This Bigfoot Attacked a Camper, What It Did Next Will Shock You – Disturbing Sasquatch Story

Three Knocks in the Gifford Pinchot

My name’s Ethan Cole. I’m 51 now, living in a rental outside Packwood, Washington. This was late October 2015, up near Gifford Pinchot. First dusting of snow, drizzle hanging in the trees. I’d taken my usual few days off from the logging yard—orange tent in the truck bed, just wanting quiet. I shouldn’t be telling this, but it’s been years.

That night started like all the others. Cheap ramen steaming in my little pot. Creek noise under the wind. Zipper half open to let the cold in. Then came this smell—wet dog and rust. And three knocks from the dark. Slow, heavy, too measured to be a branch. I used to laugh at Bigfoot talk on the radio. Now I can’t even say Bigfoot without seeing that flare light on the trees. I do have a clip on an old phone. No, I’m not showing it.

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Late September 2015, early morning, Packwood, Washington. Drizzle tapped the diner windows like nervous fingers, and the sky hung low and gray over the ridge. I sat in the corner booth with my coffee going cold, listening to the yard siren wail from a mile away. 6 a.m. sharp, every weekday. Chainsaws would start whining through the wet air about 20 minutes later. Inside, the fridge hummed under the counter, and an old radio on the shelf crackled out classic rock between bursts of static. The cook flipped hash browns on the griddle, and the smell of grease and burnt toast hung thick.

Rey, an older logger with hands like tree bark, leaned over his chipped mug and mentioned something about some Bigfoot seen up by an old spur road near the national forest boundary. He said it like he was talking about a bear or a loose dog. Everyone laughed. I joined in, rolling my eyes, pushing my eggs around the plate. Tourist bait, I said. Drunk stories. Ray shrugged and went back to his coffee. But that word stuck in my head on the drive home. Bigfoot, wipers squeaking, the smell of wet pine through the cracked window, radio fading in and out.

I set my dented lunch pail on the kitchen table of my small cabin and told myself, “People see what they want to see.” That night, as I stacked firewood by the back wall, three faint knocks echoed from the timberline beyond the clearing. Hollow, slow. I stood there with a log in my hands, breath steaming, listening. I decided it was just wood settling in the cold, expansion, contraction, physics. But I listened for a fourth knock that never came. And when I went inside, I locked the door without thinking about it.

First weekend of October 2015, late afternoon, same region. Light mist curled through the trees as I loaded my orange tent into the truck bed. I packed a woven basket with canned soup, instant coffee, a box of crackers. The little propane lantern went in last, wrapped in a towel. The cab smelled like chainsaw oil and yesterday’s coffee.

I’d been doing these solo trips every few weeks for years. Just me, the forest, and a break from the noise of the yard and the town and the radio always yapping about something. I drove an old logging road until the potholes slowed me to a crawl. Gravel crunched under the tires, branches scraped the paint. I could hear the engine ticking as it cooled when I finally parked near a narrow creek. Evening fog settling low over the water.

I set up camp on a flat spot about 20 yards from the bank. Crickets started up as the light drained from the sky, and the smell of damp earth and rotting leaves rose up around me. After dark, zipped up in my sleeping bag, the nylon walls whispering with every shift, I heard three knocks far off in the trees. Low, hollow, like someone rapping a knuckle on a log. The nylon shivered in a faint breeze. Smoke from the fire I’d let die clung to my jacket, mixing with the cold air.

I muttered that some Bigfoot nut must be camping nearby, playing games. I forced a laugh just to hear my own voice. The forest went so quiet afterward I could hear my own breath, my own heartbeat. I told myself it was nothing. A woodpecker maybe, or someone knocking tent stakes in at another site. I fell asleep waiting for the knocks to come back. They didn’t. Not that night.

But I woke up twice, listening to the creek burble and the wind hiss through the firs, wondering if I’d imagined it or if someone was still out there, watching my little orange tent glow like a lantern in the dark.

In the morning, I packed up and drove home. The whole way back, wipers squeaking. I kept glancing at the rearview mirror, half expecting to see something standing at the edge of the road behind me. Nothing there, just fog and trees.

Mid-October 2015, my cabin. A cold, clear night. The AM talk show buzzed from the beat-up radio on my counter. The host taking calls about ghosts and Bigfoot sightings in the Cascades. The refrigerator hummed underneath the static and I stood at the stove frying eggs, listening to a caller swear a Bigfoot stole his chickens. I snorted, shook my head. I didn’t believe in Bigfoot, I say now into the recorder. Not then. I thought people wanted to believe in something big because their lives were small.

