Man Records Bigfoot Trying to Break Into His Cabin, Then The Worst Happened – Sasquatch Story

The Night Visitor

Chapter One: The Mountains Alone

I never believed in Bigfoot. Not even a little. I’d heard the stories, seen the grainy photos, watched those late-night documentaries that tried to make the impossible seem plausible. Always thought it was nonsense—people seeing bears, making things up for attention, or maybe just letting the darkness play tricks on their eyes. But I’m telling you now, I was wrong. Dead wrong. And I have the video to prove it.

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I’m not going to show you the video right away, though. You need to understand how I ended up in that cabin, alone, with something trying to break through the wall. If I just showed you the footage without context, you’d probably think it was fake. Hell, even with context, you might think that. But I’m going to tell you exactly what happened, start to finish, and you can make up your own mind.

I’m a single dad, have been for four years. Two kids—a boy and a girl, ages nine and eleven. Great kids, smart, curious, always asking questions. Their mom’s not in the picture anymore, and that’s all I’ll say about that. It’s just me and them, most of the time.

Last July, both kids got into this two-week camp program up north. Outdoor stuff—canoeing, hiking, all the things they love. They were so excited, counting down the days for months. The camp ran the last two weeks of July, which meant, for the first time in years, I had actual time to myself. Two whole weeks.

I work construction, framing mostly. It’s hard work, long hours, but it pays the bills. Between the job and raising two kids alone, I don’t get a lot of downtime. So when I dropped them off at camp that Monday morning and drove away, watching them wave in my rearview mirror, I felt a weird mix of relief and loneliness. The house was too quiet. I called my foreman, told him I was taking a few days off. He wasn’t happy, but we’d just finished a big job and the next wasn’t starting until the following week. He gave me until Monday. Four days—Thursday through Sunday.

I decided I was going to do something I hadn’t done in years. Go somewhere alone, away from everything, and just breathe. No kids asking for snacks, no job site drama, no bills piling up, just me and some peace and quiet.

Chapter Two: The Cabin in the Pines

I spent Monday and Tuesday getting ready. Found a cabin rental online, way up in the mountains, three hours north. The listing said it was remote—no neighbors, no cell service, perfect. I could fish, hike, drink a few beers on the porch, and watch the sunset. Exactly what I needed. The cabin was cheap, fifty bucks a night. Should have been my first clue it wasn’t a luxury resort, but I didn’t care. I wanted quiet.

The photos showed a simple wooden structure surrounded by forest. One room, small kitchen, separate bedroom, basic but functional. I packed light, threw some clothes in a duffel, grabbed my fishing gear, my dad’s old tackle box. Stopped for groceries—basic food, steaks for grilling, a case of good beer. Left Thursday morning around nine.

The drive was easy at first—highway, then smaller roads winding through rural areas. More trees, fewer buildings. By the third hour, I was on dirt roads, winding up into the mountains. Pavement ended, my truck kicked up dust, the road got narrower and rougher, trees pressed in close. The higher I got, the more remote it felt.

I passed one other cabin about two miles before mine, saw an old jeep parked outside but no people. Other than that, nothing—just trees and more trees, mostly pine, thick forest that looked endless.

That last stretch of road was rough—deep potholes, loose gravel, sharp turns with steep drops, no guardrails. Had to take it slow. Finally, around one in the afternoon, I came around a bend and saw the cabin. It sat in a small clearing, surrounded by dense forest on three sides. The front had a little open space, maybe thirty feet before the trees started again. I parked the truck.

The cabin looked old but solid—wood siding, weathered but sturdy, small covered porch with two old chairs, metal roof, stone chimney. The key was supposed to be under the mat, but the door was already unlocked, standing open a crack. I called out, just in case someone was inside. No answer. Figured the last renter forgot to lock up.

Inside was exactly what I expected—one large main room with a kitchen area against the back wall, sink, mini fridge, two-burner stove, some cabinets. There was a worn couch, a table with two chairs, a fireplace. Off to the side, two doors—one to a small bedroom with a double bed, the other to a basic bathroom.

