FBI Agent Interrogated Bigfoot, His Revelation About Humanity Is Terrifying

1. The 2:47 A.M. Call

People imagine the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit as glamorous—profilers staring at walls of photos and red string, whispering dark insights into serial killers’ minds.

The reality is paperwork, stale coffee, and teaching rookies not to project their own emotions onto suspects. My job was to read people, not stories. To peel past lies, ego, and fear until only the truth was left.

By September 1992, I’d been doing it long enough to have earned a reputation. I had put away some very bad men and helped other agents understand what “monster” looks like when it wears human skin.

That’s probably why the phone rang at 2:47 a.m., dragging me out of a light, restless sleep in my tiny Quantico on‑base apartment.

The number on the secure line was a D.C. area code I didn’t recognize. That was the first red flag. The voice on the other end wasn’t one I knew, either—not a colleague, not a supervisor. No accent. No warmth. Just clean, precise American English, scrubbed of regional identity.

“Agent Cross?”

“Yes.” My throat was dry; I sat up, swinging my legs out of bed, automatically reaching for the notepad on the nightstand.

“North Gate, Quantico. Forty‑five minutes. Bring your credentials. Firearms optional.”

“Optional?” That was the second red flag. At Quantico, firearms were never “optional.” They were mandatory or prohibited.

“Coordinates are being transmitted to your secure pager,” the voice continued, ignoring my confusion. “You will not discuss this call with anyone. Not your supervisor, not your colleagues. Understood?”

 

 

“Who is this?” I asked.

There was a slight pause, a microsecond of static.

“Your presence has been requested at a joint‑agency facility. You’ve been read in under code name HANDBOOK. Arrive on time, Agent Cross. One of the conditions of your participation is that you remain… punctual.”

The line went dead.

My pager chirped a moment later on the dresser, vomiting a string of numbers and letters I recognized as location coordinates—not to any building I knew, but to somewhere deep in the restricted training areas behind the main campus.

I stared at the digits for a long moment.

Then I stood up, got dressed, grabbed my badge, my sidearm, and the keys to my 1989 Ford Taurus, and left.

Whatever this was, it wasn’t a normal request.

And normal, for once, had decided to take the night off.

2. Down Below

Northern Virginia before dawn has a strange kind of hush. The world is awake but not yet moving; lights glow in windows, but the roads are mostly empty. As I drove, the radio crackled out a Nirvana song—“Come as You Are”—and the banality of it clashed with the fact that I was following coordinates to a facility even my security clearance had never heard of.

The guard at the North Gate didn’t ask questions. He checked my badge against a clipboard—not a digital screen, a clipboard—scribbled something, then waved me through. Two men in unmarked dark uniforms climbed into a separate vehicle and pulled ahead of me.

“Follow them,” the guard said.

We drove past the usual landmarks: the main academy buildings, firing ranges, mock urban training villages they used to simulate hostage situations. Then we kept going. The roads narrowed, the trees closed in. The Taurus’s headlights flashed off hand‑painted range signs and concrete bunkers half‑swallowed by ivy.

The black vehicle in front of me turned off onto a smaller access road, then onto something that was barely a road at all—just two tire tracks in gravel, winding into the dark.

A featureless concrete block materialized out of the trees like a tomb. No windows. One heavy steel door. It looked like a forgotten Cold War ammo depot.

The men in front got out. One of them swiped a badge over a concealed panel. Bolts thudded. The steel door groaned open.

We went inside.

The entry corridor was lit by harsh fluorescent tubes, the kind that made your skin look sickly. Cameras followed us in silent arcs from corners. Another door, another badge swipe, and then we were in an elevator—but instead of up, we went down.

The descent felt long. My ears popped somewhere around what I guessed was the fourth underground floor.

“Agent Cross,” one of the men finally said.

“Yeah.”

“You will be asked to sign several non‑disclosure documents. You will be introduced to personnel from multiple agencies. You will treat this as a classified operation under Special Access Program protocols.”

“I figured,” I said. “Are you going to tell me what kind of operation?”

His face didn’t move.

“No, sir.”

The car shuddered to a halt. The doors opened on a concrete labyrinth—long, straight corridors lined with metal doors, pressure locks, more cameras. A Cold War relic, buried under Quantico.

They led me through turns I couldn’t track, deeper into the complex, and finally into a windowless conference room.

There were already a dozen people inside.

A U.S. Army Colonel in a crisp uniform—silver eagles on his shoulders. Two scientists with DARPA security badges clipped to their coats. A pair of Air Force officers. And several people in conservative suits who radiated the kind of stillness that never came from regular bureaucrats.

