I Sent My Drone Into the Wilderness… and It Filmed Something Watching Me
Two Bigfoot Encounters That Still Haunt Me
Some stories stay with you because they’re strange.
Others stay because they change you.
What you’re about to read are two encounters I wish I could forget—because once you realize something intelligent is watching you from the dark, you never quite feel alone again.
And this time… there was footage.
.
.
.
The First Encounter: “Anna”
Back in October of 2001, something came to my home deep in the Appalachian hills—and killed my dog.
Not wounded him.
Not scared him off.
It snapped him apart like a toy.
Two days later, I caught whatever did it on my trail camera.
Clear as day.
I didn’t just leave that house—I abandoned the life I’d built there. I still pay taxes on land I refuse to step foot on. That’s how badly it changed me.
My name is Anna. I was 46 at the time.
I lived alone most of the year in a hollow so remote that the nearest neighbor was a quarter mile away. My husband worked construction near the city and came home once every few weeks. Back then, we didn’t even have a phone. Life was quiet. Isolated. The kind of place where the woods feel close enough to breathe.
After I lost my leg above the knee to a blood clot, my world got smaller. I moved slower. Planned everything. My dog became more than a pet—he was my safety, my company, my reason to feel secure.
The first thing that went wrong wasn’t the noises.
It was the chickens.
One disappeared without a trace. No feathers. No blood. Gates still locked. Two nights later, another vanished. Foxes leave signs. Raccoons make messes. This left nothing.
Then one night, I heard footsteps.
Not light.
Not rushed.
Heavy. Slow. Two-legged.
My dog growled low in his throat—the kind of sound dogs make when they don’t understand what they’re sensing. Whatever it was walked past my bedroom window. The house creaked under its weight.
Then the woods went silent.
If you’ve lived in the forest, you know how wrong that feels. No insects. No owls. Nothing.
The smell came the next morning—wet dog, rot, and something sour I couldn’t name.
My dog refused to step near the fence. He trembled at night. Wouldn’t eat. Wouldn’t go outside unless I stood there with him.
Then came the whistling.
Two notes. Wrong. Forced. Like something trying—and failing—to sound human.
The morning he died, I heard one sharp yelp… then a crack so loud I felt it in my chest.
I found him thrown into the leaves, twisted in ways bodies aren’t meant to bend. There was almost no blood. Just that same awful smell.
Twenty minutes later, something walked past my house again.
I heard it breathing.
Slow. Deep. Calm.
When my husband came home and saw the grave, the drag marks, and finally the photo from the trail cam—he didn’t argue.
He just said,
“Pack what you need. We’re done.”
In the photo, the thing stood taller than our fence. Its arms were too long. Its legs bent like a man’s. No snout. No neck. Just shoulders flowing into a massive head.
Whatever it was… it wasn’t afraid.
The Second Encounter: The Drone
Years later, in North Georgia, I learned something worse.
It wasn’t alone.
We heard digging sounds coming from a neighbor’s empty property just after 1 a.m. Metal scraping. Dirt moving. Not animal sounds.
I sent my drone up.
At first, I thought it was a man crouching.
Then I realized the “hoodie” was hair.
Dark. Wet. Matted.
The thing was digging with its hands—scooping, throwing dirt behind it with practiced movements. Its back was massive. Its arms too long. Its body wrong.
Then it froze.
Slowly, deliberately, it looked up.
Straight at the drone.
Its eyes reflected amber in the light—not panicked, not confused—angry.
The woods went silent.
Then it stood.
Not rushed. Not startled.
And stepped behind a tree… and vanished.
When we crossed the fence, the smell hit us first. Then we saw the hole.
And the bones.
Some old. Some fresh.
Some with tissue still clinging to them.
Police came. Reports were made. Explanations were offered.
But no one laughed.
And no one told us what it really was.
I posted the footage briefly. The comments turned ugly. Then I got messages telling me to take it down.
So I did.
I still have the raw file.
And sometimes, late at night, I replay the moment it looked into the camera—because it didn’t act like something caught off guard.
It acted like something that already knew we were there.
Final Thought
People argue whether Bigfoot exists.
That’s fine.
Belief doesn’t matter.
Because if you’ve ever stood in the woods when everything suddenly goes quiet…
If you’ve ever felt watched without seeing anything…
Then you already know.
Some things don’t need belief to be real.