I unpacked, put away groceries, made a sandwich, cracked open a beer, and sat out on the porch. The view was nice—trees everywhere, mountain peaks in the distance, birds chirping, air smelling clean like pine and earth. That first evening was perfect. Dinner was simple pasta, eaten outside as the sky turned orange, pink, then purple. Stars came out, more than I’d seen in years. I sat there until it was fully dark, listening to the wind in the trees, branches creaking, an owl hooting somewhere far off. Normal forest stuff.

Chapter Three: The Figure in the Woods

Friday morning, sunlight woke me. Took a second to remember where I was, then smiled. Four days of peace. Checked my phone—no signal, as expected. Made coffee, sat on the porch, watching the fog hang low in the trees, sun breaking through in shafts of light.

After breakfast, I grabbed my fishing gear and headed out. The cabin owner had mentioned a stream about fifteen minutes into the woods, good for trout. Found a narrow trail, probably made by deer more than people, winding through forest over roots and rocks. Walked slowly, listened to birds, saw a deer about fifty yards off, beautiful animal. It bounded away as I approached. Fifteen minutes later, I reached the stream. Clear water over rocks, perfect for trout. Spent the morning there, caught a few, kept two for dinner. Around noon, stomach growling, I packed up and headed back.

Back at the cabin, I cleaned the fish, wrapped them in foil, put them in the fridge. Took a nap on the couch, woke up around two, then wandered around the cabin, exploring. The forest was thick, lots of pine, some birch, undergrowth in places. I didn’t go far—maybe a few hundred feet in each direction, just getting a sense of the layout.

One thing I noticed was how quiet it was. There were sounds—wind in the trees, branches creaking, the occasional bird—but it felt quieter than it should have been. Like something was missing. Said it aloud: “This place is really quiet.” Shrugged it off. Of course it was quiet. That’s why I came.

That evening, I cooked the trout, fried them in a pan with butter and salt. Fresh-caught always tastes better. Another beer on the porch as the sun went down, reading my book. The serial killer was getting closer to being caught. Good stuff. Read until my eyes got tired, around ten. Everything was peaceful, exactly what I’d needed.

Saturday morning started the same—coffee on the porch, simple breakfast, perfect weather. I decided to take a longer hike, really get out into the forest. Packed water and snacks, put on my good hiking boots, headed out around ten, following a different trail, maybe another deer path, winding deeper into the woods, up a gradual slope.

The hike was nice—good exercise, beautiful scenery, towering pines, wildflowers in the clearings, birds everywhere. I kept track of landmarks—a dead tree, a pile of boulders, a stream crossing. Always know the way back.

After an hour, I stopped for water. Standing there on the trail, I looked up and saw something through the trees, maybe a hundred and fifty yards away, hard to tell with all the trunks and shadows. There was a figure standing perfectly still, between the trees. At first, I thought it was another hiker. Remote doesn’t mean empty.

But something felt off immediately. The figure was too still. People don’t stand that still, especially out hiking. You shift your weight, adjust your pack, look around. This figure was like a statue, unmoving. And it seemed tall. Really tall.

I capped my water bottle, kept my eyes on the figure. It still hadn’t moved. I called out—not loud, but enough to carry. “Hello!” Waved my hand overhead, big motion. Nothing. The figure didn’t move, didn’t respond. I called again, louder. Still nothing. Then it moved, but not like a person who just heard someone call. Not turning to look or raising a hand to wave. It moved backward, quickly, smoothly. One second it was there, the next it was gone, disappeared deeper into the forest, fast—way faster than seemed possible.

I stared at the spot, heart pounding. Called out again, “Hello, anyone there?” Nothing. Just trees and silence. Told myself I was being paranoid. Had to be another hiker, someone camera-shy or wanting to be left alone. But I couldn’t shake the feeling. Something about the way it moved—too quick, too fluid, like it melted back into the forest. Wrong, somehow.

I kept hiking, but my heart wasn’t in it anymore. The unease settled into my chest. Decided to head back, retraced my steps using the landmarks. The walk back felt longer. The forest felt like it was watching me. Got back to the cabin around one. The clearing felt safer. The truck was solid, the cabin welcoming.

Chapter Four: Signs and Scratches

I tried to relax, but I couldn’t. Lunch was canned soup, but I wasn’t hungry. I kept thinking about that figure—how tall it looked, how fast it moved. Tried to read, but couldn’t concentrate. Kept looking at the tree line. Nothing, just trees swaying in the breeze.