CIA, I thought.

A woman in her late thirties sat near the far end of the table, a thick folder in front of her. Dark hair braided back, eyes sharp despite the heavy shadows under them. Her ID lanyard bore the logo of Johns Hopkins.

The Colonel stood as I entered.

“Agent Cross,” he said. “I’m Colonel Hendris, United States Army. Behavioral Science Unit, yes?”

“That’s right,” I said. “I was told to be punctual. No one told me why.”

A flicker of something—maybe amusement, maybe respect—crossed his face.

“You’re here because you interrogate dangerous subjects,” he said. “And because what we have is… complicated.”

The Johns Hopkins woman rose and extended a hand.

“Dr. Sarah Martinez,” she said. Her grip was firm, her palm dry despite the fatigue in her eyes. “I’m heading the biological assessment team.”

“Biological assessment?” I repeated. “Am I in the right room?”

“You are,” she said. “Please, sit.”

I took a seat halfway down the table. A stack of NDAs and classified acknowledgments was slid in front of me. I signed where they told me to sign. At that hour, with that much security in the walls, any pretense of choice was illusion.

When the paperwork was done, the door sealed with a hiss.

Dr. Martinez opened the folder. Her hands trembled just enough that I noticed.

“Agent Cross,” she began without small talk, “three nights ago, a National Guard unit in the Cascade Mountains of Washington State detected an anomalous heat signature on a routine training exercise.”

She spoke quickly, the cadence of someone who’d repeated this story more times than she wanted to.

“Thermal imaging initially flagged it as a large mammal. Mass and movement suggested a bear. They tracked it through dense forest for six hours.”

She slid a photograph across the table.

It was grainy, washed out by the camera flash—but clear enough.

A creature stood in the cone of a spotlight, two soldiers with rifles bracketing it on either side. It was massive—approximately seven and a half feet tall, shoulders as wide as a refrigerator door. It was covered in shaggy, dark reddish‑brown hair, tangled in places, shorter around the face.

And that face—

I had looked into the eyes of serial killers, cult leaders, cartel enforcers, and men who killed for the sheer novelty of it. I knew what cruelty looked like. I knew what vacancy looked like.

The eyes staring back from the photograph were neither.

They were forward‑set, shaded by a heavy brow ridge, the nose broad and flat, mouth wide. The features were undeniably hominid, but stretched, reconfigured, as if something had taken the human template and bent it in a different direction a long time ago.

But the eyes—

I saw calculation in them. And behind that, something disturbingly familiar: fear.

“It didn’t run,” said Colonel Hendris, his voice flat. “When surrounded, it raised its hands in the air and knelt down. It surrendered.”

He pushed a second photo toward me. The same creature, now on its knees in the dirt, head lowered, hands up.

Not charging. Not fleeing.

Submitting.

The table in front of me was littered with more evidence. Plaster casts of seventeen‑inch footprints. Close‑up shots of hair samples under magnification. Dental molds that showed an omnivorous bite—large, flat molars for grinding plant matter, but also canines suited for tearing flesh. Measurement sheets listing an estimated weight of 650 pounds, blood work with more redactions than visible text.

“You brought me here,” I said slowly, “to interrogate a Bigfoot.”

The word felt ridiculous in my mouth, like I had just thrown a Halloween mask onto the table in a murder trial.

There was a brief silence. A few of the suits shifted, but no one laughed.

“We brought you here,” Dr. Martinez said, leaning forward, “because this specimen has demonstrated clear intelligence. It responds to spoken commands. It has passed multiple problem‑solving tests. Yesterday, it used sticks to draw geometric patterns in the dirt of its enclosure.”

She tapped the photos.

“This is not just a large primate. This is something that thinks.”

3. A Life or Death Week

The tension in the room was thick enough to cut.

The DARPA scientist on the left—tall, thin, with a receding hairline and restless fingers—cleared his throat.

“Let’s be clear, Agent Cross,” he said. “We are not debating whether this specimen is of interest. Its existence alone changes several fields of science overnight. But the question at hand is how it is to be studied.”

“And for how long,” one of the CIA suits added quietly.

I looked at Martinez. Her jaw flexed.

“The military contingent,” she said, each word weighed, “is in favor of an anatomical study.”

I knew that phrase. I’d seen it in old MK‑Ultra and Cold War bioweapons documents. It meant one thing.

“Dissection,” I said.

No one corrected me.

