Hunter Finds a Rotting Bigfoot Corpse—But What He Discovered Inside Will Shock You: A Grim Sasquatch Encounter Story

The Last Witness

I never believed in Bigfoot until the day I found one lying dead in the forests of Olympic National Park. And what I discovered connected to that creature changed everything I thought I knew about the wild—and about ourselves.

My name is Marcus Webb, and I’ve been a professional hunter for 23 years. Not the weekend warrior who goes out with friends to shoot a deer and drink beer. I’m the guy wildlife authorities call when there’s a problem bear near private property, or when a cougar starts wandering too close to homes. I track, I capture, and I help resolve situations that pose a risk to people. It’s a job that demands experience, patience, and respect for the wilderness.

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It was mid-October 2023. Elk season had just begun in Washington State, and I had a special permit to hunt in a remote part of Olympic National Park, near the border with the Olympic National Forest. The area was known for its dense Douglas fir and western hemlock, trees so ancient they’d been standing since before the Civil War. It’s the kind of place where you can walk for days without seeing another human, where the silence is almost deafening and the woods seem to breathe with secrets.

I parked my Ford F-250 on an old logging road—long abandoned, covered in moss and ferns—and loaded my pack with supplies for three days. My rifle, a 300 Winchester Model 70, was slung over my shoulder, along with extra rounds, a first aid kit, a tent, a sleeping bag rated for 20°F, a LifeStraw water filter, MountainHouse dehydrated meals, and my Garmin GPS. I also carried my K-Bar hunting knife, a headlamp, and a walkie-talkie, though I knew I’d have no signal for most of the trip. The plan was simple: follow a deer trail I’d scouted two weeks earlier, set up camp near Whiskey Creek, and spend two days tracking and photographing the local elk.

The hike to my campsite took about four hours. The trail climbed steadily through thick forest, crossing small streams and winding around fallen logs covered in bright green moss. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, decaying leaves, and pine. Every few minutes, I saw signs of wildlife—fresh deer tracks, claw marks on trees, a few grouse feathers. When I reached Whiskey Creek around 3 p.m., the sun was already dipping behind the mountains. I pitched my tent in a small clearing about fifty yards from the water, built a fire, and prepared a simple dinner.

Night fell fast in the woods. By 6 p.m., it was pitch black, and I kept the fire going more for comfort than warmth. I listened to the sounds of the forest—owls, the distant call of a coyote, the gentle murmur of the creek. It was peaceful, almost meditative, in a way that only the wilderness can be. I was just about to settle into sleep when I woke up suddenly, scenting something wrong.

Not the usual forest smell. A foul, rotten odor, like something decayed and long dead, invaded my senses. I turned on my headlamp, heart pounding. The fire had burned down to faint embers, casting flickering shadows. I stayed inside the tent, listening, trying to identify the source of that terrible smell. It was getting stronger, and I knew I had to investigate.

I grabbed my rifle, switched off the safety, and stepped outside. The night was cold—around 40°F—and I could see my breath. The woods around me were silent, except for the faint rustling of leaves. The smell was coming from west, away from Whiskey Creek. I moved cautiously, rifle ready, eyes scanning the shadows.

After about 200 yards through waist-high ferns and low pine branches, I saw it.

A dark, massive shape lying between two trees. At first, I thought it was a bear. The size matched. But as I approached and my headlamp illuminated it fully, I realized I was wrong.

It wasn’t a bear. It was a body. A huge, lifeless form covered in tangled, matted hair. It was lying on its back, arms stretched out, face obscured by rot and decay. And it was unmistakably a Bigfoot.

I froze, heart pounding. I’d grown up in Washington State, where tales of Sasquatch were as common as salmon or rain. Everyone knew someone who’d seen one, or thought they had. But I’d always dismissed the stories as folklore or misidentifications. Until now.

The creature was at least eight and a half feet tall, maybe more. Its dark hair was thick and coarse, and the skin beneath was dark and leathery from decomposition. The face was a grotesque blend of gorilla and human, with a heavy brow ridge, sunken eyes, and a wide jaw. The mouth was slightly open, revealing large, sharp teeth—some like canines, others broad and flat, like a human’s molars.

I circled slowly, heart racing, trying to understand what I was looking at. The hands were enormous—almost the size of catcher’s mitts—with long, dirty nails. The feet were just as massive, around 18 inches long, with articulated toes that looked both primate and human.

The body had been there for at least a week—swollen, bloated, and in advanced stages of decay. But what caught my attention was the abdomen. It was distended, irregular, swollen in a way that didn’t look natural. It was as if something solid was inside, pressing outward.

I knew I should call the authorities. Report this immediately. This was the discovery of the century—proof that Bigfoot was real. But it was 2:47 a.m., and I was miles from cell service. My walkie-talkie wouldn’t reach anyone. And standing there, staring at that impossible creature, my mind raced.