As evening came, I cooked a steak, ate on the porch, watched the sunset behind the mountains. The forest seemed even quieter. No birds, no squirrels, just silence and wind. I went inside early, locked the door, checked the windows, made sure everything was secure. Every sound made me tense—the cabin settling, wood creaking, wind against the walls. Took a long time to fall asleep, kept waking at every noise.

Sunday morning, I woke late, hadn’t slept well. Lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, telling myself I was being ridiculous. I’d seen another hiker, that was all. The figure had been far away, probably looked taller because of perspective. The way it moved, disappearing into the trees, was just tricks of the light.

Got up, made coffee, decided I was being paranoid. Too many late-night Bigfoot shows. Decided to go fishing again, clear my head. Made breakfast—eggs and bacon, sat on the porch. The morning was beautiful, sunlight streaming through the trees, birds singing again. Normal.

After breakfast, I grabbed my gear and headed for the door. That’s when I saw them—footprints in the dirt, just off the porch steps in a patch of soft ground. I stopped, staring. At first, I thought they were mine, but these were different. Much bigger. I set my gear down, knelt beside the prints. They were huge—twice the size of my size eleven boots, maybe more. Eighteen inches long, maybe twenty. Not boots, not shoes. The shape was all wrong. Almost human, but stretched out, longer, wider, with toe impressions—five of them. But too big, too elongated. The toes were longer than any human’s. The ball of the foot was massive, the heel huge.

I pressed my hand next to one print. My hand barely made an impression. Whatever made these prints was heavy, three or four hundred pounds at least, maybe more. My stomach twisted. I followed the prints with my eyes—they came from the tree line, circled the cabin, went around the side, then back toward the trees. Like something had been walking around the cabin, circling it while I was inside, while I was sleeping.

I followed the trail, heart pounding. The prints went to the bedroom window—several overlapping prints beneath the window, deep impressions. Like something had stood there for a long time, watching me sleep. The window was five feet off the ground. Whatever made these prints was tall enough to look in easily.

I went back to the front, followed the prints into the forest. The stride length was enormous—four feet between steps. Followed them fifty feet into the trees, then they disappeared on rocky ground.

Chapter Five: The Attack

Back at the cabin, I kept checking the windows, stayed close, skipped fishing, barely touched lunch. Every sound made me jump. Around four, I went to my truck, made sure it started—needed to know I could escape if I had to. The engine fired up, reliable. Let it run a minute, then shut it off. Felt a little better.

As darkness fell, every creak of the cabin made me tense. The sun setting felt threatening, like darkness was hiding something. Decided to leave at first light. Just had to make it through one more night.

I went outside to bring in firewood. The air was cool, the forest heavy with silence. At the woodpile, I noticed scratches on the trees—deep gouges high up, seven or eight feet off the ground, some even higher. Deep, fresh, sap oozing. These hadn’t been there when I arrived. Some looked deliberate, like patterns, like territory markings.

Cold sweat trickled down my back. I grabbed an armful of wood, hurried inside, locked the door, checked all windows and locks. Sat at the kitchen table, phone in hand, studying the photos of the footprints. Five toes, elongated, massive ball and heel. Not human, not bear. Something else.

I considered driving out right then, but the road was dangerous at night. Decided to wait until morning. Just one more night.

I turned on all the lights, sat on the couch, listening to every sound. Tried to sleep, kept my boots on, phone beside me, ready to run. Left the bedroom door open, hall light on, could see the front door, the windows.

Sleep came in fits and starts. Around 2:17 AM, I woke suddenly, something had disturbed me. Lay perfectly still, listening. There was a sound outside—footsteps, heavy, slow, crunching on pine needles, moving around the cabin, not trying to be quiet.

I sat up, crept out of the bedroom into the main room. The footsteps continued, circling the cabin. Then they stopped. Silence. Then started again, coming to the front door. I heard breathing outside—deep, raspy, not human. Each breath was loud, like air moving through a huge chest.

Then a loud bang—something hit the door hard. The whole cabin shook. Another bang, the door rattled, the deadbolt held but the door flexed inward. Whatever was out there was trying to break in.