Hendris held my gaze without blinking.

“My security mandate,” he said, “is to assess potential threats to national security. This entity’s physical capabilities, if extrapolated to even small numbers, represent a serious potential issue. Strength, speed, stealth, unknown disease vectors… The biological data we can gain from a full study will help us understand and contain that threat.”

“It raised its hands and surrendered,” I said. “Threat assessment should include behavior, not just muscle mass.”

“That’s why you’re here,” Dr. Martinez said quickly, before Hendris could respond. “We have one week before a decision is made. If we can demonstrate that this being has language, culture—some form of personhood—then maybe we can argue for long‑term behavioral and non‑invasive study.”

She hesitated. Her gaze flicked to the Colonel, then back to me.

“If we can’t…” She trailed off.

She didn’t need to finish the sentence.

I looked down at the photo again. At the way the creature’s hands were positioned—open, palms outward, fingers spread. At the tension in its shoulders. At the eyes, watching the soldiers around it.

I’d seen that posture in hostage situations, in surrenders, in prisons. It was the body saying: I know you have the power. I’m giving you what you want. Don’t kill me.

“You’re asking me,” I said slowly, “to walk into a cell with an unknown, seven‑and‑a‑half‑foot, 650‑pound non‑human primate that you’re not sure you want to keep alive… and convince it to talk to me in a week.”

“We’re asking you to do what you already do,” one of the suits said. “Establish rapport with a dangerous subject. See what it knows. See what it is.”

Martinez leaned in, urgency cracking through her professional calm.

“If you can establish communication,” she said, “if you can show that it understands symbolic language, shared meaning, anything that can be argued as consciousness on our level, then we’ll have leverage. The more human it looks on paper, the harder it will be to justify cutting it open on a table.”

“And if I fail?” I asked.

No one answered.

They didn’t have to.

4. The Cell

The holding area was on a lower level, accessed via another elevator guarded by two Marines with rifles and thousand‑yard stares. The air down there was colder, dryer, tinged with the faint smell of disinfectant and something else underneath—metal, sweat, fear.

We passed three empty cells before we reached the one they’d reinforced.

Thick tempered glass, criss‑crossed by embedded security wire, formed the front wall. The door was steel with a small secondary viewing port. A control panel outside regulated locks, cameras, and a series of recessed nozzles whose function I didn’t want to speculate about.

“Sedatives,” Martinez said quietly, seeing where my gaze lingered. “Gas, if necessary. Tasers at half power will stun, but we don’t know long‑term effects.”

“Let’s hope we don’t find out,” I muttered.

The interior of the cell was bigger than I’d expected—twenty by twenty feet, with a higher ceiling. One corner contained a drain in the floor and a fixed metal fixture that was either an insultingly crude toilet or an afterthought. A low metal platform with a thin mat served as a bed. The rest was bare concrete.

In the center of that gray box sat the reason I was there.

It was crouched on its haunches, back to us, broad shoulders hunched. In front of it, someone had tossed in a pile of wooden dowels—maybe four inches long, an inch thick. With surprising delicacy, it held two of them between long fingers, sketching in the thin layer of sand that had been scattered over the floor.

“Sand is easier for cleanup,” Martinez whispered, stepping up beside me at the glass. “And it allows us to see what it… chooses to do with tools.”

The overhead camera screens on the wall opposite showed a top‑down view. In the sand, the creature had etched a series of shapes—circles, squares, triangles. But not random. Each row was arranged in a sequence. Circle, circle, square. Circle, square, square. Triangle, circle, square.

Patterns.

“It did that on its own?” I murmured.

“We gave it the dowels,” she said. “It did the rest. No training.”

As if on cue, it paused, cocked its head slightly to the side, and then added a fourth shape to the end of the last row—another circle, where, if you followed the pattern, a circle should be.

It was completing its own sequence.

Not reflex. Not simple mimicry.

That was abstraction.

“Jesus,” I whispered.

Maybe it heard the sound. Maybe it just felt the shift in attention. Either way, it straightened slowly and turned to face the glass.

The photos hadn’t prepared me for its presence.

Standing, it made the reinforced cell look suddenly too small. The reddish‑brown hair was denser on the torso and legs, slightly shorter along the face and chest. Under the fur, muscles bunched and flowed with each movement, the kind of raw power that human bodybuilders spent decades chasing and never reached.

The head sat slightly forward on a thick neck. The brow ridge was pronounced, casting the eyes in shadow until it stepped closer. The nose was broad, the nostrils flaring slightly as it sniffed the air. The mouth was wide, lips thinner than a human’s but capable of fine movement.

