‘A Bigfoot Family Is Living On Our Property… And It’s Getting Worse’ – BIGFOOT STORY COMPILATION
A Bigfoot Family Is Living On Our Property… And It’s Getting Worse
I am writing this from a motel room on the edge of town because yesterday morning I found a massive handprint pressed into the mud directly beneath our bedroom window. The fingers were far too long to belong to any human being, thick and heavy, with deep impressions that suggested real weight behind them. Whatever made that print had been standing there for some time, close enough to the glass to watch my wife and me while we slept. That discovery was the final straw. After weeks of unexplained activity on our farm—gates mysteriously standing open, dead chickens found with finger-shaped bruises around their necks, and footprints twice the size of my boots appearing overnight—I loaded my stroke-damaged wife into our old truck and fled.
I am not a foolish man. I have been a farmer for forty-three years, and I know the difference between bear tracks and something that walks upright with intention. I know what normal animal behavior looks like, and I know when wildlife is reacting to a predator larger and smarter than itself. What was happening on our land was not natural, and it was escalating with frightening speed.
Our farm sits on thirty acres at the very edge of civilization, bordered by thousands of acres of state forest so dense that sunlight struggles to reach the ground. My wife and I bought the land when we were young and optimistic, believing we would raise our children there and grow old together. The children did grow, but they left, scattering across different states, visiting less each year. Then my wife got sick. A stroke robbed her of her speech, and early dementia followed soon after. Most days she sat quietly, staring into nothing, and I believed the doctors when they said it was confusion. I believed that until the forest noticed us.
I had started keeping a journal months earlier after my doctor warned me about early Parkinson’s. Writing, he said, might help keep my hands steady and my mind sharp. Every night I wrote about ordinary things—weather, fences, eggs, brief moments when my wife smiled like her old self. The journal entry dated April twelfth was the first sign something was wrong. That morning, my wife sat on the porch wrapped in her quilt, pointing repeatedly toward the same dark section of forest. She made urgent sounds, strained to speak, and grew increasingly agitated. I dismissed it as illness and wrote that she had probably seen a deer or bear. I was wrong.
For days afterward, she stared at the same patch of trees, unmoving, as if watching something I could not see. One morning, curiosity got the better of me, and I positioned myself where I could observe both her and the forest. After nearly twenty minutes of nothing, her posture changed suddenly. She sat upright, focused, alert. When I followed her gaze, I felt my stomach drop. Something large was moving between the trees, upright and deliberate. At first, I thought it might be a man, but the proportions were wrong—too tall, too broad, too controlled. It watched us for several minutes before melting back into the shadows.
That night, my wife spoke clearly for the first time in over a year. “Why don’t you invite them inside?” she asked. By the time I reached her bedside, the moment was gone, but the words stayed with me.
From that point forward, evidence appeared everywhere. Enormous human-like footprints surfaced near the creek, some as long as eighteen inches, others smaller, suggesting juveniles. Branches snapped far above human reach. Stone stacks and twisted saplings appeared overnight, arranged with purpose. Certain areas of the forest carried a thick, musky odor that reminded me of a zoo. My wife began having brief moments of terrifying clarity. She spoke of a mother teaching her young, of arguments, of curiosity turning into impatience.
The first clear sighting came late April. Three of them stood at the forest’s edge—one massive adult and two juveniles mimicking its movements. Their faces were unsettlingly human, their eyes intelligent and observant. The adult pointed at me, then at my wife, then back at me. When they left, they crashed loudly through the underbrush, making sure I understood they could choose silence or noise at will. That night, my wife whispered that they were not bad, only curious.
Curiosity soon became intrusion. One night, every gate on the farm stood open, though none of the animals were harmed. Then came the handprints—on the kitchen window, the barn door, the chicken coop—too small to belong to the adult. The juveniles were learning. When I confronted them at the tree line, the mother stepped forward and rumbled, refusing to retreat. The balance we had maintained was gone.
The knocking began shortly after. Every night at three a.m., slow, deliberate knocks circled the house, growing louder with each pass. My wife trembled beside me, her eyes filled not with confusion but recognition. Then came scratching on the roof, the turning of the door handle, and finally the sound of breaking glass. A carved piece of wood lay on the kitchen floor, etched with symbols I could not understand.
“They won’t leave until we give them what they want,” my wife said in a moment of heartbreaking clarity. I never learned what that was.
The next day, I packed the truck. As I worked, movement rippled through the forest. They were watching. That night, the knocking started earlier and lasted longer. Before dawn, I loaded my wife into the truck and drove away. In the rearview mirror, I saw six towering figures standing at the edge of the trees, watching us leave.