I shut the radio off. The cabin dropped into silence except for the wind hissing around the window frame and the soft tick of the stove cooling. I stepped onto the porch with my mug, looked at the dark treeline beyond the clearing. The porch light threw a warm amber circle on the wet boards, and the smell of rain-soaked earth and pine sap rose up from the yard. That’s when I heard three slow knocks again, this time from somewhere beyond my stacked firewood, maybe 50 yards into the trees.

I froze, mug halfway to my mouth, steam curling up. Then I decided out loud that it was just a loose board banging in the wind. I set the mug down and checked the wall with my hand, pressing on each plank. Felt nothing loose. When I went back inside, I locked the door, then locked it again, checking the bolt twice. The radio sat on the counter, its dark plastic reflecting my face like a black mirror. I poured the coffee down the sink and went to bed. But I didn’t sleep much. I lay there listening to the cabin creak and the wind push against the walls. And every time a branch scraped the roof, I thought about those three knocks. Measured, deliberate, not random.

In the morning, I told myself I was being paranoid, stressed from the yard maybe. Long hours, bad pay, the foreman riding everyone about quotas. But when I walked out to the truck, I saw a line of prints in the mud near the woodpile. Big, barefoot, spaced far apart, like something walking upright. I stood there, breath steaming, staring at them. Then I got in the truck and drove to work, and I didn’t mention it to anyone.

Late October 2015, morning after a rainy night, near Gifford Pinchot. Low fog hugged the ground like a blanket, and when I unzipped the tent to take a leak, I nearly slipped in fresh mud. That’s when I saw them—huge bare impressions in the soft earth by the creek, longer than my boot by half again, toes splayed wide. The edges were crisp and water had pooled inside each print, reflecting the gray sky. I knelt down, my breath steaming in the cold air. The smell of wet soil and algae was strong, mixing with the damp canvas smell from the tent.

“Bear,” I said, just to hear it out loud. But no bear walks like that. I know bear tracks. I’ve seen them my whole life. These were something else. I pulled out my old phone and snapped a shaky picture. The screen smudged and hard to see in the morning light. Then I stood there for a long time, just staring at the prints, at the spacing, at the depth.

As the day went on, I tried to shake it off. I cut kindling with my hatchet, feeling the rough bark under my gloves, listening to the steady thunk of the blade biting wood. The sky stayed pale blue, washed out, and the wind died completely by midafternoon. At dusk, the forest went still, unnaturally still. Then three knocks from deeper in the trees, louder than before, slower, deliberate.

I stood by the fire ring, hatchet still in my hand, and said, half annoyed, half scared, “If this is some Bigfoot prank, it’s not funny.” Calling it Bigfoot still felt like a joke, like something you’d say to make kids laugh. But my voice sounded thin in the silence, and I realized I was gripping the hatchet so hard my knuckles ached. I packed the axe a little closer to the tent flap that night. Kept checking the zipper pull with my fingers, making sure it was fully closed.

I lay there in the dark, listening to the creek and the wind, waiting for the knocks to come again. They didn’t. But I could smell it now. That wet dog and rust smell from the first night. Faint but unmistakable, drifting through the gap at the top of the zipper. I didn’t sleep.

By dawn, I was convinced I’d imagined the whole thing. Stress, isolation, bad food. But the prints were still there in the mud, filling slowly with morning dew.

Same trip, late night, thin moon, near freezing air. Inside the orange tent, I dimmed the lantern to a faint glow and lay in my sleeping bag, fully dressed, boots still on. The nylon whispered when I shifted. Wind rattled the branches overhead, then dropped away entirely. I listened to the creek burble over stones, the sound hypnotic and constant. The smell inside the tent was plastic, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of instant noodles.

Then footsteps, slow, heavy, pressing into the wet ground around the tent. You could hear the weight in the way the dirt gave—the faint squelch of mud compressing. The footsteps circled—left side, then behind, then the right side, then stopped. I held my breath. A low, wet breathing joined the soundscape, just beyond the fabric. Deep, rhythmic.

Something brushed the tent wall, and the nylon caved inward an inch right over my face. I could see the impression of fingers—or something like fingers—through the orange glow. I whispered, “Bear.” But the word didn’t fit. Bears don’t move like that. Bears don’t breathe like that.

