Bigfoot Visited This Cabin Every Christmas for 40 Years – Shocking Sasquatch Story

I’m sixty‑eight now, living alone in a cabin near Mount Baker, forty miles from the nearest town. My wife passed in 1982, and I’ve been here ever since. Just me, the Douglas firs, and the silence of the Cascades.

For forty years, something has visited me every Christmas Eve. Three knocks on the window, always around nine o’clock.

I kept journals. I took photos of footprints when I could. And last Christmas, it left something on my porch—a backpack I recognized from a hiker who went missing in 1995. Inside was a journal that explained things I’d been too afraid to write down myself.

I still have the backpack in my closet. I’ve never shown it to anyone.

Chapter One: The First Knock

It was December 1983, Christmas Eve. Snow fell light and steady. I sat by the fire with a glass of whiskey, thinking about my wife.

Around nine, something tapped the window. Not hard, but deliberate. Three times. Tap. Tap. Tap.

I pressed my face to the glass. The porch light glowed weakly, illuminating twenty feet of clearing. Nothing moved.

I opened the door, stepped into the cold. Snow lay smooth and undisturbed. No branches fallen. No animal prints.

I went back inside, locked the door, and sat listening. The knocks had sounded like someone asking to come in.

The next morning, I found a single footprint near the treeline. Huge—eighteen inches long, wider than any boot. Five toes splayed like a hand. No claws.

I took a Polaroid. By noon, fresh snow had covered it.

Chapter Two: The Shape

Christmas Eve 1984, I waited by the fire. At nine, the knocks came again.

This time, I grabbed a flashlight and opened the door.

At the edge of the trees, thirty yards out, something stood. Tall. Broader than any man. The beam caught it for a second—massive shoulders, upright stance—before it stepped back into shadow.

Silent. Smooth. Like smoke.

The next morning, tracks led from the treeline to the cabin window. Nineteen inches long. Five toes. No claws.

I didn’t tell anyone.

Chapter Three: The Pattern

Over the next five years, it became routine.

Every Christmas Eve at nine, three knocks. Sometimes on the window. Sometimes on the cabin wall. Once on the door itself, so hard the frame shook.

I’d go outside, flashlight in hand. Sometimes I saw the shape. Sometimes nothing. But always, by morning, footprints in the snow.

In 1986, I found a pyramid of smooth river stones on the porch. Six stones, worn by water, not native to this volcanic soil.

In 1988, I found a deer carcass near the treeline. Fresh kill. Throat torn clean. No cougar tracks. Only massive footprints circling.

By 1990, I accepted it. The knocks were part of Christmas. Reliable as snow.

Chapter Four: The Word

In 1991, I mentioned the sounds to a neighbor. He laughed. “You’re not going to start talking about Bigfoot, are you?”

The word hung in the air. Bigfoot.

That Christmas Eve, no knocks came. But at three in the morning, I woke to footsteps on the porch. Heavy. Deliberate.

They stopped at my bedroom window. Breathing. Deep. Slow. Then three soft knocks on the glass above my head.

The next morning, footprints circled the cabin. One measured twenty inches.

I never spoke of it again.

Chapter Five: The Gift

By 1995, the ritual had lasted twelve years.

That Christmas Eve, I left a carved pine figure on the porch railing—a bird in flight.

At nine, the knocks came. I looked out. The figure was gone.

At the treeline, the shape stood still. Then it turned and vanished.

The next morning, the carved bird sat on my bedroom windowsill. Warm from being held.

That night, I heard a growl. Low. Deep. Deliberate. Not angry. Communicative.

For the first time, I felt afraid.

Chapter Six: The Journal

Christmas 1996, I found a backpack on the porch. Old. Torn.

Inside was a journal. The entries began July 1995. A hiker named Michael Torres.

He wrote of being followed. Of footprints near his tent. Of food disappearing.

On August 23rd, his final entry: I saw it today. Eight feet tall. Covered in dark hair. It watched me. I think it’s protecting me from something else.

Michael Torres had gone missing that summer. His car was found at the trailhead. He was never seen again.

Now his backpack sat on my porch.

Chapter Seven: The Gesture

Christmas Eve 1997, I decided to open the door when the knocks came.

At nine, tap tap tap. I stepped outside.

At the treeline, forty feet away, it stood. Broad shoulders. Long arms. Massive head.

I raised my hand. Instinct.

It raised its hand too. Fingers spread. Palm facing me.

Then it turned and walked into the forest.

The next morning, a woven cedar basket sat on the porch. Inside were three smooth river stones.

Chapter Eight: The Voice

By 1999, the pattern shifted.

That Christmas Eve, no knocks came. Silence.

At midnight, a sound echoed through the valley. A howl‑whistle. Not wolf. Not cougar. Something else.

Movement in the clearing. A dark shape, twenty feet from the cabin.

The next morning, footprints crossed the snow. Twenty‑one inches long.

I wrote in my journal: It came closer tonight. It wanted me to see it. It wanted me to know.

Chapter Nine: The Meeting

Christmas Eve 2000, I sat on the porch at 8:30, bundled in blankets.

At nine, the howl‑whistle came. Then it stepped into the clearing.

Moonlight revealed it fully. Eight feet tall. Broad shoulders. Long arms. Dark shaggy hair.

The face was almost human. Broad forehead. Deep eyes. Flat nose. Wide mouth.

It stopped ten feet from the porch. Raised its hand.

I raised mine.

We stood like that, hands raised, facing each other.

It lowered its hand. Made a sound—soft, sighing. Then turned and walked into the forest.

The next morning, footprints measured twenty‑two inches.

Chapter Ten: The Exchange

After that, visits became more frequent. Not just Christmas Eve.

I’d hear the howl‑whistle in January. Find gifts on the porch—stones, feathers, carved wood. Once, a tanned deerhide folded neatly.

I left gifts too. Carved spoons. Woven baskets. Wooden figures.

They disappeared. Days later, something new appeared.

It felt like a conversation. Slow. Wordless.

Chapter Eleven: The Guardian

In March 2001, I found tracks circling the cabin. Stopping at each window.

I should have been afraid. Instead, I felt watched over. Protected.

No cougar tracks. No wolves. Only Bigfoot’s prints.

I wrote: I think Bigfoot understands loneliness. I think that’s why it comes here. Not because I’m special, but because I’m alone. And maybe it’s alone too.

Chapter Twelve: The Farewell

Christmas Eve 2003, it came closer than ever. Fifteen feet from the porch.

Its amber eyes glowed in the light. Gray hairs mixed with dark. Weathered skin.

It raised its hand. I raised mine.

Then it vocalized. Low sounds, almost like words.

“I see you,” I whispered. “I know you’re real.”

It turned, walked back to the treeline, stopped, looked back once, then vanished.

Christmas 2004, silence.

The next morning, a single footprint on the porch steps. Beside it, a carved bird—rough, deliberate, almost identical to the one I’d made years before.

Goodbye.

Epilogue: The Secret

After 2004, the visits ended.

I kept the gifts—the carved bird, the basket, the stones. I reread Michael Torres’s journal. I looked at the photos.

But I never told anyone.

In 2019, I moved closer to town. Age caught up with me. But I kept the cabin.

I never rent it out at Christmas. Those nights belong to something else.

Last year, I returned. Sat by the fire at nine.

The knocks didn’t come.

But I still waited.

Because I know, somewhere in the Cascades, Bigfoot remembers me.