This Bigfoot Hunted and K!lled an Entire Hunting Group in Appalachian Mountains – BIGFOOT Stories
The Dolly Sods Incident
A Survivor’s Testimony
Chapter 1: The Last Trip
What I’m about to tell you happened twenty-five years ago in the remote wilderness of the Appalachian Mountains. I’ve never spoken publicly about it until now. The official report called it a bear attack—three men mauled and killed by a rogue black bear in March of 2000. The authorities put down an innocent bear, held a press conference, and closed the case.
.
.
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But I was there. I saw what really happened that night. And it wasn’t a bear that hunted my friends through those ancient woods like prey animals. It was something far worse—something that should have remained buried in mountain folklore, whispered around campfires as legend.
My name is Larry, and I’m the sole survivor of what the media dubbed the Dolly Sods Incident. For two and a half decades, I’ve carried the weight of that night: the screams of my friends echoing in my dreams, the image of that massive silhouette burned into my memory. The trail camera footage exists—I’ve seen it with my own eyes—but it disappeared into some government file cabinet, dismissed as an elaborate hoax. They painted me as a liar or a murderer. For years, I wondered which was worse.
Now, as I approach my sixtieth birthday, I’ve decided the truth needs to be told. Three good men died in those mountains, and their families deserve to know what really took them. More importantly, hikers and campers continue to venture into those woods, unaware of the apex predator that calls the deepest hollows home.
Chapter 2: Man Week
March 15th, 2000 started like any other camping trip the four of us had taken dozens of times before. We were all in our mid-thirties, childhood friends from the coal mining town of Davis, West Virginia, who’d managed to maintain our friendship despite careers and families pulling us in different directions.
Every spring, we’d pack our gear and head deep into the Monongahela National Forest for what we called Man Week: five days of hiking, fishing, drinking beer, and pretending we were still the teenagers who used to explore every creek and ridge in Tucker County.
Rick was our unofficial leader, a park ranger who knew the backcountry like his own backyard. He’d picked our campsite—a secluded clearing near Dolly Sods Wilderness, accessible only by a forgotten logging road that required four-wheel drive and nerves of steel.
Mike worked construction and always carried enough gear for an Arctic expedition, while Dave taught high school and brought an endless supply of ghost stories and local legends that had terrified generations of students. The plan was simple: establish base camp, set up some trail cameras to capture wildlife footage, and spend our days exploring the wilderness we’d grown up in.
Chapter 3: Into the Woods
Rick had recently purchased three motion-activated trail cameras, cutting-edge technology for 2000, and was eager to document the black bears, white-tailed deer, and wild turkeys that populated the area. We positioned the cameras around our camp and along game trails, hoping to capture footage of the magnificent wildlife that thrived in one of the East Coast’s last true wilderness areas.
Those first two days unfolded exactly as we’d hoped. The weather was perfect—crisp mountain air, clear skies, and temperatures that hovered in the comfortable fifties during the day before dropping into the thirties at night. We hiked familiar trails, fished crystalline streams, and cooked simple meals over our camp stove while sharing stories and catching up.
The trail cameras became a source of constant entertainment. Every evening, we’d check the footage, fast-forwarding through hours of empty forest before finding brief clips of squirrels, chipmunks, and the occasional deer. Rick was excited about one sequence showing a massive bull elk—a rare sight in West Virginia—drinking from the creek just fifty yards from our tents.
Chapter 4: Shadows and Stories
On our third night, as we sat around the crackling campfire with the vast darkness pressing in, Dave began telling the stories that made him legendary among his students. He started with familiar local legends—the Moth Man, the Beast of Bladenboro, phantom hitchhikers on lonely roads. But as the fire burned lower, his stories grew personal.
He spoke of his grandfather, a logger in these mountains in the 1940s, who swore something lived in the deepest hollows—something that walked upright like a man but possessed the strength of ten men and the cunning of a predator that had never known fear of humans. Loggers found massive footprints in the mud, trees twisted and broken, campsites destroyed with violence no animal could inflict. His grandfather spoke of howls and screams echoing through the mountains on moonless nights—almost human, but with a primal, alien undertone.
