Bigfoot Caught Digging Graves on Trail Cam, What Happened Next Is Shocking – Sasquatch Story

It was late spring 2015 in the Appalachian foothills, where I’d been hunting since my grandfather first took me out at twelve. I was forty‑three then, living alone after the divorce, checking on the old family cemetery every few weeks like my father had taught me.

The trail cam was nothing special—sixty dollars at the hardware store, meant to catch deer or maybe a black bear passing through. I strapped it to a pine tree facing the graveyard, mostly out of habit.

When I pulled the SD card that June morning and saw what was on it, I didn’t call anyone. Not the sheriff. Not my brother down in Asheville. Nobody.

I still have the footage on an old laptop in my closet. I’ve watched it maybe four times in ten years. The hardest part wasn’t seeing it that first time. The hardest part was every night after, when I’d hear those three knocks and know exactly what was out there.

Chapter One: The Cemetery

The family cemetery sat in a small clearing about two miles from my cabin, just past where the county road turned to gravel and disappeared into the trees. My grandfather was buried there. So was his father. Eight graves total, all family going back to the 1890s when my great‑great‑grandfather homesteaded this land.

We kept it up as best we could—cleared weeds twice a year, replaced wooden markers when they rotted through. It wasn’t much, but it was ours.

That spring, the woods smelled of wet pine needles and rotting leaves. Everything was green and overgrown, the kind of thick you get after heavy rains when the underbrush shoots up faster than you can walk through it.

I strapped the trail cam to a pine about fifteen yards from the graves, angled it to catch anything moving through the clearing. Mostly I expected deer, raccoons, maybe a bear nosing around.

Chapter Two: The First Knocks

Three days later, I was sitting in my kitchen with coffee and an old Field and Stream magazine when I heard it.

Three solid knocks. Deep. Deliberate. Like someone hitting a baseball bat against a hollow tree.

They came from the direction of the cemetery.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Evenly spaced. Two seconds apart.

I told myself it was a branch falling. Or a woodpecker. But woodpeckers don’t knock three times and stop. And branches don’t fall with rhythm.

I went back to my coffee. The knocks didn’t come again that night.

Chapter Three: The Footage

The next morning, I hiked to the cemetery. Everything looked normal. Graves undisturbed. Markers standing straight. No fresh tracks in the dirt.

I pulled the SD card, slipped it into my pocket, and headed back.

That afternoon, I plugged the card into my laptop.

Deer at dusk. A raccoon nosing around. A fox trotting across the clearing. Normal stuff.

Then the timestamp: 2:47 a.m.

The video was dark, lit only by infrared. At first, I thought the motion sensor had triggered on nothing. Just shadows.

Then I saw movement.

Something large was kneeling by my grandfather’s grave. Digging with its hands. Moving dirt slowly, deliberately.

Even kneeling, it was massive. Seven feet tall at least. Shoulders broad, covered in dark hair that showed gray in infrared.

It worked for three minutes, then stood. Eight feet tall, maybe more. It turned its head, scanning the clearing. I saw the profile of its face—flat nose, heavy brow. Not human.

Then it walked into the trees and vanished.

Chapter Four: The Footprint

I replayed the footage five times. Each time I hoped for a different explanation. A person in a costume. A trick of shadows. Anything but what it was.

But there was no mistake. I had captured Bigfoot.

I didn’t sleep that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw its hands scooping earth. Its shoulders rising. That heavy brow catching the infrared light.

By dawn, I convinced myself to go back.

The cemetery looked normal. No disturbed earth. No digging.

Then I saw it. A footprint in soft mud near the clearing. Enormous. Seventeen inches long. Six inches wide. Five toes clear. Pressed two inches deep.

I took photos. But there were no other prints. Just one perfect impression, like it had materialized there and vanished.

Chapter Five: The Silence

I thought about calling the sheriff. But what would I say? That I’d captured Bigfoot digging at my grandfather’s grave?

They’d laugh. Or worse, think I was hoaxing.

As I left, the smell hit me. Musky. Thick. Wet fur and dirt. Strong enough to make me stop walking.

I’d hunted bear before. This wasn’t bear.

I left quickly, glancing back every few steps. The feeling of being watched pressed on me like a weight.

Chapter Six: The Scratches

Four nights later, the knocks came again.

Three thumps. Loud. Clear. From the cemetery.

I locked the door. Sat in the dark living room listening.

The knocks didn’t return. But I couldn’t shake the feeling something was watching the cabin.

The next morning, I found scratches on the back wall. Four parallel marks gouged into the siding, eight feet off the ground. Seven inches long.

Something had touched my cabin while I slept.

Chapter Seven: The Stones

The knocks continued. Every few nights. Always three.

I started timing them. 9:47 p.m. 10:50 p.m. 11:03 p.m. Never the same time, but always late evening.

One morning, I hiked to the cemetery. Near the treeline, I found a small pile of stones stacked carefully on a fallen log. Five stones, each placed deliberately.

They hadn’t been there before.

I took photos. Didn’t touch them. Just documented and left.

Chapter Eight: The Neighbor

My neighbor, Dale Patterson, stopped by. He ran a sawmill five miles down the mountain.

“Heard you’ve been spending time at the cemetery,” he said. “Everything all right?”

I nodded.

He looked uneasy. “I don’t want to sound crazy, but I’ve been hearing knocks. Three of them. Always three. Coming from up your way.”

My chest tightened. “You hear them too?”

“Last couple weeks. Always late. Always the same pattern. My wife thinks it’s trees falling. But I’ve logged these mountains thirty years. I know the difference.”

I lied. “Probably just echo from logging. Sound carries strange.”

He didn’t believe me.

Chapter Nine: The Basket

August storms rolled in. Thunder shook the ridges. Rain flooded creeks.

One morning after a storm, I hiked to the cemetery.

On my grandfather’s marker sat a woven basket.

Not store‑bought. Made from thin branches and vines, woven tight. Inside were wildflowers—black‑eyed susans and mountain laurel, freshly picked.

The smell was back. Musky. Close.

I whispered, “Thank you.”

The forest stayed silent. But I knew it was there. Watching.

Chapter Ten: The Face

September brought cooler nights. Leaves hinted at turning.

I hiked to the cemetery one evening. The basket was still there, flowers wilted but arranged carefully.

A branch snapped.

At the edge of the trees stood Bigfoot. Eight feet tall. Broad shoulders. Dark reddish hair. Eyes intelligent, unreadable.

It stepped forward. Twenty feet away. Close enough I could see the texture of its hair, the rise and fall of its chest.

“I won’t tell,” I whispered. “You’re safe here.”

It tilted its head. Made a low rumbling sound. Then turned and walked back into the forest.

Chapter Eleven: The Researcher

Late September, a knock came at my cabin door.

A man stood there. Mid‑forties. Hiking clothes too new.

“Evening,” he said. “I’m Tom Brereslin, wildlife researcher with the state. We’ve had reports of unusual activity. Strange sounds. Large predator signs. Mind if I ask questions?”

My blood went cold.

He asked about knocks. About vocalizations. About bears.

I lied. “Just owls. Coyotes. Normal stuff.”

He handed me his card. “Call if you see anything.”

After he left, I burned the card in my fireplace.

The state was investigating. Time was running out.

Chapter Twelve: The Agreement

That night, I hiked to the cemetery in darkness.

I turned off my flashlight and stood in blackness.

The smell came first. Then the knocks. Three. Close.

I whispered into the clearing: “I won’t tell anyone. You can trust me.”

The forest stayed silent. But I felt it listening.