GIANT SASQUATCH ROADKILL!!

Giant Bigfoot Creature Hit By Truck At 80 MPH

1. The Offer I Should’ve Refused

My name’s Devin McCriedy, and I’ve been driving big rigs long enough to know the road will show you every kind of crazy there is. Drunks, deer, idiots on their phones cutting you off at 70 miles an hour—seen it all.

But nothing I’d witnessed in fifteen years behind the wheel prepared me for what I hit on that mountain road in October 2016.

Eight years later, my story is an inside joke at truck stops. “Here comes Devin, the guy who hit Bigfoot at eighty.” They laugh. I laugh, too, most days. It’s easier than trying to convince anyone that what I saw was real. That it bled, that it broke steel, that it did not behave like any animal this country admits exists.

Back then, it started like any other bad decision: with money I didn’t have and bills I couldn’t ignore.

My dispatcher, Rick, called me into his office on a dull Tuesday afternoon. I’d just pulled in from a long haul, my shoulders aching, caffeine holding me together. His office smelled like old coffee and cold fries, the way it always did.

He didn’t bother with small talk.

—How far behind are you on that Peterbilt payment? —he asked, eyeing me over his glasses.

—Two months —I said. No sense lying. He probably knew better than I did.

—Your ex still gunning for you? —he asked.

 

—When is she not?

He grunted.

—And your kid… college, right? That’s this year?

I watched him warily.

—Yeah. Why?

He leaned back in his chair, which creaked like it was trying to escape him, and slid an envelope across the desk. It was thick. Real thick.

—Because I’ve got a run that’s not on the books —he said quietly—. One night. You do this for me, you’re caught up on your rig, you put something in that college fund, and your ex gets off your back for, I don’t know, a week or two.

I eyed the envelope but didn’t touch it.

—What’s the catch?

—Catch is, it’s not exactly legal.

I snorted.

—You’re gonna have to be more specific, Rick. Lotta things aren’t “exactly” legal.

He lowered his voice.

—Old-growth timber. Hoh River area.

All the humor left the room.

Old growth, in Washington State? That wasn’t just cutting corners. That was flirting with federal prison.

—Jesus, Rick —I muttered—. That’s not “not exactly legal.” That’s a federal crime.

He shrugged.

—Look, the logging’s already done. I’m not asking you to swing a chainsaw. Trees are cut, loaded on a flatbed near Forks. You pick it up, you drive it to a mill outside Tacoma. One night. That’s it.

—If I get stopped, they don’t care that I didn’t cut’em myself —I shot back—. My name’s on the truck.

He tapped the envelope.

—Forty grand. Cash. No manifest, no ELD record, no paperwork. You follow this route— —he pulled out a folded sheet with handwritten directions, a winding line through the Olympic Peninsula— and you don’t attract attention. You deliver by sunrise, you walk away.

I stared at the envelope.

Forty thousand.

My ex‑wife’s last voicemail, left the night before, echoed in my head: “Devin, I can’t keep covering for you with Emma. Tuition’s due. You promised.”

The bank’s letter about the truck loan served as background noise.

I knew all the reasons to say no.

I took the envelope.

—You’re gonna get me killed —I muttered.

—You’ll be fine —Rick said, but his eyes slid away for a second—. Just another night run. Just… don’t talk about it.

If I’d walked away, I wouldn’t wake up sweating to the sound of bones hitting steel.

But I didn’t.

2. Into the Olympic Night

I left Seattle before dusk, the sky bleeding orange behind the city as I headed west in my 2014 Peterbilt 379. She was my pride—chrome grill, big sleeper, engine that purred like a lion. I’d named her Roxy in better times, and she’d never failed me.

We crossed the Hood Canal Bridge as the sun disappeared, the water a dark mirror below. Once we left the main highways, the world shrank to my headlights, the black ribbon of road, and the wall of trees closing in on both sides.

The Olympic Peninsula is a different kind of wild. The trees don’t just grow; they loom. Moss hangs from branches like old cobwebs. The road curves not because engineers wanted it to, but because the mountains didn’t give them a choice.

Near Forks, according to Rick’s directions, I turned off the main route onto a narrower, more cracked strip of asphalt that probably hadn’t seen a maintenance crew in a decade. The forest seemed to press closer. My high beams cut a tunnel through the dark, revealing twisted roots, ferns, and the occasional reflective eyes of some deer or raccoon watching me pass.

The pickup point was exactly where the directions said it would be: a muddy clearing off the road, flanked by tall spruces, a portable floodlight humming faintly over a loaded flatbed of massive, illegal logs.

There was no crew waiting. No trucks. Just the load, already chained and ready, and a scrap of paper taped to the trailer with one word in block letters: DEVIN.

That did nothing for the knot in my stomach.

I backed Roxy up, connected the trailer, checked the chains twice. The logs were huge, their cut faces pale and raw even in the dim light. Old growth, no question. Some of the trunks were wider than a compact car.

Forty thousand dollars.

I pulled back onto the road, my rig heavier now, every bump and curve magnified by the extra weight.

The directions told me to take a series of obscure forest roads—an old logging route up along the foothills, then across, then down toward civilization again. It was a route designed to avoid weigh stations and prying eyes.

It also put me in some of the darkest, most isolated few dozen miles I’d ever driven.

Rain started about an hour in. Not a downpour, just a steady drizzle that the wipers swiped away in hypnotic arcs. The asphalt shone wet in my headlights, reflecting white streaks. The forest smelled rich and wet even through the cab’s vents.

I had the radio on, low—some classic rock station cutting in and out with the terrain. I kept my speed around 50, slower on the tight switchbacks.