Chapter Six: Face in the Wall

Silence, then footsteps moved to the bedroom window, testing the frame. The old latch rattled but held. A grunt from outside, frustrated. Then footsteps moved to the bathroom window, scraping and testing. Then back to the front, but this time, the sound was different—wood splintering. It was attacking the wall, tearing through the planks.

My hands trembled. I opened my phone’s camera app. If I didn’t make it out, maybe someone would find my phone, see what happened. I crept closer to the front wall, staying to the side, pointing the camera at the growing hole. My heart hammered.

The scratching turned to tearing, wood ripped apart. Another plank gave way—a gap in the wall, darkness outside. I started recording, video shaky. Another plank ripped away, the sound deafening in the small cabin. The hole grew—a foot wide, then two.

Movement outside stopped. Just breathing, heavy and deep. Then movement in the gap—a face appeared, pushed through into the light.

It wasn’t human, wasn’t quite ape, but closer to that than anything else. The face was dark, covered in matted black fur, thick and oily. The skull was massive, brow huge, jaw enormous, nose flat, ears small and pressed close to the head. But the eyes—pale yellowish, reflecting light, huge irises, dark pupils. Not dull, not blank. Intelligence, awareness. It was looking at me, recognition in its gaze.

The mouth opened slightly, showing large, yellowed teeth—long canines, flat molars. Another grunt, louder, vibrating through the floor. It pushed its face closer, trying to get a better look inside. The smell hit me—musty, wild, strong enough to make my eyes water.

I stumbled back, still recording. The thing pulled its head back, then slammed something against the wall—shoulder or body. The hole grew—three feet wide, then four. An arm thrust through, massive, covered in dark hair, corded with muscle, huge hand, thick fingers ending in dark, claw-like nails.

It grabbed at the edges, tearing the opening bigger. I could see leathery, callused skin on the palms. I kept recording, hands shaking. Had to get out. Had to run. Another minute and it would be inside.

Chapter Seven: Escape

I stopped recording, shoved the phone in my pocket, ran to the bedroom. The creature was still focused on the front wall, tearing at the planks. The bedroom window was my only chance. I unlocked it, hands shaking, pushed it up—it stuck, then slid open. Night air rushed in. I pushed the screen out, climbed onto the sill, squeezed through, dropped to the ground outside.

Stayed low, listened. The creature was still at the front, still tearing at the wall. I edged around the cabin, peeking into the clearing. The truck was thirty feet away—my escape. The creature’s back was to me, still focused on the wall. It was massive—seven, maybe eight feet tall, broad shoulders, body covered in dark hair, hunched over, arms moving in powerful motions.

I took a deep breath, stood up, and ran. Full sprint across the clearing, boots pounding the dirt. Twenty-five feet, twenty, fifteen, ten. Almost there. Behind me, the sounds at the wall stopped—silence. It had heard me. I didn’t look back, just ran. Five feet, three, reached the truck.

Fumbled with the keys, hands shaking, found the right one, unlocked the door, jumped inside, slammed it shut, hit the lock button, jammed the key into the ignition. That’s when I heard it—a roar, deeper, louder, more primal than anything I’d ever heard. Made the windows rattle.

Turned the key—engine sputtered, died. No, no, no. Tried again—engine cranked, sputtered, come on. Glanced in the rearview mirror—the creature was running toward me, impossibly fast, arms pumping, legs eating up the distance. Twenty feet, fifteen.

Turned the key again—engine caught, roared to life. Slammed into drive, floored the gas. Tires spun, truck lurched forward, not fast enough. The creature was right there, ten feet, five. It reached the truck—a massive fist slammed into the driver’s side door, the impact rocked the truck, metal crunched.

But the truck was moving—ten, fifteen mph. Another hit to the back, vehicle shuddered, metal crumpled. Its claws scraped along the side, tearing through metal. One claw caught the back edge of my door, raked across my shoulder—fire across my skin. Didn’t stop. Looked in the mirror—the thing was keeping pace, running alongside, matching speed. Twenty-five, thirty mph. Nothing that big should move that fast.

Its gait was strange—not quite human, not quite ape, something in between. Arms swung, legs powered forward in long strides. Swung again, fist connected with the side panel, truck screamed. But I was pulling ahead—thirty, thirty-five mph. The engine strained, rough road bouncing me in the seat.