Three hollow knocks rang out from a tree just a few yards away. Each one making the tent poles tremble. The sound vibrated in my chest, deep and resonant. The smell of wet fur and iron slipped through the zipper gap, thick and cloying.

I said, barely audible, “No way. That’s not Bigfoot. Bigfoot isn’t real.” My hand found the cold metal of the flare gun under my jacket. I wrapped my fingers around the grip, thumb worrying the safety catch. The footsteps stopped. No retreat sound, no twigs snapping or brush rustling. Just sudden, total silence—like the whole forest was holding its breath.

I lay there, heart hammering, waiting for the tent to rip open or the footsteps to start again. Nothing. Minutes passed. Maybe an hour, I don’t know.

By dawn, I was still awake, staring at the tent ceiling, convincing myself I’d imagined the whole thing. Stress from the logging yard, isolation, bad sleep. That’s all. But when I unzipped the tent and crawled out into the gray morning light, I saw prints all around the campsite. Deep, barefoot, circling. And on the nearest tree about seven feet up, three deep gouges in the bark, fresh, still weeping sap.

I packed up in ten minutes, threw everything into the truck, and drove home without looking back. On the way down the mountain, my hands shook so bad I had to pull over twice just to breathe. At home, I unloaded the truck, hung the tent to dry, and went inside. I didn’t tell anyone. What would I say? I think Bigfoot circled my tent last night. They’d laugh or worse, they’d look at me like I’d lost my mind. So, I kept it to myself, locked the doors, and tried to forget, but I couldn’t.

Early November 2015, my cabin, overcast afternoon, sliding into night. I had a deer carcass hanging from a beam in the backyard, ready to butcher the next morning. The air was sharp with the metallic tang of blood and cold. When I came back from town—just a quick run for coffee and bread—the rope was snapped. The hook twisted sideways, still swinging slightly in the breeze. The deer was gone. I stood there, grocery bag in one hand, staring at the empty beam. No drag marks in the dirt, just deep odd prints around the post, the same prints I’d seen by the creek.

I squatted down, fingertips brushing the frayed rope fibers. The break was clean, high up, at least seven feet off the ground. A bear could stand up and pull, I told myself. Bears are strong. But the break was too high, and there were no claw marks on the post. Wind chimes on the porch clinked nervously in the breeze, the only sound in the clearing.

That evening, I called the sheriff’s office, mentioned some weird tracks around my property, joked about a Bigfoot fanboy stealing my meat. The deputy on the other end snorted. “Maybe it’s that Bigfoot finally paying taxes,” he said. Then changed the subject to whether I’d seen any suspicious vehicles in the area. I said no and hung up.

After dark, I stood on the porch, the yellow light spilling onto the empty beam, and stared at the line of firs at the edge of the property. Three knocks sounded from somewhere in the trees. Slow, deliberate. The smell of musk and wet bark rode the breeze, and I felt the hair on my arms stand up.

I turned off the porch light for the first time in years. Stood there in the dark, watching the treeline, listening to the wind move through the branches. Nothing moved. No shapes, no sounds except the wind and the distant hoot of an owl. I went inside, checked every lock, then checked them again. Then I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the house creak and settle. I didn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the deer, about the height of the break, about those prints, about the three knocks.

Around 3:00 a.m., I heard footsteps outside, slow and heavy, moving along the side of the cabin. I got up, looked out the window, saw nothing but darkness and trees. But the smell was there again. Wet fur, rust, something wild and old. I sat on the edge of the bed until dawn holding a baseball bat, telling myself it was just a bear or a cougar or my imagination running wild. But I knew better. Deep down I knew. Whatever had circled my tent was now circling my house. And I had no idea what it wanted.

Late November 2015, first light snow afternoon, I decided one more solo trip would clear my head, get me back to normal, prove to myself I wasn’t losing it. I drove further than usual, my truck sliding a little on a thinner, less used road. Snowflakes melted on the windshield, and the wipers squeaked with every pass. The forest was muted, colors washed to gray and dark green, the sky heavy and close.

I found a small flat area by an old rusted guardrail, a creek running below through a narrow ravine. I set up the orange tent, hands numb from the cold, breath steaming. Out of habit, I arranged five smooth stones in a little circle near the fire ring. Something my dad taught me as a kid. “Marks your place,” he’d said. “Lets the forest know you’re a guest.”

