“I Had to Shoot Bigfoot” — Police Officer’s Harrowing Encounter With Sasquatch During a Distress Call: A Shocking Bigfoot Story

Look, I’ve been a cop for 11 years now, and I’ve seen some weird stuff.
Domestic calls where people are so high they think their furniture is talking to them.
Bar fights that spill out into the street with grown men acting like animals.
Hell, I once had to chase down a guy who was convinced he was a vampire and tried to bite three people at a gas station.

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But nothing, and I mean nothing, prepared me for what happened that October night three years ago.
I still wake up sometimes sweating through my sheets, thinking about those eyes staring back at me in the beam of my flashlight.
The way it looked at me like it was deciding whether I was worth killing or not.

I should probably start from the beginning.
It was a Thursday night, around 11:30. I was working the night shift in our county, which covers a lot of rural farmland and thick forest.
Most calls are pretty routine—drunk drivers, domestic disputes, the occasional break-in.
The kind of stuff you expect when people live miles apart and sometimes have too much time to drink and think about their problems.

My partner had called in sick that day with a stomach bug, so I was riding solo.
Normally, that wouldn’t bother me much. After 11 years, you get comfortable handling most situations alone.
Plus, our county is pretty quiet most nights. The worst thing that usually happens is someone’s cow gets loose and wanders onto the highway.

I was sitting in my cruiser at the all-night diner, finishing some paperwork and drinking what had to be my fourth cup of coffee, when the call came in.
The dispatcher’s voice crackled through the radio with that tone that immediately gets your attention—the one when something’s not quite right, but they try to stay professional.
She said there was a domestic disturbance call at a farmhouse about 15 miles out on County Road 47.
The address she gave me made my stomach sink. That’s way out in the sticks, where the houses are so far apart that your nearest neighbor might be two miles away.
When things go bad out there, they can go really bad—really fast—because nobody’s around to help.

But what really caught my attention was what she said next.
The woman who called 911 was screaming about something huge outside their house. Not someone—a creature.
The call kept cutting out, and I could hear glass breaking in the background before the line went dead.

When you hear something like that, your mind immediately jumps to worst-case scenarios.
Maybe there’s an intruder with a weapon.
Maybe someone’s having a psychotic break and sees monsters.
Or maybe it’s just another methhead hallucinating after three days without sleep. You see that more than you think.

I radioed back that I was responding and started making the drive out there.
County Road 47 is one of those winding country roads that snakes through some of the thickest forest in our area.
During the day, it’s actually pretty scenic—pine and fir trees, rolling hills, wildflowers even late in the season.
At night, especially on a moonless night like this one, those trees seem to close in around you like tunnel walls.

The further I drove, the more spaced out the houses became.
First, a few newer developments where city folks moved out for more space.
Then, older farmhouses—some dating back 60 or 70 years—sitting on land that stretches back into the woods for acres and acres.

The address I was looking for was at the end of a long dirt road branching off from the main county road.
My headlights cut through the darkness as I bumped along the rutted path—tree branches scraping against the sides of my cruiser.
The road twisted for about a mile before I finally saw lights ahead.
But about halfway down that dirt road, something made me slow down and pay closer attention.

My headlights caught something white hanging from a tree about 20 feet ahead—fluttering in the breeze.
It looked like torn fabric. When I got closer, I saw it was a piece of a white T-shirt, ripped and caught on the branch, about 8 feet off the ground.
That struck me as odd—the branch was way too high for a person to reach, even jumping.
And it was fresh—the fabric was clean, not weathered by rain or sun.
I made a mental note to ask the residents about it.

A little further down the road, my headlights revealed scratch marks on the bark of several trees—deep gouges running vertically, like claw marks, but bigger than anything I’d seen.
Some were 10 feet off the ground. I’ve seen what claws can do to trees, and this wasn’t it.
These marks were too deep, too deliberate, and way too high up.

The farmhouse sat in a clearing, surrounded by dense forest on three sides.
It was one of those old two-story places, probably built in the 1950s, with white siding and a wraparound porch.
Lights were on, windows glowing—initially reassuring. If someone was in trouble, you’d expect the house to be lit.