Finally, it started falling behind. Forty mph, too fast for the road, but I didn’t care. Hit a straight stretch, punched the gas—forty-five, fifty. The creature was just a shape in the mirror, dark against the darker forest. Then the road curved, trees blocked my view. I didn’t slow down, kept driving, bouncing over potholes, swerving around curves. Nearly lost control, corrected, kept driving.

Chapter Eight: Never Going Back

After what felt like forever, I saw pavement ahead. The dirt road ended, paved road began. Only then did I ease off the gas. My hands were locked on the wheel, white-knuckled, body shaking, shoulder throbbing, blood soaking through my shirt. But I was alive. I was away.

Drove straight through, three hours back to civilization, didn’t stop. Around five in the morning, I saw lights—a gas station. Pulled in, sat in the truck, breathing, trying to process. Went inside, bought water, antiseptic, bandages, a t-shirt. The clerk looked concerned. Told her I’d had a hiking accident, fell on some rocks. She didn’t look convinced, but didn’t push it.

In the bathroom, I peeled off my shirt—three deep scratches from my shoulder blade toward my neck, six inches long, deep enough to need stitches. Cleaned them, poured antiseptic, bandaged up, put on the new shirt, threw the bloody one away.

Drove home, arrived just after six. Locked the door, triple checked, showered, changed bandages. The scratches looked angry, but clean. Sat on the couch, staring at the wall. Then I remembered the video. Pulled out my phone, screen cracked but still working. Played the video—shaky footage, the hole in the wall, the face, pale eyes, massive hand. Watched it three times, couldn’t look away. It was real.

Later, I called the cabin rental company, told them there’d been a break-in, damage to the property. They asked questions, offered to call the police. I said no. They said they’d send someone to check. Never heard from them again.

Tuesday, the kids came home from camp. Hugged them tighter than usual. They noticed the bandage on my shoulder, asked what happened. Told them I fell on some rocks. They seemed satisfied.

Three months later, I still have the video—on my phone, computer, flash drive. I watch it sometimes late at night, when the memories come back. The face in the wall, the pale eyes, the massive hand. The scars healed, left three white lines from my shoulder blade toward my neck. Permanent.

People ask about them. I say hiking accident. That’s what I told the kids, my foreman, the doctor. He said they looked like claw marks. I stuck to my story.

Sometimes I think about reporting it. But what would I say? That I was attacked by Bigfoot? That I have video proof? They’d think I was crazy, or want to investigate, go back there. I can’t let that happen. That thing is still out there. It’s dangerous.

I haven’t been back to the mountains, haven’t been hiking, not even camping in my own backyard. The thought of being in the woods at night makes me sick. The kids keep asking to go camping. I always say no, always make excuses. They’re frustrated. My daughter asked why I don’t want to go anymore. I told her I’m busy. She didn’t believe me.

Some people will say the video is fake, that I’m lying. Let them. I know what happened. I know what I saw. I know what tried to break into that cabin, chased my truck down the mountain, left scars on my shoulder. It’s real. It’s out there. And I’m never going back.

Sometimes, late at night, I think about that figure I saw in the woods on day three, standing between the trees, watching me. Was it the same creature that attacked the cabin? Had it been following me, studying me, waiting for the right moment? I think it was. I think it decided I didn’t belong there.

All of it—the footprints, the scratches on the trees, the attack—was deliberate, designed to drive me away, or maybe to kill me. I got lucky. If any one thing had gone differently, I wouldn’t be here.

The video is only a minute long, but you can see what you need to see—the hole, the face, the eyes, the hand. I’ve thought about posting it, sending it to researchers, making it public. But something stops me. Maybe because people won’t believe it, or maybe because some will, and they’ll want to find it.

So the video stays private, secret, just for me. Proof that I’m not crazy. Proof that what I experienced was real.

I never believed in Bigfoot. But I do now. Because I’ve seen it. I’ve smelled it. I’ve heard it. I’ve felt its claws rake across my skin. It’s real. And it’s still out there in those mountains, in those woods. And I’m never going back.

For more mysterious stories, keep searching. Some truths are best left hidden in the shadows.