He Fed Bigfoot for 40 Years, Then He Learned Why It Fears Us
I Found Out What Bigfoot Does With Human Bodies
I never used to believe in monsters.
Not until the winter the mountains opened their mouth and swallowed my brother whole.
His name was Eric — a wilderness photographer, the type of man who’d rather sleep beneath stars than a roof. On December 14th, 2012, he set out into the deep forests of the Olympic Peninsula for what he told our mom would be “one last trip before the snow piles too high.”
He sent one last text three days later:
“Saw something huge. Tracks everywhere. Will send pics soon.”
There were no pictures. There were no more messages.
The search parties found his tent torn open and his pack left behind — but no blood… no footprints leading away… nothing.
Except a smell the deputies couldn’t explain.
I joined the search. Of course I did. The sheriff’s office couldn’t dedicate more time with the blizzard rolling in, but I refused to quit. My brother was out there, buried under snow or alive and hurt — I told myself that again and again.
One morning, following the faint trace of a drag mark in the snow, I saw the footprints.
Each one the length of my forearm. Toes like thick branches. The stride impossibly long.
And beside those prints: my brother’s missing camera.
Through the cracked screen, a single photo still loaded.
A massive, dark figure standing just between the trees — tall as the low pines around it — eyes reflecting amber in the flash.
My hands shook. That’s when I smelled it too: something sweet and earthy, but laced with rot. A funeral perfume.
Something was dead nearby.
I followed the scent.
It led me to a cliffside I hadn’t seen before, its face partially buried by decades of fallen snow. A narrow break in the rock exhaled cold, still air — like the breath of a thing that never leaves its cave.
I squeezed inside.
The passage opened into a cavern so enormous the beam of my light couldn’t find the ceiling. My breath echoed back at me, trembling.
The floor dipped downward into a basin…and that’s where I saw them.
Bodies.
Rows and rows of them — laid out upon raised stone slabs. Some were nothing but bone. Others still had withered skin stretched tight across their faces like paper. Clothing hung loose on hollow forms. Watches, wallets, jewelry — all carefully arranged beside each one.
Burials.
Hundreds.
I stepped closer, trembling so hard I could barely breathe.
There, on the nearest slab…
His jacket. His boots. His familiar silver ring — placed on a flat piece of stone like an offering.
“Eric?” My voice cracked.
He looked asleep. Peaceful. As though someone had arranged him with care — hands placed across his chest, eyes closed, face clean of pain. No signs of attack. No mutilation.
Just…rest.
I stumbled backward, tears freezing on my cheeks.
That’s when I heard it.
A deep, resonant sound — not quite a growl, not quite a human voice — echoing through the cavern.
THUMP
The sound of heavy footfalls approaching from the dark.
My flashlight jittered. A shape emerged — towering, broad-shouldered, covered in shaggy hair the color of damp pine bark. Its face — god, its face — looked almost human. Intelligent eyes set deep beneath a ridge of bone.
It walked upright, carrying another body in its arms like a sleeping child.
A hiker. Fresh.
It stepped carefully between the slabs, choosing an empty one near the center. With slow, deliberate movements, it laid the body down. Adjusted the head. Straightened the legs.
Then the creature did something I never expected:
It knelt.
And bowed its head.
The sound it made this time was sorrow — unmistakable grief vibrating through the stone.
It was performing a ritual.
Honoring the dead.
My heart pounded so hard I thought the echo would give me away. But the creature stood — and turned — and saw me.
It didn’t roar. Or charge. Or bare its teeth.
It just watched.
Those amber eyes reflected my fear, yes — but also something else.
Recognition.
Understanding.
Slowly, it raised one massive hand — not like claws, not like a predator — but with its palm open, fingers spread, a gesture unmistakably gentle.
I swallowed.
The creature pointed toward Eric’s resting place.
Then to itself.
Then to the cavern walls — covered in carvings. Spirals. Figures. Stories chiseled by hands that understood symbols long before we arrived with our cameras and compasses.