But as I approached, I saw something that made me slow down and really look.
The front door was wide open—not just unlocked, but completely open, with the screen door hanging off its hinges, ripped.
I parked in the gravel driveway and sat there for a moment, taking everything in.

The house was silent—no arguing, no screaming, no TV or music—just dead silence.
That’s more unsettling than noise. When someone calls 911 about a disturbance and you arrive to silence, it’s usually one of two things:
Either the problem resolved itself, or it got much worse.

As I sat there, I noticed something else that didn’t seem right.
The windows facing the driveway had what looked like mud smeared on them.
But closer inspection with my flashlight revealed they weren’t random smears—they looked like huge handprints.
Some were positioned so high I’d have to be over 7 or 8 feet tall to make them.

I got out of my car, flashlight in hand, and immediately felt how unnerving the silence was.
No wind, no insects, no nightbirds—nothing.
It was like the forest was holding its breath.

I called out, identifying myself as police, asking if anyone was inside.
My voice was swallowed up by the silence.
Then I swore I heard movement behind the house—like something large shifting weight in the trees.

Standard procedure: approach carefully, try to make contact, don’t assume the worst until you know what’s inside.
I kept my hand near my weapon, slowly made my way up the porch steps.
The first thing that hit me was the smell—thick, musky, unlike anything I’d ever encountered.
A wet dog smell mixed with something else—something wild, animal-like, but stronger, almost overwhelming.
It made me gag, and I could tell it was coming from inside.

I shined my flashlight into the house. The living room was a mess—overturned recliner, smashed coffee table, scattered debris.
But it wasn’t just destruction. It looked like something had gone into a rage—deep scratches on the walls, pillows ripped apart, stuffing everywhere.
But what really disturbed me were the footprints—muddy, large, leading from the front door toward the back of the house.

At first glance, they looked almost human—then I examined them closer.
They were at least 14 or 15 inches long, wider than a human foot, and the impressions showed incredible weight.
No sign of human footprints—no signs of a struggle or escape—just those massive tracks heading deeper inside.

I called out again, louder this time, asking if anyone was hurt.
That’s when I heard it—faint whimpering from upstairs.
It sounded like someone crying or praying. Beneath that, what sounded like two people whispering urgently.

I drew my weapon, checked each room, and moved toward the source of the sound.
The kitchen was a disaster—chairs knocked over, cabinets open, muddy handprints on the walls.
And again—these weren’t normal handprints. They were huge, with fingers twice as long as mine, some high on the windows.

What I found on the kitchen counter made my stomach turn—pieces of raw meat, pulled from the fridge, left there.
They looked handled—squeezed, pressed—impressions of those large fingers pressed into the beef, like something picked them up, examined, then lost interest.

The whimpering grew louder upstairs.
It was coming from the master bedroom at the end of the hall.
I announced myself again, slowly pushed the door open.

The room looked barricaded—dresser shoved against the door, furniture overturned.
Inside, I found an elderly couple trembling in the walk-in closet, terrified.
The woman kept pointing toward the window—she said it was looking in.
She kept repeating, “It was looking through our window. It was looking right at us.”

Her husband said they’d been watching TV when they heard something moving outside.
He saw it—an enormous figure standing upright, covered in dark brown fur, at least 8 feet tall.
He said its face looked almost human but wrong—like an ancient caveman with intelligent eyes reflecting the moonlight.

They grabbed what they could and locked themselves in the closet.
I helped them to their feet, told them I’d check the rest of the house.
The back door was still locked, but I saw deep gouges in the wood—claw marks, big enough to stick my finger in.
A wooden porch chair nearby was torn apart, splintered as if something had grabbed it and pulled it apart with ease.

The damage was everywhere—windows, doors, furniture—evidence of something incredibly strong and deliberate.
I stepped outside onto the porch and saw handprints on the windows—massive, deliberate, some 8 feet up—like something had been looking inside, circling the house.

