Bigfoot Showed Me What Happened To 1,000 Missing Hikers – Disturbing Sasquatch Story

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My name is Frank Mercer, and I’m 72 years old now, retired from search and rescue in Scammania County, Washington. I’m sharing this story not as some fanciful tale but as a memory that has haunted me for years. It all began in late September 2004, near the south side of Mount St. Helens in the Cascades.

The air was crisp and damp, typical of early fall, with a gray drizzle that seemed to hang in the atmosphere without ever turning into a proper rain. That night, after a long day of searching for a missing hiker named Tyler Green, I settled into my routine. My boots were by the door, my socks steaming near the heater, and the scanner murmured softly in the background. It was an ordinary evening, the kind I had experienced countless times before.

But then came the three knocks from the treeline. Slow and measured, they echoed in the stillness, cutting through the ordinary sounds of my home. I brushed it off as wind shifting branches, but something deep inside me stirred with unease. I lay awake that night, convinced I heard those knocks again, distant but clear. I told myself it was just my imagination, yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was out there.

A week passed after Tyler’s search was called off, and I returned to my quiet home outside Cougar, Washington. The rain had turned steady, and the smell of cedar mixed with wood smoke filled the air. I was alone, my wife having passed two years earlier. I found comfort in the mundane, the woven berry basket she left by the door, still used for huckleberries.

That evening, I turned on the TV to catch the local news. They reported on the ongoing mystery of missing hikers in the Cascades, flashing a list of names that made my stomach churn. I recognized three of them from my own search calls. The weatherman joked about Bigfoot possibly being responsible for the disappearances, but I didn’t laugh. My neighbor Earl stopped by, muddy boots and all, and mentioned the rumors about a creature taking backpackers. I laughed thinly, but my heart wasn’t in it.

Later that night, I found the berry basket moved from its nail to the top step, damp but upright, with a single red maple leaf tucked inside. No wind could have done that. I locked the door, feeling a chill creep over me, and lay awake, listening for the knocks that never came.

Fast forward to late November 2004, and I was at the sheriff’s substation in Stevenson, drowning in paperwork. The fluorescent lights buzzed, and the coffee smelled burnt. The corkboard in the hallway was filled with flyers for missing persons, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something sinister was at play. A younger deputy, Laramie, slapped a cartoon of Bigfoot on the board, and everyone laughed, but I felt a knot in my stomach.

On my drive home, I noticed a strong smell—wet dog and moss—as I passed through the woods. I stopped the truck, but saw nothing unusual. That night, I heard the three knocks again, faint but distinct. I told myself it was just the wind.

By late January 2005, winter had settled in, and I was splitting wood outside when I noticed footprints in the snow. They were human-shaped but too large, with wide pads and no clear arch. My first thought was that someone was out there barefoot, but the second thought, the one I pushed down, whispered “Bigfoot.” I tried to convince myself it was just a prank, but the smell returned—wet dog and something earthy.

That night, I heard the knocks again, closer this time. I told myself it was the wind, but deep down, I knew it wasn’t.

In early May 2005, I returned to active duty for search and rescue. This time, it was two missing brothers last seen near Ape Canyon. We set up camp, and on the second day, I stumbled upon a campsite with two tents still standing, but what stopped me were three little towers of stones at the treeline. Each tower held small objects from the camp—a spoon, a lighter, a folded bandana. The smell returned, stronger than before, and I felt a chill run down my spine.

That night, as I lay in my tent, the rush of the creek turned into dead silence, then came the three knocks again. No one spoke over the radios, and we never found those brothers. Their gear was there, but not them.

As time went on, I started waking up at odd hours, haunted by the silence and the memories of the missing. I kept thinking about the towers, the footprints, and the three knocks. One evening, I took my wife’s old woven basket and filled it with apples and huckleberries, leaving it at the edge of the woods as an offering.

That night, I heard the knocks again, deeper and more resonant than before. The next morning, the basket was gone, replaced by three small stones stacked neatly on the stump. I felt a mix of fear and curiosity, but I didn’t dare to tell anyone.

In late September 2005, nearly a year since Tyler disappeared, I opened my front door to grab firewood and found a dark smear on the support post beside the steps. It was a palm print, larger than mine, higher than I could reach. I felt my throat tighten as I touched the edge of it, the mud still damp and gritty.

Earl came by later that day and joked about my “Bigfoot secret admirer.” I didn’t laugh. The next night, I heard the knocks again, but this time, they were accompanied by a low whoop from the woods. It was different, more primal, and it sent chills down my spine.

In November 2005, I sat in the sheriff’s office again, the rain hammering against the windows. Sheriff Daniels asked if I thought we were missing something in the woods. I recalled the rows of backpacks I had seen in that ravine, the silent witnesses to lives lost. I hesitated, unsure of how to explain what I had experienced.

That night, back home, I felt the weight of my secrets pressing down on me. I checked the door lock repeatedly, and as I sat in silence, I tapped the table three times without thinking. Suddenly, I froze, listening for a response from the woods, but none came.

Years passed, and I eventually retired, moving closer to town. I kept the flip phone with the video of that night in the ravine, heavy with memories. Sometimes, late at night, I would power it up, the startup jingle sounding thin and tiny. The video was mostly black, with a suggestion of the tall shape at the top of the slope. It was evidence that was not evidence, a haunting reminder of what I had witnessed.

Now, in November 2025, I sit in my new home, the rain tapping softly on the roof. I still wake up at 3:00 AM more often than I’d like. Every time I hear about another missing hiker, that old smell returns—wet fur, moss, river mud. I find myself softly muttering the word “Bigfoot” into my coffee mug, not as a joke, but as a name, one I can’t quite forgive or blame.

I haven’t been back to that ravine, and I’ve told no one the exact spot. The forest can keep that secret. And late at night, when the house is quiet, I listen for three knocks that might never come again. Whether you believe me or not, I can still hear them in the silence, echoing through the years.