The loggers called it the shadow walker because it moved through the forest unseen, leaving destruction and terror in its wake.
As Dave spoke, I found myself listening more intently to the sounds around us. The usual nighttime chorus seemed muted, as if the woods themselves were holding their breath. An owl hooted somewhere, but the call sounded hollow and wrong, echoing off the mountainsides in a way that made the hair on my arms stand up.
Rick, ever the skeptic, dismissed the stories with good-natured ribbing. But even as he laughed, I noticed him glancing toward the treeline, sweeping his flashlight across the darkness beyond our small circle of light. Mike was quiet, staring into the flames with a troubled expression. When Dave finished, Mike mentioned he’d heard something moving around the perimeter of our camp the previous night—footsteps too heavy and deliberate to belong to any animal he knew.
Chapter 5: The Silence
The fourth night brought a change in the atmosphere—subtle but unmistakable. The temperature dropped sharply, and a thick mist began rising from the creek, drifting between the trees like searching fingers.
More troubling was the absolute silence that settled over the forest as soon as the sun disappeared. We’d grown used to the nighttime symphony—the rustle of animals, distant coyotes, wind through pines. But this night brought an oppressive quiet, as if every living thing had decided to hold its breath and wait.
Around ten, as we sat around the dying embers, the first vocalization drifted down from the ridge above our camp. It started as a low moan, almost human, resonating from somewhere deep in the chest of whatever made it. The sound lasted ten seconds before fading into the mist.
Rick suggested it might be a black bear, but his voice lacked its usual confidence. Dave muttered about his grandfather’s stories; Mike banked the fire with urgency.
Twenty minutes later, the sound came again, closer. The mournful wail echoed off the ridges, impossible to pinpoint. What made my blood run cold wasn’t the sound itself, but the intelligence behind it. There was a pattern—a cadence that suggested communication, maybe even primitive language.
Throughout the night, the calls continued at irregular intervals, sometimes from the north, sometimes the south, creating the impression that whatever made them was circling our camp. None of us slept well.
Chapter 6: The Evidence
Morning came, and we were hollow-eyed and jumpy. The trail cameras showed only the usual parade of small wildlife. Whatever had been calling to us had managed to avoid every motion sensor.
By the fifth day, our camaraderie was fraying. Rick maintained his rational approach, insisting everything could be explained by wildlife and acoustics. But I caught him checking and rechecking his GPS, carrying his radio everywhere, trying to raise the ranger station.
Dave was quiet, staring into the forest. He said his grandfather described similar vocalizations—warnings that loggers were no longer welcome. Mike insisted we move camp to a more open area, but Rick argued we only had two days left. In the end, we moved our tents closer together and established a watch rotation.
That evening’s camera check revealed something strange. One camera, positioned on a game trail a hundred yards north, had captured a sequence that defied explanation. The first frame showed the empty trail. The second, two minutes later, showed a shadow at the edge—too large and the wrong proportions for any animal we knew.
The third frame made us fall silent. The shadow had moved closer, and while the image was unclear, there was no mistaking the bipedal posture. Massive, seven or eight feet tall, with impossibly broad shoulders and arms hanging nearly to its knees.
Rick declared the images inconclusive—poor lighting, low resolution, could be anything. A bear rearing up, a person, a trick of shadow. But I wasn’t convinced. There was something about the posture, the way it seemed to study the camera, that suggested intelligence and awareness no bear possessed.
Chapter 7: The Attack
Our last night arrived with a sense of foreboding. The weather turned, bringing low clouds and a dampness that seeped into our bones. Checking the cameras revealed more shadows, unclear images—shapes that might have been anything or nothing.
As darkness fell, we kept our watch rotation, but the comfort was minimal. The forest felt different—watchful, malevolent, every rustle sounding like footsteps.
Around eleven, Dave took his turn at watch. I was drifting off when I heard him whisper urgently. The vocalizations had started again, but tonight they were different—shorter, more aggressive, guttural barks and snarls from multiple directions.
It was as if whatever had been circling us had brought friends and was no longer content to simply observe.
