and hauled. Shots exploded behind us, then cut off. Something huge crashed through the understory, not stealthy, not careful—just relentless.

“River,” Joseph had said earlier. “Keep it on your right, you’ll find the road.” All I thought was: stay alive long enough to see water.

We ran until we couldn’t. The woods blurred into an endless repetition of black trunks and gray rock. Once I slipped and went down hard, face full of moss and frozen soil. I came up with a mouth full of needles. Danny dragged me then. I don’t know how long we kept that up. Hours, minutes, centuries. The crashing behind us faded. The smell—rotten meat and musk—thinned.

We collapsed under an overhang as darkness fell again, two bags of meat breathing steam into the cold air. No fire. Our hands shook too badly to strike a lighter anyway. I remember seeing prints in the mud the next morning, twenty feet from where we’d slept. Big, deep, toe impressions clear. They led toward us, then away. It had come. It had looked at us. It had left.

Why? I still don’t know.

Chapter 7: The Forest Keeps Its Dead

The rest is fragments. We walked. We fell. We drank from streams and got sick. We found pieces of our team in places I will not describe. I know from the official timeline that I was in the bush for seven days after the attack. I remember four. The other three are… gone. When they tell me Danny’s body was found three kilometers from the attack site and had been dead for five days, I believe them. My memory of him staggering onto the highway with me is so vivid I can taste the dust on my tongue when I think about it, but I know now it didn’t happen. Shock and guilt make ghosts.

A logging truck driver found me on Highway 599, staggering in the middle of the road in filthy, torn clothes, muttering nonsense. My core body temperature was 29°C when they loaded me into the ambulance. They warmed me, hydrated me, pumped me full of antibiotics. Then the questions started.

“Why did you leave the others?” Because staying meant dying. “Why didn’t you try to help them?” Because there was nothing left to help. “What do you think attacked you?” Something that doesn’t show up in wildlife manuals.

They call it PTSD now. Trauma. Hallucinations. They suggest gently that my brain took a bear attack and warped it into something else because the alternative—that there’s a coordinated, intelligent predator hiding in the boreal forest—is too much for anyone to file under “probable cause of death.”

Maybe they’re right about my brain. Maybe I did see pieces of things and fill in the gaps with childhood stories and late‑night documentaries. But there’s still that cast Gregory mailed before he died. There’s still the lab report that calls the hair “unknown primate.” There’s still the missing SD card. There’s still the way Joseph looked at the treeline that first night, like he recognized an old enemy.

I don’t set foot under tall trees now. The closest I get to wilderness is a city park at noon with a hundred people around. When someone shows me a Bigfoot joke online, my hands go cold. When I hear woodsmoke and wind in pines on a TV commercial, I change the channel.

The detective ends our session with the same question every time. “Why do you think you survived, Reed?” I don’t have an answer he’ll accept. The one that sits in my gut is this: it let me. For reasons I will never understand, something looked at me in that camp and decided I was not worth finishing. Maybe it wanted a witness to scare others away. Maybe it knew no one would believe me. Maybe in a mind as old as the forest itself, leaving one man alive was a more effective deterrent than leaving none.

Ten men went into the Nipigon backcountry looking for proof of a legend. Nine of them came home in bags. The tenth came home in pieces. I came home in one piece, physically. The rest of me is still out there between those black spruce trunks, in the silence after the screams, waiting for something massive to move at the edge of the firelight.

If you’re thinking of going north with cameras and guns to prove something to the world, remember this: some legends exist because the truth leaves no one alive to carry it back. I got that chance. I won’t test it twice.