And the eyes—

Even at that distance, through glass, they were arresting. Deep‑set, a color somewhere between dark amber and burnt honey. They flicked from me to Martinez to the colonel and the two guards behind us, cataloging each new presence.

“Specimen,” Hendris said briskly, stepping forward, his voice amplified through a small speaker in the wall. “Approach the glass.”

The creature’s gaze snapped to him. It hesitated, then padded forward on broad, calloused feet. Each step was careful, grounded, as if it was very aware of how much weight it carried.

Up close, it loomed. I’m six feet tall; its shoulders were a solid foot and a half above mine at least.

It stopped a few feet from the glass. For a second, it simply stared back at us. Then it lifted one hand—huge, with long fingers, nails thick and dull—and pressed its palm against the barrier.

A handprint bloomed in smudged sweat on the glass.

I realized I’d been holding my breath. I let it out slowly.

“This is Agent Cross,” Hendris said. “He will be interacting with you this week.”

The creature’s eyes shifted to me. It made a low sound in its chest—two notes, rising and falling. The cadence was eerily similar to the sound a person makes when acknowledging a greeting without using a word.

“That’s its most common vocalization,” Martinez murmured. “We’ve catalogued several. They vary in pitch and length depending on context.”

“How much has it spoken?” I asked.

She hesitated.

“We don’t know that it has speech in the way we understand it. But it clearly has vocal codes. It uses different sounds for different guards, different actions. It mimics tones. Once, when one of the scientists dropped a mug and swore, it imitated the word later. Not perfectly, but close enough we all heard it.”

The creature’s nostrils flared again. It leaned slightly closer to the glass, eyes narrowing, as if trying to see past the reflection on its surface.

It wasn’t looking at my badge. Or my gun.

It was looking at my face, searching.

In that moment, I realized that if this thing decided that the humans around it were a problem to be solved rather than a puzzle to be understood, a thin pane of glass and some sedative nozzles wouldn’t save us.

But that wasn’t what I saw in its expression.

I saw curiosity, tinged with wary exhaustion.

It had surrendered in the woods. It had been transported here, stripped of everything familiar, surrounded by fearful, powerful creatures that jabbed it with needles and shouted in languages it didn’t know.

And now it was staring at me, the man they’d brought in to decide whether it was a who or an it.

I stepped closer to the glass.

“Hello,” I said, keeping my voice calm, even. “My name is Cross.”

It watched my mouth as I spoke, eyes flicking to the movement of my lips, then back to my eyes. Its own mouth shifted slightly, the fur around its cheeks pulling.

It made a sound:

“Rr…oss.”

The vowel was wrong, the consonants blurred, but the structure was there.

Behind me, I heard Martinez suck in a breath.

“Did you coach it on that?” I asked her quietly, without taking my eyes off the creature.

“We haven’t given it any proper nouns,” she whispered back. “Only simple commands. Sit. Stand. Back. Food. No personal names.”

The creature repeated the sound, a fraction closer this time.

“Krr…oss.”

It wasn’t just parroting. It was trying.

Something unclenched in my chest.

I lifted my hand and placed my palm on the glass, exactly opposite its own.

Human hand, splayed fingers, worn knuckles.

Non‑human hand, double the size, fingerprints pressed in moisture.

For a heartbeat, we simply stood like that, flesh separated by an inch of engineered quartz.

“If you can understand me,” I said quietly, “we don’t have much time.”

It tilted its head.

Its next vocalization was longer, a string of sounds that shifted in tone and rhythm. To anyone else, it might have sounded like an animal call.

To me, a man who’d spent twenty years listening past words to the intentions beneath them, it sounded like someone saying:

You took my world away. What do you want now?

5. The First Session

They gave us one hour for the first session.

I insisted on going in alone.

Hendris didn’t like that. I could see it in the set of his jaw, the way his hand hovered near the holster of the guard next to him as if proximity to a weapon might change my mind. But Martinez backed me.

“Any show of force will derail rapport,” she argued. “If it perceives this as interrogation under duress, we’ll get nothing meaningful. Agent Cross knows how to handle himself.”

Hendris snorted softly but gave the nod.

I surrendered my sidearm. No firearms were allowed inside the cell; if things went bad, their protocol was to flood the room with sedative gas and let the subject drop.

“Comforting,” I muttered.

The door cycled open with a heavy clunk of locks. The air inside was warmer, tinged with the faint smell of damp fur and the musk of a large mammal.