I crawled out of my tent to find Dave pale, flashlight and knife in hand, tracking the sounds. Rick and Mike emerged, and we stood together in our circle of firelight as the vocalizations moved closer, coordinated—a pattern that suggested communication.
Then, suddenly, silence. Five minutes of absolute quiet, filled with the potential energy of predators positioning for an attack.
Dave finally broke, overwhelmed by terror. He announced he couldn’t wait and needed to relieve himself, despite our rule not to leave the fire. Rick tried to stop him, but Dave was already walking toward the treeline, flashlight beam dancing ahead.
For a few minutes, everything seemed normal. Then the light stopped moving.
Chapter 8: The Horror
The scream that shattered the night was unlike anything I’d ever heard—a cry of pure terror, rising to an inhuman pitch before being cut off. It was followed by crashing underbrush and a roar that seemed to shake the ground.
All three of us grabbed flashlights and ran toward the spot. Our beams cut through the darkness, chaotic as we stumbled through the underbrush, calling Dave’s name.
We found him pressed against a massive oak, flashlight broken, face frozen in terror. But it wasn’t Dave that made us stop dead—it was the thing standing ten feet away.
Enormous, eight feet tall, covered in dark hair that absorbed our lights. Shoulders impossibly broad, arms hanging to its knees, hands capable of crushing a man’s skull. Its face was humanoid but primitive and alien, eyes reflecting our lights like mirrors, holding an intelligence that was ancient and utterly inhuman.
For five seconds, we stood frozen. The creature studied us, head tilting slightly as it evaluated these new additions to its hunting ground. I had the impression it was calculating, weighing options, deciding how to proceed.
Then Mike turned and ran. The creature’s posture shifted from curiosity to predatory intent, releasing a roar that shook the ground. More terrifying were the answering calls from the darkness, at least three directions.
Rick grabbed Dave and pulled him away, but I was already running. Some primitive part of my brain recognized the truth: we weren’t dealing with a single creature, but a coordinated pack of apex predators that had stalked us for days, learning our patterns, waiting for the perfect moment.
Chapter 9: The Hunt
The next fifteen minutes were the most terrifying of my life. The forest became a maze of shadows and screams as we were systematically hunted through terrain our pursuers knew far better than we ever could. The creatures—at least four—moved with intelligence and planning, communicating through vocalizations ranging from low grunts to piercing shrieks.
They were herding us, driving us away from camp, deeper into the wilderness where our chances of survival dropped with every step.
Mike’s screams were the first to be cut short—a cry of agony and terror replaced by sounds I refuse to describe. I kept running, crashing through underbrush, while pursuit grew closer. Rick’s voice came next, calling for help before dissolving into screams that faded into the night.
I could hear Dave somewhere ahead, panicked breathing and crashing footsteps growing fainter as we were driven in different directions. The creatures seemed to be playing with us, allowing us to run just far enough to maintain hope before closing in again.
I caught glimpses of dark shapes flowing between the trees with an inhuman grace that belied their size.
After what felt like hours but was probably fifteen minutes, the sounds of pursuit faded. I was alone, lost somewhere in the vast wilderness, with no idea which direction led to safety.
Chapter 10: The Aftermath
I spent the rest of the night moving through the forest, guided only by the stars and desperate hope. Every sound made me freeze, convinced the creatures were still out there, following me, waiting.
As dawn broke, I stumbled onto a familiar trail, followed it downhill to the gravel road where we’d parked Rick’s truck. The vehicle was still there, untouched, but the keys were back at camp. I walked six hours to the nearest ranger station, arriving scratched, torn, and wild-eyed.
I tried to explain what happened, but even to my own ears, the story sounded insane. Three men killed by creatures that didn’t officially exist, in a coordinated, intelligent attack.
The ranger listened politely, took notes, and radioed for backup. The forest was soon crawling with search teams, rangers, and eventually FBI agents who treated me like a suspect. They found our campsite—tents shredded, gear scattered, trees damaged. But no bodies, despite an intensive search.
Chapter 11: The Footage
The breakthrough came when investigators found one trail camera still intact. Positioned near the latrine area, it had continued recording. Its memory card contained footage that should have changed everything.