The smell of wood smoke mixed with cold metal and damp moss as I got a small fire going. As the sky turned dim blue, the snow falling heavier, a distant whoop rose from the ridgeline, high-pitched, trailing off into silence. I froze, staring into the trees. After a long pause, three knocks answered from another direction like a call in response.

I laughed, but it came out thin and shaky. “Okay, Bigfoot,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “You got me jumpy. You happy?” The wind picked up, making the trees sway and creak. Snow started to fall heavier. Dots of white on the orange tent, on the stones, on my hands. I almost packed up right then. Almost threw everything in the truck and drove home. But I didn’t. I told myself I was being paranoid, that it was just wind and trees and my own fear playing tricks.

I went to bed thinking it was all in my head—that the knocks were branches, the smell was decomposing leaves, the prints were bears or elk or something ordinary.

That was the last night I thought of myself as safe out there. Because when I woke up a few hours later, the tent was surrounded—not circled, surrounded. I could hear breathing on all sides, low, deep, rhythmic, multiple sources. The smell was overwhelming now, thick and animal and old, filling the tent until I could taste it. I lay there paralyzed, listening to footsteps move around the campsite. Slow, deliberate, coordinated. Three knocks from the left, three from the right, three from directly behind the tent. Like a pattern, like communication.

I reached for the flare gun, hands shaking so bad I nearly dropped it. And then from just beyond the tent wall, inches from my head, I heard something I wasn’t ready for. A low rumbling sound. Not a growl, not quite a voice, but something in between. And it sounded curious. I lay there in the dark, heart pounding, waiting for whatever came next.

Same trip that night, sky overcast, deep dark. Inside the orange tent, the lantern burned low. Plastic walls glowing dull amber. I could hear the rain tap the tent fly, then tail off to nothing. The creek became the loudest sound. Then even that seemed to dim like the whole forest was listening. I lay in my sleeping bag, boots still on, breathing shallow.

Out of nowhere, three enormous knocks slammed the ground on one side of the tent. The stakes jumped. The poles groaned. Dust shook from the seams. These weren’t from a tree. They were right beside me, like someone hitting the earth with a massive log. The smell surged in. Wet fur, mud, and something like old pennies. Metallic, sharp.

Nearby, a low, chesty exhale rolled through the fabric so close I felt the tent wall move with the breath. I felt the footprint through the foam pad when weight shifted outside. I know how this sounds, I say into the recorder now. But in that moment, Bigfoot was the only word I had. I hated using it. Hated how it sounded. Fake, ridiculous. But I whispered, “Bigfoot?” anyway, like it might answer.

The tent wall pushed in, inches from my face. I could see the impression of something large—hand, shoulder, I don’t know—through the nylon. Another soft huff of breath and the smell got worse. My hand closed around the cold ridged grip of the flare gun. My heart was so loud I couldn’t hear the creek anymore. Couldn’t hear the wind. Couldn’t hear anything except the blood pounding in my ears.

The third time something brushed the tent, I cocked the gun. The click was sharp and loud in the silence. Everything outside went still. The lantern flickered once, then steadied, casting long shadows on the tent walls. Outside. Whatever it was, whoever it was, waited. I could hear it breathing, could smell it, could feel its presence like a weight pressing down on the air.

And then from the darkness beyond the tent, a sound I’ll never forget—a low, resonant hum, deep, vibrating. Not a growl, not a moan. Something else. Something that sounded almost confused. I gripped the flare gun tighter, finger on the trigger. Every muscle in my body coiled tight.

The breathing moved to the front of the tent near the zipper. I heard the faint rasp of fabric being touched, explored, and then with a sudden violent motion, the tent wall pressed inward hard right over my chest, and I panicked. I ripped the zipper up a few inches and fired.

The sound was a violent whoosh. Metal rasping, powder igniting, and the forest exploded in red light. For an instant, I saw everything—towering shadow, arms up, massive shape rearing back—and then it was gone, crashing away into the trees, and I was left alone in the dark with the smell of burnt powder and the sound of my own ragged breathing.

Then a sound I wasn’t ready for. Not a roar, not a growl, a low, hurt moan, deep, trembling, like something wounded and confused. It echoed through the trees, rising and falling, and I felt it in my chest like a physical thing. Footsteps crashed away, branches shivering, undergrowth snapping.