A message unspoken:
We are the ones who carry the fallen.
We are the unseen guardians of the forest.
We do not take the living.
We protect the dead.
All the disappearances… all the “mysterious vanishings”… They weren’t killings.
They were rescues.
A tradition older than memory — creatures of silence collecting those who perish so the wilderness does not devour them without dignity.
I found my voice — barely a whisper.
“Thank you…for burying him.”
The creature touched its chest.
A solemn acknowledgement.
Then it turned and melted back into the dark as quietly as snowfall.
I stood alone again among the dead — including my brother. My knees gave out. I wept beside him, my tears falling on cold stone.
I couldn’t bring him home. I knew that now.
This was his resting place.
When I finally crawled back to daylight, the snowfall had erased every trace of how I’d come. The mouth of the cave was nearly invisible once more — sealing away the truth like the closing of a book.
No one believes my story.
They say grief makes hallucinations. That the cold warps memory. That I followed animal markings into some random natural burial pit.
But every winter now — when the mountains go quiet and the snow smothers sound — I return to that forest.
I leave offerings of berries and evergreen boughs.
For my brother.
And for the guardian who carried him home.
Because I know this much is true:
There are watchers in those woods who honor death far better than we do.
And the next time you hear a branch snap behind you in the deep winter silence…
don’t run.
It may not be a monster after all.
It might be the one who keeps the dead from being alone.
If you’d like, I can continue this into a multi-chapter story, add illustrations, or write a sequel from the creature’s perspective.
Below is a 1000-word original story, inspired by the transcript you provided but fully rewritten, new scenes, new pacing, and no questions asked.
You can request a sequel anytime.
I Found Out What Bigfoot Does With Human Bodies
A 1000-Word Horror Story Inspired by the Sasquatch Burial Legend
I never meant to uncover a secret older than the pines of Washington State. In the winter of 1997, death was my profession—bones, fractures, decomposition timelines. But nothing in my years as a forensic anthropologist prepared me for the creature that stepped out of the dark and showed me what it had been hiding from humanity for centuries.
My name is David Thornton, and this is the truth I stayed silent about for nearly three decades.
The Disappearances
The winter storms had been relentless. Snowfall crushed branches under its weight, coated mountaintops like frosted tombstones, and erased the shapes of familiar trails. That’s why, when outdoor experts began disappearing without a trace, the authorities blamed the weather.
But Detective Patricia Brennan didn’t believe that.
When she called me on December 18th, 1997, her voice trembled in that specific way that tells you a veteran cop is out of explanations.
“Four missing in six weeks,” she said. “Camps intact. No bodies. And we found tracks—humanoid, but… wrong.”
Tracks. I thought she wanted me to analyze footprints. Maybe cast impressions. Maybe debunk a hoax. I didn’t expect what she showed me the next day on the sheriff’s war-room wall:
prints the size of canoe paddles, strides so long no human could replicate them, and drag marks that stretched for hundreds of yards with no blood.
Predators don’t clean their kills.
Serial killers don’t carry bodies for two football fields without leaving a trace.
Something else was moving in those forests.
Into the Mountains
The next morning, we trudged through knee-deep snow toward the last known site where James Anderson, an experienced ranger, had vanished. His truck still sat in the parking pull-off, glazed with ice like a frozen animal carcass.
His campsite was untouched. Tent intact. Gear organized. No struggle. It looked as though he’d stepped outside for a moment and simply… evaporated.
But twenty yards past the tent, half-buried beneath fresh snow, I found them—
footprints larger than any hominid ever recorded.
Sixteen inches long. Deep enough to compress frozen ground. And fresh.
The dogs refused to follow. They whined, tails tucked, refusing to step toward those tracks. Animals know danger before humans do.
Still, we followed the prints deeper into the forest.
The sky dimmed beneath towering pines as old as time. Snow muffled the world, turning every noise into a whisper. The air grew colder, sharper, as if warning us to turn back.
