Bigfoot Visited Their Cabin Every Thanksgiving, Until Something Strange Happened

It’s been almost twenty years since that fateful Thanksgiving, but sometimes it feels as if it happened just yesterday. My name is Tom, and the story I’m about to tell you is one that no one ever believes. At least, not the way I experienced it. But even after all these years, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something more to this, something darker and deeper than I could ever have imagined. And it all began with a family tradition that seemed as ordinary as mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie… until the knocks stopped.

The Cabin in the Hills

The cabin had always been a special place. Located 12 miles up Forest Road 47, past the point where the pavement ends and the cell signal dies, it was our sanctuary—a place to escape the city and reconnect with each other. My father bought it in 1989 for next to nothing. Nobody wanted to drive that far into the wilderness just for a weekend getaway, but for us, it was everything. It became our Thanksgiving tradition. Every November, we’d load up the truck and drive the three hours from Portland, with Grandma in the backseat, and my younger sister, Sarah, in the passenger seat, with me in the middle.

The road to the cabin was treacherous, especially in the winter. The radio would cut out halfway up the mountain, and the cold would creep in despite the heater’s best efforts. We’d arrive in the late afternoon, when the first few stars were already twinkling in the sky. The cabin, small and tucked in between towering pine trees, was like a little world of its own. It had a stone fireplace Dad had built himself, a warm, inviting hearth where we would gather around after a long day of work.

We never knew why we never questioned the knocks, or the smell, or the feeling of something—or someone—watching us. It was just part of the holiday. It was always the same. On Thanksgiving night, right after dinner, when we were sitting by the fire and grandma was washing dishes, we’d hear the knocks. Three sharp wraps on the back door. Three, never more, never less.

We knew what it meant. Bigfoot had arrived.

The Knocks

My earliest memory of Bigfoot was when I was just a kid. The knock would come, and Grandma would prepare a plate of food. It was always the same: turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, and a dinner roll. She would wrap it all up in foil, set it carefully on the back step, and we would wait inside. We never opened the door. We didn’t have to. By morning, the plate would be gone. Clean. Completely empty.

I once asked Dad why we never opened the door to greet him, and he just smiled and said, “You don’t spy on family.” That was the rule. We respected his privacy.

Every year, without fail, Bigfoot would visit. Grandma never questioned it, and neither did I. He was just part of our family’s Thanksgiving tradition. It was normal, comfortable, and it never occurred to us to think otherwise. But things changed in 2005. That year, Bigfoot didn’t show up.

The Year He Didn’t Come

It was the same as every other year. We arrived at the cabin the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, Dad checked everything, and Grandma started preparing the food. The weather was colder than usual, and the roads were icy, but we made it there safely, as we always did. Dinner was perfect. Everything felt like it always had—until 10:00 PM came. The time when we always heard the knocks.

But that year, there were no knocks.

We waited, and waited. Dad said maybe Bigfoot was just late, but by midnight, the food we had prepared was still sitting on the back step, untouched. No knocks, no rustling in the trees. Nothing.

I remember standing there with my sister, Sarah, staring at the plate in the freezing cold. We didn’t know what to think. The next morning, the plate was still there. The food, still frozen and untouched. Dad thought maybe Bigfoot was sick or had been scared off. But I had a sinking feeling in my stomach, like something wasn’t right.

The Tracks in the Snow

The next day, after breakfast, Dad suggested we go into the woods to check for signs. We bundled up and made our way into the forest behind the cabin. The frost crunched underfoot as we trudged deeper, the trees towering overhead. We walked for maybe twenty minutes, following the path that wound its way through the dense forest. That’s when we found them.

Huge footprints. Bigger than anything human. They were pressed deep into the soft mud near a creek. Each print was about 18 inches long and 6 inches wide, with five toes clearly visible. They led off into the deeper forest, and Dad immediately crouched down to inspect them. He was quiet for a long time. Finally, he looked up at me and whispered, “Bigfoot.”

It was the first time he’d ever said the word out loud.

We followed the prints for another hundred yards, but they disappeared where the ground turned rockier. The forest was silent. No calls, no signs. Just the cold and the wind. We returned to the cabin in silence.

Grandma’s Warning

When we arrived back at the cabin, Grandma was already packing up our things. “We’re leaving,” she said, her voice sharp and determined. “Something’s wrong. We shouldn’t be here.” Her eyes were filled with fear, and despite the weight of the moment, I could see that she had known this day was coming.

We packed up and left that afternoon, but as we drove back down Forest Road 47, I felt an overwhelming sense of dread. The smell came a week later. At first, I thought it was just a dead animal, maybe a raccoon, that had gotten trapped under our porch. But when I checked, there was nothing there. Just the smell: wet fur, moss, and something wild and earthy.

It came every night at 10:00, just like the knocks.

The Followed Smell

The smell wasn’t just something I noticed. Sarah smelled it too. She came into my room one night, pale and wide-eyed. “Tom,” she whispered, “he followed us home.”

I didn’t want to believe her, but deep down, I knew she was right. Every night at the same time, the smell would drift into our house, through the cracks under the back door. It was thick and heavy. It was Bigfoot.

Dad, who had been ignoring it, started closing the windows and turning up the heat. Grandma started lighting sage, walking through the rooms and muttering prayers under her breath. But nothing helped. The smell remained, a constant presence.

Then, two weeks later, it happened. One night, at 10:00 PM, I heard something outside my bedroom window. Heavy footsteps, moving slowly across the backyard. I crept to the window and pulled the curtain back just a crack. The motion sensor light Dad had installed came on, casting harsh white light across the yard.

And there he was. Bigfoot.

The Final Encounter

I could barely make out his massive shape in the shadows. He was standing at the edge of the light, his back turned to me, but his glowing eyes were unmistakable. He was looking directly at me. I felt like I was staring into his soul. We stood there, locked in that gaze for what felt like hours, though it was probably only a few seconds. Then, slowly, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the night.

The next morning, there were footprints in the grass. The same huge prints we had seen near the creek. We called the police. They came, took pictures, asked questions, and filed a report. One officer suggested it might be a prank. Another said it was probably a bear.

But I knew what I’d seen.

The Return to the Cabin

Dad decided we had to go back to the cabin. Maybe we had left too soon. Maybe Bigfoot needed our help. Grandma was reluctant, but Dad was insistent. So, the next weekend, we drove back up Forest Road 47.

When we arrived, the cabin was buried in snow. The windows were obscured by drifts, and the air inside was freezing. It felt abandoned. The fire started, and we waited. The plate of food was prepared and placed on the back step, just like the tradition. But this time, there were no knocks. We waited all night. Nothing.

Around 3:00 AM, I heard a sound. It was a low, mournful cry. We got up and went outside. In the snowstorm, we saw him standing there. Bigfoot. He gestured toward the trees, asking us to follow him.

A New Family

Bigfoot led us into the forest. We followed him through the snow until we reached an old oak tree. There, at the base of the tree, was a smaller Bigfoot, injured and barely alive. We helped, we cared for her, and we understood. Bigfoot trusted us, and we were his family.

The next morning, Bigfoot left us a gift: three smooth riverstones stacked perfectly on the back step, a silent thank you.

A Legacy of Family

In the years that followed, I kept the memory of that night close. I kept a video, hidden away, of Bigfoot, watching us with those intelligent eyes. And as Sarah got older, we both knew we’d never forget what we had witnessed. Bigfoot had been part of our family, and he had trusted us