This Woman Captures Terrifying Footage Of A Talking Bigfoot!
The Cherokee of the Blue Ridge Mountains spoke of them long before the word Sasquatch ever crossed a European tongue. They called them the Yunwi Tsunsdi or the “Stone Clad,” beings of immense power and hair-covered skin who moved through the forests of Virginia and the Carolinas not as animals, but as a parallel nation. They were observers, guardians, and, occasionally, abductors.
In the Pacific Northwest, the stories are the same. This cross-continental consistency suggests a simple, terrifying truth: the witnesses are all describing the same thing.
My name is Sarah. In 2014, I was thirty-two, raising my ten-year-old son, Denny, in a rental cabin tucked deep into the Cascade Mountains of Washington. My life was defined by the smell of burnt coffee from my shifts at a rural gas station and the sound of the rain against the cedar shingles. I moved there for the silence. I didn’t realize the silence was an invitation.
This is the story of the three days my son disappeared, the language I heard in the dark, and the ten-second video on my old phone that I will never delete and never go public with.
I. The Taps on the Wall
It began with the “Wood Booger” protocol. That’s what the old-timers in Virginia called it—an escalating series of territorial markers.
First, it was the trash cans. Not knocked over by a bear or rifled through by raccoons, but the heavy metal lids were removed and placed neatly on the ground beside the bin. Then, the knocks.
“Mom, he’s doing it again,” Denny said one afternoon, pointing at the back wall of the cabin.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Three perfectly timed, resonant knocks. They weren’t the sound of a settling house or a branch caught in the wind. They were percussive, intentional, and seemed to vibrate the very air in the room. I brushed it off. I told him it was the wind. I lied to him because the alternative—that something massive was standing five inches away on the other side of the cedar planks—was too much for a single mother to carry.
Then the smell arrived: a thick, musky scent of wet earth and ancient animal. It was a weight that hung in the air, disappearing as soon as the porch light flickered on.
II. The Vanishing
On the third of September, the forest stopped breathing. I came home from a night shift to find the porch light dead. Not burnt out—unscrewed.
Inside, Denny’s backpack sat on the rug. A half-eaten apple was browning on the table. But the house was hollow. Denny was gone.
The search was a frantic blur of flashing sheriff’s lights, barking bloodhounds, and the hollow calling of his name into a canopy that seemed to swallow the sound. For three days, we combed the Cascades. The rangers found nothing. No footprints, no torn fabric, no blood. The dogs—trained for cougar and bear—refused to enter a specific thicket three miles from the cabin. They didn’t growl; they tucked their tails and whimpered, backing away from a scent their DNA recognized as a master predator.
By the third night, I was alone in the cabin, drowning in the silence. At 3:00 AM, the knocks returned.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I crept to the door, my 9mm pistol heavy in my shaking hand. I looked through the peephole. Denny was there. He was muddy, disheveled, but his face was calm.
And standing behind him, nearly filling the entire porch frame, was a shadow that blotted out the stars.
It was a mountain of hair and muscle. Its eyes were dark, reflective, and filled with a terrifying, human-like intelligence. It wasn’t an animal. It was a person—just a different kind.
“Mom, don’t,” Denny whispered as I yanked him inside. “He’s Uncle.”
In my panic, I fired a shot into the porch roof. The creature jolted, a short, sharp sound erupting from its chest—a grunt of confusion rather than rage. It stepped back into the shadows and vanished.
III. The Samurai Chatter
That night, huddled under blankets, Denny told me where he had been. He hadn’t been kidnapped; he had been “collected.”
He described a cave high in the rock face, lined with ferns and filled with the sound of a trickling stream. He spoke of “Uncle” and “Auntie”—a smaller female with lighter hair. They had fed him berries and watched him with the curious tenderness one might show a lost puppy.
But the most unsettling part was the “Samurai Chatter.”
“They talk, Mom,” Denny said. “It sounds like Japanese, but fast. Like they’re arguing and singing at the same time.”
I searched the internet and found the “Sierra Sounds” recorded in the 70s. When I played them, Denny froze.
“That’s it. That’s what Uncle said when the men with the guns walked past the cave.”
Term
Definition
Context in Story
Samurai Chatter
Rapid-fire, phonemic vocalizations
The language used by “Uncle” and “Auntie”
Wood Knocks
Percussive communication
The three-tap signal used to announce presence
Morphic Resonance
Shared behaviors across distances
The Cherokee and Pacific Northwest stories matching
Denny mimicked the sounds he heard. Specifically, a phrase that sounded like: “Waniu, Raha.”
Years later, I found an amateur crypto-linguist who believed that specific phonetic string translates to a primitive form of: “I am here. Do not fear.”
IV. The Creek and the Video
I stayed in that cabin for six more months. I was too afraid to leave, and too afraid to stay.
The final proof—the video—came when I was filling water jugs at the creek. Two mountain lions had pinned me against the bank, their low growls promising a violent end.
Suddenly, a roar erupted from the treeline that made my ribs vibrate.
A colossal figure stepped out, ten feet tall, arms hanging past its knees. It didn’t attack the lions; it simply commanded the space. The cats fled instantly. The creature turned to me, drew a breath that seemed to pull the oxygen from the glade, and shouted toward me.
I hit ‘record’ on my phone for ten seconds.
On the video, you can hear it. Clear as a bell. The creature doesn’t growl. It vocalizes.
“WANIU, RAHA!”
It was a dismissal. A protection. A warning.
V. The Legacy of the Wood Booger
We moved away shortly after. I sold the cabin and moved to the suburbs, where the only sounds at night are sirens and leaf blowers. But Denny is different now. He can’t stand being in a room with the windows uncovered at night. He still looks at the treeline whenever we drive past a forest, not with fear, but with a quiet, somber recognition.
I still have the phone. It’s in a faraday bag in my safe. Sometimes I watch those ten seconds. I watch the way the creature’s chest rises and falls. I see the way its eyes catch the light.
The government knows. The Cherokee knew. The rangers know. There is a parallel nation living in the folds of our maps, watching us with a patience that spans millennia. They aren’t looking for a fight; they’re looking for their own peace.
But occasionally, they find a child who followed the wrong footprints, and they show a mercy that we, with our guns and our cameras, don’t deserve.
https://youtu.be/eE6GTS9uIzs?si=S63fFAnVRkcvJE_F