I do not know what they wanted. I only know that a Bigfoot family lives on that land, and they are far more intelligent than anyone wants to believe.
And they are still there.
I thought leaving the farm would end it.
That was my first mistake.
The motel sits on the edge of a dying logging town, the kind of place people only stop at because there’s nowhere else to go. Flickering neon sign. One vending machine that hums all night. Thin walls that carry every sound. I chose it because it was the first place with a vacancy, not because I believed it would be safe.
My wife hasn’t spoken since we arrived.
She sits on the edge of the bed, wrapped in her quilt, staring at the door like she’s waiting for it to open. Every so often her fingers twitch, tapping softly against the fabric, the same rhythm as the knocking back at the house. Three taps. Pause. Three taps.
I haven’t slept.
Every time a car passes on the highway, my heart jumps. Every shadow in the parking lot feels too tall, too still. I keep telling myself that Bigfoot—Sasquatch, cryptid, forest creature, whatever name people give them—doesn’t follow humans into towns. That they belong to the wilderness.
But then I remember how intelligent their eyes were.
How deliberate their actions became.
How they learned.
Around 2:47 a.m., the ice machine outside our room roared to life, and my wife flinched so hard she nearly fell off the bed. She made a sound then—low, broken, almost a whimper—and grabbed my arm with surprising strength.
“They’re closer,” she whispered.
I asked her what she meant, begged her to explain, but her grip loosened and her eyes drifted away, the clarity draining from her face like water down a sink. She slumped back against the pillows, breathing shallowly.
I checked the locks on the door three times.
The window twice.
Still, I sat awake until dawn with the shotgun resting across my knees.
The next morning, I went back to the truck to grab our medications. That’s when I saw it.
Mud.
Smeared across the tailgate.
A partial handprint.
Smaller than the one at the farm, but unmistakable. Long fingers. Thick palm. Pressed deliberately, not dragged, as if whoever left it wanted me to notice.
My stomach dropped.
There was no mud anywhere else in the parking lot.
Just that one mark.
I scrubbed it off with a rag, my hands shaking so badly I could barely hold onto it. I didn’t tell my wife. I didn’t want to see that recognition return to her eyes again.
But she knew anyway.
She always knew.
By the second night, the dreams started.
I would drift off for minutes at a time, only to jolt awake convinced I’d heard footsteps outside the door. Heavy ones. Measured. Pacing. When I did sleep, I dreamed of the forest—not as it was, but as it felt. Watching. Breathing. Alive.
In one dream, I stood at the edge of the trees while the mother approached me slowly. She didn’t bare her teeth. She didn’t threaten. She simply leaned down until her face was inches from mine and spoke in a voice that sounded like wood breaking under pressure.
You crossed first.
I woke up screaming.
My wife was sitting upright, staring at the door again.
“They don’t understand leaving,” she said calmly. “They think we’re hiding.”
That was when I realized something that chilled me more than anything else so far.
The Bigfoot family hadn’t been trying to scare us.
They had been trying to communicate.
The knocking.
The symbols.
The negotiations in the forest.
They hadn’t escalated until I refused to understand.
On the third day, my phone rang.
It was my oldest son.
He said he’d driven by the farm after hearing from a neighbor that our animals were loose and the place looked abandoned. He laughed nervously, told me I should’ve said something before taking off like that.
Then his voice changed.
“Dad,” he said slowly, “there’s something wrong out here.”
He told me the house smelled bad. Not rot—animal. Musky. Heavy. He said the windows were covered in handprints, inside and out. That the barn door had been ripped partially off its hinges, not broken, but peeled.
Then he lowered his voice.
“There are things nailed to the trees.”
Carved wood.
Symbols.
Markers.
I told him to leave. I didn’t explain. I just shouted until he got back in his truck and drove away. When the call ended, my wife began crying softly, tears streaming down her face though her expression never changed.
“They’re angry,” she whispered. “The big one didn’t want this.”
That night, the knocking came again.
Not on the motel door.
On the walls.
Low. Distant. Like something heavy striking concrete far away.
No one else seemed to notice.
I pressed my ear against the wall and felt it—not heard it—vibrations traveling through the building in a slow, familiar pattern.
Three knocks.
Pause.
Three knocks.
My wife squeezed my hand.
“They followed the trail,” she said. “They always do.”
I don’t know how far they’ll come.
I don’t know what they want anymore.
But I do know this wasn’t just a Bigfoot family living on our property.
We were living on theirs.
And they’re not finished with us yet.
