A Girl Found a Baby Bigfoot. What Happened Years Later Terrified Everyone
A Girl Found a Baby Bigfoot. What Happened Years Later Terrified Everyone
People never believe the note.
They’ll accept the bodies.
They’ll accept the official report: bear attack.
They’ll even accept that something large, something impossible, might live in the forests of Washington.
But when I tell them a creature that shouldn’t exist dragged itself into my kitchen, bleeding, shaking, and wrote a word on my table using its own blood—they stop listening.
So I’ll start there.
He collapsed into the chair like gravity finally won.
Rainwater and blood soaked through his dark fur, dripping onto the floorboards I’d grown up scrubbing. His breathing came in wet, uneven pulls, each one sounding harder than the last. He reached for the paper with hands too large, too wrong for anything made by humans.
They trembled.
He dipped his fingers into the blood running down his leg and pressed them to the page.
Slowly. Carefully.
I
R
V
N
G
That’s how it looked. Like a child sounding out a word they’d only seen written, not spoken.
Revenge.
Two weeks later, he was dead.
And that paper went into the ground with him.
My name is Emily.
When this started, I was sixteen years old, living with my father in a collapsing cabin at the end of a gravel road in western Washington. My dad was a retired paramedic—quiet, watchful, the kind of man who knew what bodies looked like when hope ran out.
We had rules.
Curtains closed after dark.
No porch light left on.
And if an unexpected truck came up the road, I was to get away from the windows until he checked.
At the time, I thought he was paranoid.
Later, I understood he was preparing for something neither of us had words for.
The crying started in late fall.
High-pitched. Broken. Wrong.
Not a coyote. Not an owl. It sounded like a child trying not to sob.
My dad heard it too. He grabbed his flashlight and trauma bag and told me to stay inside.
I didn’t.
I followed the sound toward the old cave system we were warned never to go near. The air felt thick there, like the forest was holding its breath.
That’s when I found him.
Curled between a fallen log and a tree. Small. Maybe three feet tall. Hair matted with mud and blood. Eyes too large for his face, staring at me with raw terror.
He wasn’t human.
But he wasn’t an animal either.
I whispered the stupidest thing possible.
“It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Behind me, my dad froze when his flashlight hit the shape in the brush.
He didn’t laugh.
He didn’t explain it away.
He swallowed and said, very quietly, “We need to leave. Now.”
We came back the next day.
And the next.
The wounds were gunshots. My dad knew immediately. Rifle rounds. One through the arm. One in the side. Already infected.
Who shoots something like that and walks away?
We cleaned the wounds as best we could. Brought food. Blankets. Spoke softly.
He watched every movement. Flinched at sudden sounds. But he didn’t attack. Didn’t run.
Over time, he learned.
Faster than anything I’ve ever seen.
I taught him letters the way you teach a child.
He copied entire pages perfectly.
Memorized books after hearing them once.
Drew faces—three men, over and over—with terrifying detail.
A scar under the chin.
A broken nose.
A baseball cap with a keychain.
He didn’t need words to explain.
Those men had murdered his parents.
Winter forced a decision.
He was growing fast. Too fast. Snow came heavy, and he started drifting closer to the cabin.
So we hid him.
A crawl space behind the pantry became his shelter. At night, he sat at our table, hunched near the wood stove, absorbing heat like he’d never known safety before.
He called me “Emmy.”
Called my dad something like “Da.”
He was family.
And that was the problem.
Years passed.
I was in my early twenties when it happened.
I saw them in town first.
Three men leaning against a truck outside the grocery store. Laughing. Whistling—the same sharp pattern I’d heard years ago in the woods.
My blood went cold.
I ran to the tree line behind the lot.
He was there.
Bigger now. Taller than the doorway at home. Muscles tight, vibrating with restraint. His eyes locked on the men like they were burned into his skull.
I grabbed his arm and whispered, “Don’t. Not here.”
He made the old gesture.
Forehead.
Chest.
The one his mother had made before she shoved him into the bushes and died.
That night, he drew their faces again.
Harder. Darker.
Two days later, he disappeared.
He came back bleeding.
My dad was already working when I got home—hands deep in fur and blood, bullet wounds smoking with infection. Two shots. One through the thigh. One lodged in the shoulder.
He had found them.
Two hunters were dead by morning.
The official story said bear attack.
One survivor was hospitalized, screaming about a monster that stood like a man.
No one believed him.
In our kitchen, the creature pulled himself upright, walked to the table, and wrote his message in blood.
IRVNG.
He looked at me when he finished.
Not proud.
Not ashamed.
Just… finished.
The infection killed him.
Human bacteria his body had never known. Fever. Shaking. Delirium.
He repeated phrases from books. News headlines. Things I’d said to him as a child.
“You’re safe here. I promise.”
The last thing he did was lift his hand, barely strong enough to move.
Forehead.
Chest.
Then nothing.
We buried him before dawn.
Wrapped in blankets. A children’s book at his side. The blood-stained paper folded against his chest.
No markers. No prayers.
Just moss and silence.
People ask me if I’m sure.
If I didn’t imagine him.
I tell them this:
I still remember the weight of his hand on mine.
The heat.
The way he learned our words and used them exactly once.
The forest doesn’t forget.
And sometimes, when the fog hangs low and the trees drip long after the rain stops, I hear movement near the old cave.
Not him.
Something else.
Watching.
Remembering.
