‘I HAD TO SHOOT BIGFOOT’ – Police Officer Encounters Bigfoot During Distress Call

I’ve been a police officer for over a decade, and I thought I understood fear.

I’ve kicked in doors not knowing who was on the other side. I’ve stood between screaming families and armed men high on drugs. I’ve seen the kind of violence that stays with you long after the paperwork is filed. But none of that prepared me for what happened on that cold October night—because that night, fear wasn’t chaotic or panicked.

It was intelligent.

It was watching me.

The call came in just after 11:30 p.m. A domestic disturbance out on County Road 47—deep rural territory, miles from the nearest neighbor. Dispatch sounded strained. The woman on the phone had been screaming about something huge outside their house. Not someone. Something. The line went dead after the sound of breaking glass.

I was alone that night. My partner had called in sick, and I didn’t think twice about responding solo. After eleven years on the force, you get comfortable. Maybe too comfortable.

The drive out there felt wrong almost immediately. The road narrowed, trees closing in like they were leaning toward my cruiser. No moon. No wind. Just darkness swallowing my headlights. About halfway down the dirt road, I saw a white shape hanging from a tree branch—torn fabric, fluttering eight feet off the ground. Too high for anyone to reach.

Then came the scratches.

Deep gouges carved vertically into tree trunks. Some nearly ten feet up. Not bear marks. Not anything I recognized. My instincts were screaming, but training told me to keep going.

The farmhouse sat alone in a clearing, lights on. The front door stood wide open, screen ripped clean off its hinges. Silence pressed in so hard it felt physical. No arguing. No cries for help. Just quiet.

That’s when I saw the handprints.

Mud smeared across the windows—but not random. Perfect impressions. Massive hands, fingers too long, prints placed far higher than any human could reach. I stepped out of my cruiser, gravel crunching too loudly beneath my boots, and announced myself.

No answer.

The smell hit me as I reached the porch. A thick, musky stench—wet animal, rot, something ancient. My stomach turned.

Inside, the house looked like a war zone. Furniture overturned. Walls gouged. Muddy footprints tracked across the floor—footprints at least fifteen inches long, sunk deep with weight that no human could produce. No human tracks mixed in. Just those.

Upstairs, I heard whimpering.

I found the couple hiding in their closet, both in their seventies, clinging to each other like children. The woman couldn’t stop shaking. She kept repeating the same words over and over.

“It was looking at us. Through the window.”

The husband told me they’d thought it was a bear at first—until it started pounding on the walls like fists. Until he saw it standing upright in the yard. Eight feet tall. Covered in dark hair. A face that looked almost human, but wrong. Too old. Too aware.

I told them to stay put and went back downstairs.

Outside, I followed the handprints around the house. They circled it deliberately, stopping at every window, every door. Not random curiosity.

Inspection.

Then I heard it—heavy footsteps in the trees. Upright. Measured. Something moving with purpose.

My flashlight caught a shape between the trunks. Tall. Massive. Eyes reflecting back at me.

Then I noticed the footprints.

There weren’t just one set.

There were several.

They surrounded the house.

My radio crackled with static. My phone had no signal. It felt like the world had shut a door behind me.

That’s when the howling started.

Low, rumbling vocalizations echoing from multiple directions, layered and intentional, like communication. I felt it vibrate in my chest. The sound stopped all at once.

A rock smashed through the kitchen window.

Perfectly centered.

Thrown.

The pounding began next—walls struck from different sides in sequence. Not chaotic. Coordinated. The house creaked under the impacts. Upstairs, the couple screamed.

That’s when I knew waiting wasn’t an option.

I stepped outside, heart hammering, flashlight cutting through the darkness. And then I saw it clearly.

It stood near an old barn, at least eight feet tall, shoulders wider than any man I’d ever seen. Dark fur soaked up the light. But it was the eyes that froze me—intelligent, focused, calculating.

I shouted commands out of habit.

It didn’t run.

It walked toward me.

Slow. Calm. Confident.

It reached down and lifted a rusted metal plow like it weighed nothing. Held it overhead.

That was the moment everything stopped being theoretical.

This thing wasn’t just an animal.

It understood weapons.

I had seconds.

I fired three shots.

The creature dropped the plow and staggered back, looking down at its chest, then at its hand—dark blood glistening in the light. It looked back at me, and in its expression I saw pain… anger…

And something that looked like betrayal.

The scream it let out still haunts my dreams. Not just rage—but warning.

It fled into the forest.

Then others answered.

Howls erupted from all directions. Four. Five. Maybe more.

Backup arrived twenty minutes later. They saw the footprints. The handprints. The blood trail vanishing into the woods. No one laughed after that.

Officially, it was labeled an unknown animal attack.

Unofficially, my career changed forever.

I was cleared, but reassigned. Desk duty. Psychological evaluations. Whispered jokes behind my back. The cop who shot Bigfoot.

But the reports didn’t stop.

Livestock killed with precision. Trees snapped like twigs. Sightings within ten miles of that farmhouse—always closer to where I pulled the trigger.

Sometimes I wonder if I made things worse.

But then I remember the elderly couple upstairs. I remember the plow in the air.

I did my job.

And I learned something I wish I hadn’t.

There are things in this world that watch us from the dark. Things that think. Things that remember.

And sometimes… they don’t forgive.