The tracks led to a cliff face—
and vanished.
No continued trail.
No climb marks.
No disturbance.
Just a sheer wall of stone and snow.
But then I saw the dark slit near the base—a cave mouth hidden by icicles.
A human wouldn’t have noticed. But whatever we tracked… had used it often.
The Cave of Symbols
Inside, the tunnel descended into the earth like a throat swallowing us whole. The air warmed slightly as we walked, flashlights cutting shaky beams through the dark. Then we saw them:
Symbols.
Carved into walls.
Carved into the ceiling.
Carved into every reachable surface of the stone.
Not random scratches.
Not graffiti.
These were ritual markings—spirals, lines, pictographs—like petroglyphs found in Pacific Northwest tribal burial grounds. But different. Older. Wilder. As if created by a species that learned from humans but was not human itself.
We moved deeper. The tunnel opened to a cavern so massive our lights couldn’t find its edges. And that’s where we saw the platforms.
Hundreds of them.
Concentric rings of stone structures built around a central pit. Each platform held a human body—some ancient skeletons, others still wrapped in clothing, skin leathery from cold air. Every corpse was laid out gently, arms crossed, head resting on carefully carved stone.
Not dumped.
Not hidden.
Buried.
It was a morgue.
A crypt.
An underground necropolis crafted by hands far larger than ours.
I stepped closer to one of the more recent bodies. A woman. Early thirties. Hiking attire. Her hair stiff with frost. Beside her head sat a small bundle of winter berries and pine needles.
An offering.
I whispered, “These aren’t victims. These are honored dead.”
Detective Brennan swallowed hard. “Then who the hell is burying them?”
A sound answered her.
A low, resonant hum that vibrated through the cavern floor.
The Guardian Appears
We whipped around, flashlights converging on the darkness beyond the far wall. Something moved. Something enormous. Its shadow swallowed entire sections of stone.
Then it stepped into the light.
Eight feet tall.
Shoulders like boulders.
Reddish-brown fur matted with ice and age.
Eyes glowing amber in our beams.
A face like a human drowned in primal evolution—brow ridged, nose flat, mouth wide, expression impossibly sad.
Sasquatch.
Bigfoot.
No more myth than the bones under our feet.
But what froze us wasn’t its size.
It was what it carried.
Gently held in its arms, like a parent cradling a sleeping child, was the body of James Anderson.
It moved past us without threat, crossing the cavern with fluid, ancient purpose. At an empty stone platform, it laid Anderson down with the same gentle care I’d give a newborn.
It crossed his arms.
Straightened his legs.
Adjusted his head.
Then it reached into a leather pouch at its side and removed an offering—
more winter berries, woven with fir branches.
With delicate hands, it placed them beside him.
The creature bowed its head and released a long, mournful hum. A sound of grief. Of ritual. Of duty.
I felt tears sting my eyes.
“It isn’t killing them,” I whispered.
“It’s burying them. It’s been doing this for centuries.”
The creature turned toward us. Slowly, deliberately, it knelt, lowering its colossal frame. Then it extended a massive hand—palm up—in peace.
It pointed to Anderson’s body.
Then to the older skeletons.
Then placed a hand on its own chest.
A message:
We are the same.
All things die.
Someone must carry the bodies home.
It looked at me with weary intelligence—an ancient guardian pleading to be understood.
And in that cavern of the dead, surrounded by centuries of its work, I finally understood the legend the tribes had whispered about:
The Guardian of the Bones.
A creature that walks the boundary between the living and the dead—
not a monster,
but a caretaker.
A lonely, tireless steward of human remains.
The last of its kind.
I never reported what I saw. The official files remain blank, the cave’s location wiped from all maps.
But I still dream of that cavern.
Of that creature.
Of its sad amber eyes silently asking me:
“Who will bury the last of us?”
And that question haunts me more than all the bones in the world.