The creature watched me enter, body poised but not coiled. It stood near the back wall now, giving me space, which I took as a good sign. Predators claiming territory usually did the opposite.

I stopped halfway between the door and where it stood.

No sudden movements. No direct, prolonged eye contact. You don’t walk into any unknown subject’s space like you own it, whether it has two legs or four.

“Cross,” I said again, pointing a thumb gently at my chest.

“Cross,” came the low reply, the consonants less muddy this time.

It remembered.

I pointed at it. “You?”

It blinked.

Then it did something that made the hair on my arms stand up.

It tapped its chest—twice—with its knuckles.

Then it produced a sound unlike the others I’d heard. Three syllables, each distinct, separated by tiny pauses. The first two started with a glottal stop, a kind of throat click, sliding into a deep vowel. The last ended on a soft hiss.

I won’t try to spell it. Human alphabets weren’t built for that noise.

“Is that your name?” I asked softly.

It repeated the sequence, slower this time, watching my face as if trying to see whether I’d understood.

A name is more than a label. It’s a declaration of self. That simple act—tapping its chest and making that specific sound—was a line in the sand.

Whoever and whatever it was, it knew it was an individual.

I tried to reproduce the sound.

My first attempt was laughable, a garbled choke that made it bare its teeth in what I was horrified to realize might be amusement. The second try was closer. On the third, I hit the rhythm if not the exact tone.

It made a short, approving grunt.

“Okay,” I said. “We’re getting somewhere.”

Behind the glass, I could feel eyes on us—Martinez, Hendris, half a dozen others. But inside the cell, it was just me and the creature whose name my throat could barely shape.

I sank slowly to the floor, not sitting fully, just lowering my center of gravity in a way that made me look—and feel—less threatening. After a moment, it did the same, mirroring me.

We sat like that for a while. I pointed at objects. I said words. It listened, head tilted, occasionally mimicking sounds, sometimes producing small bursts of its own language in what felt like an attempt to reciprocate.

The intelligence was undeniable.

The fear was, too.

More than once, as its eyes drifted past me to the glass, I caught something else there—something older and heavier than mere anxiety.

Resignation.

It had seen cages before.

At the forty‑minute mark, with my voice hoarse from repetition, I tried something different.

I drew a simple circle in the sand between us with my finger.

“Circle,” I said.

It watched.

Then, deliberately, it drew a triangle.

Not just any triangle—an equilateral one, sides as even as a human hand could make without a ruler.

It tapped the triangle.

Then, to my shock, it traced another symbol beside it—something that looked like a crooked, looping glyph, repeated twice.

A memory stirred. In college, I’d taken a course in comparative linguistics as an elective. We’d studied how children, when first exposed to symbolic representation, often link shapes to sounds, then to concepts.

“Is that…” I murmured. “Is that your word for this?” I pointed to the triangle.

It made a soft, affirmative noise.

We were not going to build a full lexicon in a week. That’s not how language works. But in that moment, I knew we could establish equivalence.

This shape means this sound. This sound means this thing. And from there, this thing means this idea.

We weren’t just teaching a clever animal tricks.

We were standing on the edge of a bridge between minds that had evolved on parallel tracks for who knew how long.

When the hour was up, the buzzer sounded gently in the wall. I stood, my knees popping.

“I’ll be back,” I said, knowing full well how that line sounded in a concrete cell.

It made my name sound again—closer now, almost correct.

“Cross.”

As I stepped backward toward the door, it leaned forward, placing its hand on the floor where my palm had just been.

A prisoner’s habit. Anchor yourself to any remaining warmth.

The door shut behind me with a final, echoing thunk.

In the debrief that followed, they grilled me on everything—from the cadence of its “name” to the way its eyes tracked different speakers. I argued that we had proof of:

Self‑identification (a name, chest‑tapping)
Symbolic reasoning (geometric patterns, consistent glyphs)
Vocal flexibility (attempted mimicry of human names)
Intentional communication, not just conditioned responses

It bought us time.

What I didn’t tell them, because I didn’t have the words yet, was that when I looked into that creature’s eyes, I hadn’t just seen intelligence.

I’d seen a kind of weary recognition.

As if it had met our kind before.

And what it would eventually reveal, piece by piece, when we truly began to communicate—about how long it had been watching us, what it thought of us, and what it feared we would become—would haunt me long after the cell, the bunker, and the official reports were gone.

What it revealed about humanity was far more terrifying than anything I had ever profiled in a human monster.