I remembered a story I’d seen on the news—about a woman named Sarah Mitchell, who went missing in the same area three weeks earlier. She was an experienced hiker, last seen with her red Columbia jacket. Her family had been desperate for answers. Could it be possible? Was there a connection?

The more I looked at the body, the more certain I became. Something was wrong. That swelling, that unnatural shape—this creature wasn’t just dead. It had been in pain, suffering, perhaps desperate enough to attack or take someone. And I wondered—what had caused this?

I took my knife, a sturdy K-Bar, and hesitated. My instincts told me I had to understand what had happened here, to find out if this was linked to Sarah’s disappearance. Families deserve answers. Justice. Closure. I knelt beside the body, my hands trembling, my mind racing.

The smell was overwhelming—foul, rotten, and chemical. I carefully made an incision in the abdomen, slicing through thick, decomposed tissue. The smell escaped in a wave, making me gag. I widened the cut slowly, trying to avoid disturbing anything inside.

And then I saw it.

Tissue, yes, but not entirely from the creature. Something else—something foreign. Synthetic fabric, torn and stained, but unmistakably modern. Bright red, with a small embroidered logo: Columbia Sportswear. I remembered the missing person posters—Sarah Mitchell last seen wearing a red jacket. The pieces fit.

My hands trembled as I pulled at the tissue, revealing fragments of clothing—jeans, a water bottle cap, a shiny pendant. I examined the pendant—small, silver, inscribed “To Sarah, with love, Mom and Dad, 2015.” I poured water over it, gently wiping away grime, and saw the inscription clearly. It was her.

I realized then—this creature had something to do with Sarah’s disappearance. And it wasn’t just a coincidence. It had taken her, or worse, it had killed her. The evidence was undeniable.

The stomach contents revealed more. Bits of processed food—energy bar wrappers, plastic fragments. The creature had eaten human food—something its digestive system was not designed for. It was sick, malnourished, vulnerable.

I looked again at the body, trying to understand. Why? Why would a creature like this attack a human? What had driven it to such desperation? I examined the scar on its leg—an old, jagged wound, likely from a trap. It had been injured, in pain, and probably starving.

That explained its aggressive behavior. It was wounded, sick, and cornered. It had no choice but to fight or die.

And I realized—I had to do something. I had to tell the truth. The world needed to know. But I also knew the danger of revealing it.

I carefully collected the evidence—clothing fragments, the pendant, tissue samples—and packed them into a Ziploc bag. I marked the GPS coordinates on my device. I knew I had to leave, to get help, to report what I’d found.

But I also knew I had to be cautious. The forest around me was silent now, but I felt eyes watching. Something was out there. Something that had been hiding in the shadows for generations.

I made my way back through the dark woods, heart pounding, every step heavy with the weight of what I’d uncovered. The night was alive with distant sounds—howls, rustling, the wind whispering through the trees. I was not alone.

When dawn finally broke, I was miles from the scene. I reached my truck, exhausted and shaken. I drove as fast as I could, heading toward civilization, toward safety.

And I called the authorities.

The Aftermath
The investigation was swift. They found my evidence, examined the body, and confirmed my story—though they kept much of it classified. The body was taken to a secure government lab. The DNA analysis confirmed what I already knew—this was no ordinary animal. It was a new species, a primitive hominid, living in the shadows of our world.

They called it an unknown primate, a survivor from a long-lost lineage. The implications were staggering. If these creatures existed, they had been hiding in the wilderness for thousands of years, avoiding us, living in secret.

The authorities cordoned off the area, discreetly establishing protected zones. They removed traps, monitored the forests, and kept the public in the dark. I was sworn to secrecy, bound by non-disclosure agreements and classified protocols. But I knew the truth.

And I carry it with me still.

The Legacy
Today, I am an old man. I’ve spent the last few years quietly working with scientists, conservationists, and law enforcement to protect these beings. We set up trail cameras, collect environmental DNA, and monitor their movements. The population is small—perhaps fifty to a hundred individuals scattered across the Pacific Northwest’s vast forests.

What I saw that night was a wounded, desperate creature—one that had been injured by human hands, by traps, by neglect. It was not a monster. It was a survivor, a parent, a being trying to endure in a world that had forgotten it.

I think often of Sarah Mitchell. Her family finally received closure, though it came at a terrible cost. Her belongings, her last photograph, her pendant—they all tell a story I can’t forget. A story of tragedy, of cruelty, but also of compassion.

Because those creatures—those “Bigfoot”—are more than myth. They are intelligent, social beings, with families, traditions, and a history we’ve only begun to understand.

And somewhere in those forests, they are still living, in the shadows, watching us. Waiting.