On tape, my voice breaks when I say, “I’d always imagined Bigfoot like a monster.” That night, for a second, I thought I’d blinded something that was just curious. The three knocks didn’t come this time. Just heavy, erratic movement, and then the forest went horribly quiet again, except for the distant dying fizz of the flare falling somewhere beyond the treeline.

I grabbed my boots, hands shaking, and shoved my feet in without lacing them. The melted tent flap flapped in the wind and I bolted barefoot into the snow, heart punching at my ribs. I ran, flashlight bouncing, breath ragged, stumbling over roots and rocks I couldn’t see. The logging road was maybe 200 yards uphill, and I ran like something was chasing me, but nothing was. Behind me, the forest stayed silent. No footsteps, no breathing, no knocks. Just the sound of my own panic, my own terror, my own guilt. Because I’d heard it. Whatever Bigfoot was, I’d heard it. And as I ran, slipping in the snow, the beam of my flashlight jerking wildly through the trees, I kept thinking about that moan, that confused, wounded sound, like I’d done something unforgivable.

I reached the road, gasping, legs shaking, and looked back. Nothing there. Just dark trees and falling snow and the faint red glow of the dying flare somewhere beyond the ridge. I stood there for a long time, breath steaming, waiting for something to follow me, but nothing did. The forest stayed quiet, and that somehow felt worse.

I walked up the road toward where I’d parked the truck, boots unlaced, snow soaking through my socks. Every few steps, I looked back. Still nothing. Just silence and snow and the weight of what I’d done pressing down on my shoulders like a stone. I told myself it was self-defense, that I didn’t know what else to do. But that moan stayed with me, echoing in my head all the way to the truck. And it’s still there now, years later, whenever I close my eyes.

Minutes later, along the narrow logging road, snow starting to stick to the gravel, breath ragged, flashlight beam bouncing. I stumbled up onto the road, legs shaking, and became aware of footfalls behind me, slow, heavy, matching my speed, but not closing the distance. The hair on my neck lifted. I didn’t look back, just kept moving, trying to run, but my leg hit a buried rock and I went down hard. Pain shot through my shin, and I felt skin tear, the smell of blood and cold iron rising immediately.

I scrambled on hands and knees, flashlight rolling away, snow soaking through my jeans. The footsteps behind me stopped. I grabbed the flashlight and pushed to my feet, limping now. And that’s when I saw it. Ahead, where the road curved near the rusted guardrail, three sharp knocks rang out. Metal on metal, bang, bang, bang. The sound vibrated in my teeth, in my bones.

I froze, beam shaking in my hand. At the edge of the light, fresh snow tilted away over a black nothingness. A drop I’d forgotten was there—a ravine maybe twenty feet deep with the creek running through it. I’d been about to walk right over the edge. A rock landed near my foot, not thrown at me. Placed, almost deliberate. Another step from the darkness, and a massive shape moved into the edge of my flashlight beam. I couldn’t see details, just size, height. The suggestion of shoulders wider than any man’s. I heard deep, labored breathing inches beyond the beam.

I swear on my son’s name, I say now, voice shaking. Bigfoot could have finished what it started, but it didn’t. It stopped me. The shape stood there, blocking the path to the ravine, and I understood. It had followed me—not to attack, to warn me, to keep me from walking off the cliff in the dark.

Headlights swung around the bend, bathing everything in harsh white light. And in that instant, the presence veered off, crashing uphill into the trees with a speed I didn’t think possible. A truck pulled up, engine idling. The driver, a young guy in a flannel jacket, leaned out the window, eyes wide.

“You okay, man? You’re bleeding.”

I looked down. My leg was torn. Blood soaking through my jeans. Snow sticking to the wet fabric.

“Yeah. I—yeah.”

“What the hell happened?”

I opened my mouth to say Bigfoot, then stopped. The guy was staring at me like I might be drunk or worse.

“Animal,” I said. “Startled me. I fell.”

He helped me into his truck and as we drove down toward town, I looked back at the guardrail at the dark trees beyond. Nothing there, just shadows and snow. But I knew Bigfoot had saved my life. And I had no idea why.

The guy dropped me at the ER, said something about not mentioning Bigfoot to the cops or they’d think I was crazy. I nodded, leg throbbing, ears still ringing with those three knocks on the metal rail.