I was present when they reviewed it: Dave’s approach to the treeline, the emergence of the creature, our arrival with flashlights, and the chaos that followed. Most importantly, it captured clear images of the creatures—multiple bipedal beings, eight feet tall, with strength and coordination beyond anything in the animal kingdom.
For a moment, I thought vindication was at hand. Proof to clear my name and force the authorities to acknowledge the truth. Instead, the lead investigator watched the footage, shook his head, and declared it an obvious fake. The creatures were “clearly people in costumes.” The attack was staged, an elaborate hoax to cover up what happened. The footage was “too poor” to prove anything, and the behavior “inconsistent” with known animal patterns.
Within a week, I was facing charges for filing a false report and interfering with a federal investigation. The footage disappeared into evidence lockup; I was prohibited from discussing it publicly.
Chapter 12: The Cover-Up
The authorities needed a simple explanation. They found it in a 300-pound black bear tracked by biologists. The bear had shown aggressive behavior, they claimed, and likely attacked our group. The fact that no bodies were recovered was explained by the bear’s habit of dragging kills to a den.
A week after my friends disappeared, the bear was located and killed. The case was closed; families were given closure in the form of a neat narrative. I was fined $2,500 and banned from national forests for five years. The media portrayed me as either disturbed or a con artist.
Twenty-five years have passed. The official explanation that a bear killed three experienced outdoorsmen and made their bodies disappear grows more ludicrous each year.
Chapter 13: The Truth Remains
I’ve connected with other witnesses over the years. The patterns are consistent: intelligent, coordinated behavior, communication between creatures, attacks that show strategic planning. Every report is dismissed, every witness marginalized.
The families of my friends never forgave me. Rick’s wife moved away, Mike’s parents refused to speak to me, Dave’s sister still crosses the street. I understand their need to blame someone. The alternative—accepting that their loved ones were killed by something science refuses to acknowledge—is harder than the fiction of human evil.
The Dolly Sods area remains popular. Every year, a few people go missing. Most are found, but some vanish without a trace, leaving behind disturbed campsites and no evidence of what caused it. The explanations are always rational—bear attacks, falls, exposure.
I’ve kept track of these incidents, noting the similarities: remote locations, experienced outdoorsmen, signs of struggle, no bodies. Each time I considered coming forward, the memory of how I was treated kept me silent.
Chapter 14: The Warning
Last month, another group went missing in the same area—four college students, experienced hikers. Their campsite was found destroyed, gear scattered, no trace of the students. The investigation is following the same script—wildlife experts speculate about an aggressive bear, search teams comb the forest, families are fed comfortable lies.
But I know better. I know what’s stalking people in those mountains. I can’t remain silent while more lives are at risk. The creatures that killed my friends are still out there—intelligent, organized, and they see humans as prey.
The trail camera footage that could prove their existence is buried in some government warehouse, dismissed as a hoax by those who refuse to accept that mysteries remain unsolved.
I’m approaching sixty now. My health isn’t what it used to be, and I’ve lived with the weight of that night for far too long. Before I die, I want people to know the truth about what happened in the Appalachian wilderness in March of 2000.
Three good men died—Rick, Mike, and Dave—killed by creatures that exist in the spaces between scientific knowledge and ancient fear. They deserve better than to be forgotten in a bureaucratic cover-up. And the people who venture into those mountains deserve to know what’s really waiting for them in the deepest, darkest hollows of Appalachia.
I was there. I saw it happen. No amount of official denial will ever change the truth of what I witnessed: the night a hunting party became the hunted.
Epilogue: The Monsters Are Real
The footage exists. The truth is out there. And somewhere in the vast wilderness of the Monongahela National Forest, the descendants of those creatures are still watching, still waiting, and still hunting anyone foolish enough to venture too deep into their ancient domain.
I am Larry, and this is my testimony. Believe it or don’t, but if you ever find yourself camping in the remote corners of the Appalachian wilderness, remember my words. When you hear something moving through the darkness beyond your campfire’s light, sometimes the monsters from our childhood stories turn out to be real.
End.
