‘They Killed a Bigfoot’ – Terrifying BIGFOOT ENCOUNTER STORY Compilation

I still wake up drenched in cold sweat when I think about what happened in those woods. Even now, years later, my heart races whenever I imagine what might still be out there, waiting, remembering. What we did—what we triggered—changed everything I thought I knew about the wilderness, about nature, and about the things that supposedly exist only in folklore. I told myself for years that speaking the story aloud would make it real, but the nightmares made it clear that staying silent wasn’t going to save me. So I’m writing this now, hoping that finally sharing the truth will help me sleep again, or at the very least warn someone else before they make the same fatal mistake.

Three years ago, I was still a novice hunter. I’d been on a handful of trips—nothing extreme, just the typical deer and duck excursions that most beginners cut their teeth on. I wasn’t prepared for the kind of hunt my three experienced friends had planned, and I had no idea that what they called “a real challenge” was something that no human being should ever attempt. When they invited me on their October trip, I imagined elk or bear, something big enough to test my skills but still comfortably within the realm of reality. What they really had in mind belonged to a world I never believed existed.

We began the trip before dawn on a frigid Thursday morning. The truck was packed to the brim with supplies that, in hindsight, suggested my friends were expecting something far more dangerous than deer. We had enough food for a week, high-powered rifles with scopes, boxes of ammunition, heavy-duty tents, and bear-rated gear that seemed excessive at the time. The mood was strange from the start. The guys exchanged looks and inside jokes that didn’t include me, and though I brushed it off as typical hunting-trip banter, there was an undercurrent of tension I didn’t understand until much later.

The drive north took hours. After leaving the main highways, we navigated increasingly rough logging roads that eventually deteriorated into little more than muddy scars slicing through untouched forest. We passed rusting logging equipment, abandoned camps, and stretches of forest so ancient they felt untouched by human hands. Eventually, we reached a locked gate with a rusted sign that told us this land was strictly off-limits. One of my buddies produced a key he claimed came from a cousin. At the time I believed him. Now I’m not so sure.

Once we passed through that gate, the world seemed to change. The roads became nearly impassable, bridges long since washed out, and fallen branches so thick we had to stop the truck multiple times to clear a path. After six hours of driving and another grueling hike, we arrived at a secluded clearing that would serve as our camp. The canopy overhead was so dense that daylight barely filtered through. It felt like standing in the hallway of an ancient cathedral made of living wood.

That first night around the campfire, my friend finally revealed the real purpose of the trip. He told us that this remote region was infamous among loggers and hunters—not in any official reports, but in whispered confessions shared between men who’d seen something they couldn’t explain. He had spent months digging through old newspaper archives, online forums, and interviewing retired loggers. They all described the same thing: an enormous creature walking upright, covered in thick fur, intelligent, territorial, and far stronger than any known animal. They didn’t call it Bigfoot openly, but the implication was unmistakable.

He showed us photos: footprint casts the size of dinner plates, newspaper clippings from the 1940s, and even a recorded howl that sent a chill up my spine. He believed this creature—maybe even multiple creatures—still lived in this untouched wilderness. And he wanted proof. My stomach dropped as I realized this was no ordinary hunting trip. This was an expedition to track something legendary, something that should have been left alone.

That night, sleep evaded me. Every rustle outside the tent made my heart slam against my ribs. At dawn, we split into a wide formation to scout for signs of large game. The forest felt wrong immediately. Too quiet. Too still. As if every living creature was holding its breath. When I found the first massive footprints near a stream, my blood ran cold. They were fresh, impossibly large, and deeply pressed into the soft earth. My friends were ecstatic. I was terrified.

We followed the tracks for miles, each discovery more unnerving than the last: shredded bark eight feet up a tree, piles of cracked bones meticulously sorted, crude shelters woven from branches. The smell was overwhelming—wet fur, rot, and something distinctly wrong. It matched exactly the stories my friend had recounted. Worse, we found not one set of tracks but two, side by side. Whatever we were following wasn’t alone.

By the third day, we sensed the creatures were fully aware of our presence. Strange calls echoed through the trees—deep, resonant sounds that didn’t resemble anything known to science. The forest seemed to respond, going silent whenever those calls rang out. Then came the moment that would haunt me forever.

We stumbled into a clearing and finally saw one of the creatures. Eight or nine feet tall, impossibly broad, covered in dark brown fur. It wasn’t wandering or feeding. It was working. Sorting stones and branches with deliberate, intelligent movements. Watching it felt like witnessing something sacred, something ancient. None of us spoke, frozen behind a fallen log as we watched this giant go about its mysterious task.

Then my friend—the same one who orchestrated the entire expedition—lifted his rifle.

I’ll never forget the look in his eyes. It wasn’t fear or awe. It was greed. He was imagining fame, recognition, headlines. No matter how urgently we tried to stop him, he pulled the trigger.

The gunshot shattered the silence. The creature roared with a voice that vibrated through my bones. It charged us with shocking speed, and we opened fire in panicked desperation. Even with four rifles unloading round after round, the creature refused to fall. It fought until its dying breath, making it within twenty yards of our group before collapsing.

Approaching the corpse felt like the greatest mistake of my life. Its face was eerily human—primitive, powerful, but undeniably intelligent. The notion that we might have killed something sentient crashed over me like a tidal wave. My friend wanted photos, measurements, trophies. I wanted to run.

But before we could do anything, a sound rose from deep within the forest. A howl of grief so powerful it brought tears to my eyes. Another creature had found us. And it was coming.

The treeline exploded as a larger, darker creature stepped into view. Nine feet tall, scarred, furious, and radiating intelligence and malice. It looked at the dead creature at our feet and let out a mournful cry that shook the leaves from the trees. Then its eyes locked onto us, and the grief transformed into wrath.

The killing that followed wasn’t hunting. It wasn’t even a fight. It was vengeance. The alpha tore through my friends with horrifying strength. It crushed bones like twigs, ripped bodies apart, and used one of us as a shield. Gunfire barely slowed it. In minutes, three of my closest friends were dead. I ran because instinct demanded it, not because I believed I could escape.

The creature chased me through the forest, staying just out of sight but always close enough to let me know escape was a temporary illusion. Hours later, when the sun dipped below the horizon, the forest fell silent again. I collapsed near a creek, lost, starving, and certain I was still being hunted.

I survived only because the creature allowed it. Maybe it thought letting me run would spread the warning. Maybe it wanted me to live with the guilt. Or maybe, in some cruel twist of intelligence, it wanted someone left behind to understand the price of trespassing into their world.

To this day, the nightmares haven’t stopped. I still hear that grieving wail echoing through the darkness behind my closed eyelids. I still imagine massive footsteps stalking just beyond the treeline. And deep down, I know the creature remembers me. It knows my face, my scent, my fear.

And I am terrified that one day, when the forest finally calls me back, it will be waiting.