Next morning, small town ER, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The room smelled like antiseptic and stale coffee. Everything cast in flat, sickly white. I sat on a gurney, leg stitched. The orange tent fabric melted and torn in a plastic bag at my feet. I told the nurse a wild animal attacked my campsite. She nodded, wrote it down, didn’t ask questions.

When a deputy came to take my statement later at the sheriff’s office, paper shuffling, printer whining in the background, I tried the truth. I described the three knocks, the breathing, the guardrail, the way it stopped me from walking off the cliff. I said, “I think it was a Bigfoot. I know how that sounds, but I do.”

The deputy’s pen paused. He glanced toward a closed office door, then back at me. “We’ll just put bear.”

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Bear attack.”

I pulled out my phone. “I have a video. Just—just look.” He took the phone, watched the clip. Shaky tent walls, three booming knocks, my own panicked breathing, and one half-frame of something huge moving at the edge of the flare light. His face drained a shade paler. He called the sheriff in. The sheriff came, all cologne and authority, and asked to see the video again. He plugged my phone into a desktop computer, clicked around, squinting at the screen. Reflections flashed in his glasses.

“Huh?” he said after a minute. “Must not have saved, right?” He unplugged the phone, slid it back across the desk.

I opened the gallery. The clip was gone.

“That was there. I just showed—file corruption,” the sheriff said. “Happens all the time with old phones.” On tape now, to say. You can call me paranoid, but I know I hit record and I know somebody didn’t want that Bigfoot video out there.

As I left, limping, I glimpsed my incident report on a desk already stamped CLOSED in red ink. Outside in the parking lot, a young deputy was leaning against his cruiser, tapping three times on the hood with his knuckle, slow, deliberate. Our eyes met. He looked away.

I got in my truck and drove home, leg throbbing, head spinning. Someone had deleted the video, someone who knew what was on it, and they wanted it gone.

At home, I plugged the phone into my laptop, ran a recovery program I’d used once before. It took hours, but eventually, buried in the deleted files, I found a backup of the clip on the SD card. Shaky, dark, but there—the three knocks, the moan, the shadow moving at the edge of the red light. I saved it to a hidden folder, password protected, and swore I’d never show it to anyone. Not because I didn’t want people to believe in Bigfoot, but because I knew what people would do if they did. They’d go looking, and Bigfoot didn’t deserve that.

Years later, early fall evening 2023, same cabin property. I don’t camp alone anymore. The logging job is gone—laid off in 2017. I work odd shifts at a hardware store now, ringing up nails and paint while the radio plays overhead. I talk about insomnia a lot. How I fall asleep to the hum of the refrigerator and wake at every tree creak, every branch scraping the roof. I still live near the same treeline.

Sometimes on cool evenings, I walk out with a plastic bag of apples and set them on an old stump just at the edge of the forest. The porch light throws a warm cone across the wet grass, and the woods beyond sit in deep blue shadow. I don’t know if Bigfoot remembers me, I say into the recorder. Sounds crazy hearing myself say that. But I keep leaving apples anyway, feeling half stupid, half respectful.

Every now and then I check in the morning. The apples are gone. In their place, three smooth stones are stacked where none were before. No footprints, just that faint smell of damp fur and moss lingering in the air.

In my kitchen drawer lies the old phone with the video backup I recovered from the SD card. A clip I’ve never uploaded, never shown anybody else. If I put that Bigfoot video online, I say quietly, crazier people than me will go up there with rifles.

As I sit there recording this, a faint knock-knock comes from somewhere in the woods. Could be a branch, could be memory. I stop speaking until the refrigerator hum is the only sound again.

Present day, late November 2024. My porch, steady rain. We’re here now under a sagging tin roof. Rain drums a constant soft tat-tat-tat overhead. The porch light washes everything in muted amber. Beyond, the trees are vague columns in the mist. I sit in a worn chair, old thermos between my hands, talking into this cheap recorder. Tape hiss rides under my voice.

I still hate the word Bigfoot. Sounds fake, like a joke brand of cereal. But when I use it now, my voice dips like I’m saying someone’s name. Whatever Bigfoot is, I murmur, it hit my tent like a freight train, and then it kept me from stepping off a cliff. I fear people more than Bigfoot now. Afraid of what hunters would do if I ever proved it. That’s why the clip stays locked away.

My eyes flick toward the treeline when a branch cracks. The rain softens.

Some nights when the wind dies, I still hear three knocks. That’s how I know Bigfoot’s real—for me, anyway.

I click off the recorder. Distant, hollow.