Then I heard heavy footsteps in the woods behind the house—deliberate, measured, like something walking on two legs.
Branches snapping, heavy and deliberate.
I shined my flashlight, saw movement—something dark moving through the trees.
For a second, I swear I saw two eyes reflecting the light—then it disappeared deeper into the forest.

What chilled me to the bone?
More large footprints—some bigger than others—suggesting multiple creatures.
They circled the house, examining every window, every door.

I tried to call for backup, but my radio was dead. My cell had no signal.
It felt like I was cut off from help just when I needed it most.

Suddenly, a strange, low rumbling sound echoed from multiple directions—like several large creatures communicating in the dark.
It was a deep, guttural noise that seemed to go on forever, echoing through the forest.

Then, the silence was broken again—by a loud crash.
A large rock sailed through the window, shattering glass.
I drew my weapon, heart pounding, but the real terror was the precision—this was no accident.
Someone or something had deliberately thrown it.

Upstairs, the elderly couple was screaming.
Something was pounding on the house—front, back, sides—like multiple creatures coordinating an attack.
The house creaked under the force. I feared it might break apart.

I knew I had to act.
I grabbed my gun, stepped outside, and saw it—standing near the barn, about 50 yards away.
When my flashlight hit it, it didn’t run or hide. It turned and looked directly at me.

Most animals react the same way—freeze or bolt.
This thing? It just stared at me with what I can only describe as intelligence—studying, evaluating.

It was enormous—at least 8 feet tall, covered in dark, matted fur that seemed to absorb the light.
Its face looked almost human but wrong—large, pronounced features, eyes that reflected the flashlight like a predator’s.

It was huge—broad shoulders, long arms, powerful legs.
But what terrified me most was how human it moved—deliberate, confident, purposeful.
It approached an old farm plow, lifted it effortlessly, and held it over its head like a weapon.

I realized then—this wasn’t just some wild animal wandering through.
It was intelligent, organized, and preparing to attack.

I only had seconds.
The creature was about 20 feet away, holding that farm implement, capable of killing me with a throw or strike.
An elderly couple depended on me, and I was the only thing between them and this thing.

Time slowed.
I saw every detail—the nostrils flaring, the intelligent eyes, the way it adjusted its grip.
It was making a conscious decision to threaten me with a weapon.

I fired three shots—center mass.
The thunderous sound echoed through the clearing.
The creature staggered, looking down at its chest in shock and confusion.

It dropped the plow with a metallic crash.
Staggered back, eyes wide with pain and betrayal—like it couldn’t believe I’d actually shot it.
Dark blood oozed from its chest, staining the fur.

It looked at me again, and I swear I saw pain and anger and something else—something like betrayal.
It reached up and touched its chest where I’d shot it, then looked at its fingers—dark blood.
It was still standing, still conscious, still staring at me with those unnervingly human eyes.

Then it let out a terrible sound—something primal, angry, hurt—like a scream of rage.
It turned and ran into the forest, crashing through the trees with purpose, not like a wounded animal but like a being with intent.
It disappeared into the shadows, leaving me standing there, heart pounding, trembling.

I thought that was it. That I’d somehow scared it off.
But then I heard it—deep, guttural sounds from the woods, like multiple creatures communicating in a language I couldn’t understand.
They answered the gunfire with howls and growls, and I knew I hadn’t seen just one.

More of them were out there.
And they knew I’d hurt one of theirs.

The next few hours were chaos.
More voices, more sounds, more movement in the woods.
The house was silent except for the distant sounds of the forest alive with activity.

When backup finally arrived, they saw the footprints, the damage, the blood—evidence that I’d fought something extraordinary.
They couldn’t explain what I’d seen, but they knew I was telling the truth.

I was placed on leave, investigated, questioned.
The department’s psychologist kept asking about stress, fatigue, and whether I’d been drinking.
I passed the tests, but I knew—I knew what I’d seen.

And I knew that creature was still out there—watching, waiting, maybe even hunting.
I never saw it again, but I still think about it.
Sometimes I wonder if it’s still out there, in the woods, watching us.

And I know—deep down—that some things in this world aren’t meant for us to understand.
Some are better left alone.