I Shot SASQUATCH Twice Point Blank – It Smiled Then Dragged Me Underground

The photograph arrived in Jeremy Black Feather’s mailbox on an ordinary Tuesday morning, yet nothing about it was ordinary. There was no return address, no letter, no explanation of any kind. Just a single glossy photograph slipped inside a plain white envelope. The image showed Jeremy’s own truck parked in his gravel driveway, captured in stark infrared tones as if taken in the dead of night. At first glance, it looked like the kind of trail-camera shot hunters take all the time. But it wasn’t the truck that made Jeremy’s hands begin to tremble as he stared at the image. It was what stood behind it, half-hidden among the trees. A massive upright silhouette, easily nine feet tall, watching his home with a stillness that suggested patience, memory, and intent.

On the back of the photograph, written in thick black block letters, was a single word: REMEMBER?

That photograph would haunt Jeremy for the rest of his life. But to understand why it mattered, you have to go back six months earlier—back to a time when Jeremy Black Feather did not believe in monsters.

Jeremy was a practical man, a heavy equipment operator for the Oregon state highway department and an experienced hunter who had spent more than three decades in the Cascade Mountains. He knew the land intimately, from the dense Douglas fir forests to the steep basalt canyons carved by ancient rivers. He had tracked elk, deer, and black bear since childhood. He trusted his instincts, his rifle, and his understanding of the natural world. The idea of Sasquatch, Bigfoot, or any cryptid had always struck him as nonsense—stories told by people who misidentified bears or wanted attention.

That certainty shattered in October of last year.

Jeremy lived alone in a double-wide trailer fifteen miles outside the small town of McKenzie Bridge, Oregon. With fewer than a thousand residents and spotty cell service at best, it was the kind of place where people valued privacy and self-reliance. Jeremy liked the isolation. It gave him space to hunt, think, and live without interference. Tuesday, October 15th, began like any other hunting day. He woke before dawn, brewed coffee, checked the weather, and dressed in the same worn hunting clothes that had served him for years. By sunrise, he was driving his aging Ford F-150 up an old logging road toward a remote canyon he’d hunted many times before.

Three hours into the hunt, Jeremy found the tracks.

At first, he thought they belonged to a large black bear. The size was roughly right, and bears were common in the area. But as he knelt beside the muddy impressions near Morrison Creek, unease crept in. The tracks were wrong. They were too long, too narrow, with toes that looked more like fingers. The heel impression was deep and rounded, disturbingly human. Even more unsettling was the stride length. Nearly four feet between steps. No bear moved like that.

Jeremy photographed the tracks, telling himself he would look them up later. He followed them deeper into the forest, unaware that every step forward was pulling him farther from safety. The trail led to a steep-sided canyon he’d never bothered to explore. The tracks descended along a narrow game trail that zigzagged down the rock face. Jeremy hesitated, every instinct warning him to turn back. Then he heard it.

The sound was low, mournful, and powerful. It rose and fell like a howl, but deeper than any wolf and more complex than any animal Jeremy had ever heard. It vibrated in his chest and seemed to echo from the canyon walls themselves. Against his better judgment, Jeremy began the descent.

At the bottom of the canyon, the air felt different. Cooler. Heavier. The forest canopy blocked most of the light, and a thick musky odor hung in the air—wet fur, rot, and something primal. Morrison Creek wound quietly through the canyon floor, and along its muddy banks Jeremy found more tracks. Clearer this time. Unmistakably bipedal. Whatever made them walked upright.

Jeremy’s phone battery was dying, and he turned it off to conserve power. That decision would nearly cost him his life.

As he moved upstream, the smell intensified. Then he saw the cave.

The cave mouth yawned open in the canyon wall, massive and black, like a wound in the earth. Around it lay bones—hundreds of them. Small animal bones. Large animal bones. Elk femurs. Raccoon skulls. All picked clean and arranged in crude piles. Among them were scraps of fabric, pieces of camping gear, and what looked disturbingly like the remains of a backpack.

Jeremy raised his rifle and approached cautiously. His heart hammered as a deep rhythmic thumping echoed from within the cave, accompanied by heavy breathing. When he shone his phone’s flashlight into the darkness, it revealed scratches gouged deep into the stone walls, as if something had marked the cave deliberately.

Then the breathing stopped.

From the darkness came footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Each step scraped against stone. The smell became overwhelming. Jeremy tried to back away, but fear rooted him in place.

The eyes appeared first. Amber, reflective, intelligent. Then the creature stepped into the light.

It stood nearly nine feet tall, its body covered in dark, matted fur streaked with mud and dried blood. Its arms hung unnaturally long, ending in massive hands with clawed fingers. Its face was almost human, but grotesquely wrong—too broad, too heavy, with a pronounced brow ridge shadowing eyes that radiated awareness. This was no animal acting on instinct. This was something that was thinking.

Jeremy fired.

The first shot hit center mass. The creature didn’t even flinch.

Jeremy fired again. Point blank.

The creature smiled.

It was not a snarl or a threat display. It was a deliberate expression—lips curling back in what could only be interpreted as amusement. Then it roared, a sound so powerful it shook loose rocks from the canyon walls. In three strides, it closed the distance and lifted Jeremy off the ground with one hand around his throat.

The last thing Jeremy remembered before losing consciousness was the stench and the realization that bullets meant nothing to this thing.

He woke in absolute darkness.

Jeremy’s hands were bound behind his back with rough strips of bark or vine. His throat burned, and his head throbbed. He was deep underground, in a chamber lit only by faint phosphorescent moss clinging to the walls. Passages branched off in multiple directions, disappearing into blackness. The air was stale and thick with decay.

He was not alone.

Something moved in the darkness beyond the chamber. Heavy footsteps. Breathing. Waiting.

Hours—or days—passed. Jeremy lost all sense of time. The creature returned periodically, not to attack him, but to watch. Sometimes it mimicked sounds—Jeremy’s own voice calling his name, the distant noise of a truck engine, footsteps that weren’t there. The psychological torment was deliberate, calculated.

Eventually, the creature left him unbound near a narrow vertical shaft. Whether it was mercy, curiosity, or a test, Jeremy would never know. Bleeding and half-delirious, he climbed. His hands shredded. His muscles screamed. Something followed him through the tunnels, always just out of reach.

When he finally emerged miles from where he’d entered the canyon, Jeremy ran until his lungs burned. He reached his truck at dusk and drove home in a state of shock.

He thought it was over.

It wasn’t.

The creature followed him home.

For a week, Jeremy barely slept. Something circled his trailer at night. It mimicked his voice from the treeline. It imitated the sound of his truck starting. It knocked on his door when no one was there. When he went to the police, they dismissed him as delusional.

Desperate, Jeremy began researching. That’s when he found others. A forest service biologist who had quietly documented similar encounters. A hunter named Tom Bradley who vanished six months after his own sighting. His truck abandoned at a trailhead. No body ever found.

Jeremy learned the truth too late.

The creature had not attacked him out of rage. It had done so because he crossed a boundary.

The photograph that arrived six months later confirmed it. The message was clear.

It remembered him.

And it wanted him to remember it.

The deep forests of the Pacific Northwest are older than our maps, older than our laws, and far older than our assumptions. Something lives there. Something intelligent. Something patient.

And it is still watching.