Woman Saved Bigfoot Infant and Fed It for 10 Years, Then It Returned to Save Her – Sasquatch Story

She Saved a Creature the World Said Was a Myth — Ten Years Later, It Came Back to Save Her Life

I never believed in Bigfoot.

I lived alone in a small cabin outside Forks, Washington, because I preferred facts over fantasies, solitude over noise. I worked from home, kept to myself, and trusted only what I could see and touch. Legends belonged around campfires, not in my quiet, carefully ordered life.

That belief ended one freezing morning in March 2003.

My dogs began barking in a way I had never heard before—not angry, not territorial, but terrified. When I followed the sound to the far corner of my fenced yard, I found something curled between two stacks of firewood, barely moving.

At first, I thought it was a bear cub.

Then I saw the face.

It was almost human. The eyes were set wrong for an animal, the nose too flat, the hands unmistakably shaped like mine. Thick dark fur covered a small body no taller than three feet. It was shivering violently, blood dried into the fur around its neck and shoulder.

A Bigfoot infant lay dying in my backyard.

I knelt beside it, my mind screaming that this couldn’t be real. But the cold skin under my fingers was real. The shallow, struggling breaths were real. Whatever this creature was, it was alive—and it was dying.

I considered calling for help. The police. Animal control. Scientists.

And then I imagined it locked in a cage, prodded, studied, reduced to a specimen.

I couldn’t do that to it.

I wrapped it in my jacket, carried its surprisingly heavy body into my house, and laid it on my couch. For three days, it barely moved. I cleaned its wounds, warmed it, fed it broth drop by drop. When it finally opened its eyes, those dark, intelligent eyes locked onto mine—and something changed between us forever.

It trusted me.

Weeks passed. The wounds healed. The infant grew stronger, gentler, curious about everything. It ate fruit by the armful, learned by watching, understood far more than any animal should. It made soft cooing sounds when it was calm, sharp barks when frightened. It learned my words. I learned its sounds.

Months turned into years.

The infant grew into something astonishing—nearly eight feet tall, impossibly strong, yet endlessly careful with me. It could bend metal, snap branches like twigs, and move through the forest like a shadow. But it picked up eggs without breaking them. It rested its massive hand gently on my shoulder when I was anxious. It stayed close when storms frightened it, and later, when illness frightened me.

I gave up everything to keep it safe.

No visitors. No holidays. No explanations. I became the strange woman in the woods, the hermit no one questioned anymore. I lived with constant fear of discovery, but also with a sense of purpose I had never known. This Bigfoot wasn’t a pet. It was family.

And family protects each other.

By the seventh year, my health began to fail. Chest pain. Fatigue. A heart condition worsened by years of stress. The doctors warned me to slow down, to reduce anxiety, to prepare for the worst.

The Bigfoot knew before I told it.

It became my guardian—bringing water, food, firewood, watching me sleep at night with glowing eyes full of concern. When I struggled to walk, it offered its arm. When I rested, it stayed close, making soft sounds meant to soothe.

I began preparing it for life without me.

I showed it how to survive alone, where to find safe places deep in the forest. I tried to teach independence, but the bond between us was too strong. When I grew weaker, it grew more attentive, as if determined to keep me alive by sheer will.

Eventually, I realized the truth.

I was dying.

And I couldn’t let it spend its life caring for a dying human.

One spring morning, I told it goodbye.

The grief in its eyes nearly broke me, but it left—turning back only once before disappearing into the trees. The house became unbearably silent. I told myself I had done the right thing.

Three weeks later, I suffered a massive heart attack.

I was alone in my bed, unable to move, unable to reach the phone just feet away. Pain crushed my chest. Darkness closed in. My last thought was a hope—that the Bigfoot was safe somewhere in the forest.

Then I woke to heavy breathing.

A massive shape loomed over me, making frantic, distressed sounds. For a moment, I thought I was hallucinating.

But it was real.

The Bigfoot had returned.

It touched my face gently, fear radiating from its eyes. Then it vanished into the house and returned with my phone. I tried to dial, failed. My hands shook too badly.

The Bigfoot took the phone back.

And somehow—through memory, observation, determination—it called 911.

It carried me to the porch, laid me where I could be seen, and stayed until sirens approached. When I whispered “Go,” it pressed its forehead to mine once, then ran.

The paramedics never saw it.

They called my survival a miracle.

I didn’t correct them.

After weeks in the hospital, I returned home weaker but alive. At night, I heard familiar footsteps in the forest. Gifts appeared on my porch—berries, firewood, signs I was still being watched over.

Then, one morning, everything changed again.

I opened my door to find a tiny Bigfoot infant wrapped carefully in leaves and moss, sleeping peacefully. Beside it lay a familiar object—a carved wooden heart.

The message was clear.

Trust.

Family.

I carried the infant inside, my heart full and terrified all at once. From the forest came a long, mournful call—a goodbye, a thank you, a promise.

Now, as I write this, the infant sleeps in the next room.

I am old. My heart is damaged. But I am not alone.

The world says Bigfoot doesn’t exist.

But I know better.

Because ten years ago, I saved a dying infant the world would never believe in.

And when I was dying, it came back—risking everything—to save me.

Love, I learned, doesn’t care about species.

Family doesn’t always look the way we expect.