Every so often, I’d glimpse movement at the edge of the light—branches shifting, a deer’s tail flicking, something small darting away. It was just enough to keep my adrenaline from dipping.

Around 1:30 a.m., according to the dash clock, the road leveled out along a high ridge. The rain had eased to a mist. Fog clung low in pockets, swirling in my beams.

I yawned, rubbed my eyes, sipped from a thermos of lukewarm coffee.

That’s when I realized the radio had gone dead. Just static.

I reached to fiddle with the dial—and something stepped onto the road.

3. Impact

It happened in less than a second.

One moment, the road was empty.

The next, my headlights filled with something that should not have been there.

At first, my brain tried to make it a man. Some jackass in a dark coat, stepping out from the trees. But it was wrong. Too tall. Too broad. Its shoulders took up most of my lane. Its head brushed the lower edges of overhanging branches.

It wasn’t wearing clothes. The light caught on hair—dark, matted, slick with rain. The chest was massive, barrel-like, arms long enough that the hands hung almost to its knees.

Its face—

I caught a glimpse. Just a fraction.

A heavy brow ridge. Deep‑set eyes that flashed orange in the headlights. A flat, wide nose. A mouth open in what might have been surprise, baring large, yellowish teeth.

It raised an arm, palm outward, like someone trying to block sudden light.

My body reacted before my mind did.

I slammed my foot on the brake and yanked the wheel to the left.

The trailer kited, screaming. The logs groaned. Roxy roared in protest, ABS chattering under my boot.

We were still going around 80 mph when the front right of the cab hit the thing.

There was a sound I never want to hear again: a wet, explosive crunch, like hitting a side of beef with a car—except heavier, thicker. The windshield star‑webbed instantly from the impact point. The hood buckled inward.

The thing’s body rolled up over the bumper. For an instant, its face was right there, inches beyond the cracked glass, eyes wide and alive and impossibly aware.

Then it disappeared, flung down and under.

The truck bounced—actually bounced—as the front wheels went over something massive. The steering jerked. The trailer fishtailed, dragging the rig toward the guardrail-less edge of the road.

—I’m dead I’m dead I’m dead— flashed through my mind, a meaningless mantra.

I fought the wheel, muscles screaming, and somehow, by luck or instinct or God, managed to keep the truck from jackknifing completely. We skidded, tires shrieking, then finally lurched to a shuddering stop, angled half across both lanes.

The engine idled in a rough, complaining rumble. The smell of hot metal, burnt rubber, and something coppery filled the cab.

For a long few seconds, I just sat there, both hands locked on the wheel, chest heaving. The cracked windshield glittered back at me, spiderwebs of broken safety glass catching the light.

—What the hell… —I whispered.

I looked into the rearview mirrors. The trailer was still upright, thank God. The logs had shifted but not broken free. One chain looked strained, but intact.

The road behind me was a mess of skid marks and something dark splashed across the asphalt.

I needed to make sure I hadn’t just killed some idiot in a ghillie suit or a fur coat. My brain clung to that possibility like a lifeline.

With shaking hands, I killed the engine, grabbed my heavy Maglite from the passenger seat, and opened the driver’s door.

Cold, wet air rushed in, smelling of rain and… something else. Blood. Wet fur.

The night outside seemed immediately louder. Wind hissed through the trees. Rain pattered softly. Somewhere far off, an owl called once.

I climbed down, boots hitting the asphalt with a hollow thud. My legs felt like rubber.

The front of Roxy looked like she’d tried to headbutt a train. The right side of the hood was crumpled inward. The grill had a huge dent high and to the right of center, smeared with dark, wet streaks.

I don’t know what I expected.

Antlers. Feathers. Some sign of what I’d hit.

There was hair. Dark, coarse hair, stuck in the cracks.

And hanging from one shard of broken grill: a flap of skin.

It was grayish-brown, thick, with dark hair on one side. The torn edge was ragged, but the piece itself hung heavy, as if cut from something much denser than deer or elk.

My stomach clenched.

—Oh, God…

I forced my eyes away and moved around the front of the truck, shining the light onto the road.

The beam hit blood.

A lot of it.

It painted the asphalt in a long, irregular smear where the thing had been hit and dragged. Dark, reflective in the light. Already mixing with rain to form diluted rivulets that ran toward the ditch.

My light followed the smear forward.

And then I saw it.

4. Roadkill

About twenty yards ahead of the truck, lying half on the road and half in the shallow ditch, was the thing I’d hit.

My brain did that thing it does when it sees something it has no category for. It tried to paste old labels onto a new horror.

Bear. Moose. Person in a costume.

But none of them stuck.

The body was huge. Lying on its side, knees slightly bent, it was still almost six feet from hip to shoulder. Add the legs and head, and it easily topped eight and a half, maybe nine feet long.

It was covered in hair—thick, dark hair, not fur, exactly, but more like an unholy cross between gorilla and human. The torso was massive, the chest barrel-shaped. Limbs thick, muscles obvious even under the hair.

The right arm was twisted at an impossible angle, bone poking through in a splinter of pale white. Ribs jutted where the truck had caved in its side. One leg looked almost flattened from the impact.

Its head…

The head was turned slightly toward me, jaw slack.

The face was not an ape’s. Not quite. The proportions were wrong. The jawline was too human. The eyes were set closer than a gorilla’s, under a heavy brow ridge. The nose was wide and flat, but not just slits like a bear. The mouth was large, lips split and torn where it must have slammed into the grill.

Blood dripped slowly from one nostril. Its tongue lolled between broken teeth, stained dark.

I stood there, Maglite shaking in my hand, the beam jittering over the creature’s body.

It wore no clothes. No gear. Nothing on its feet.

The feet.

I moved closer, boots squelching slightly in the bloody runoff.

Its legs were long, proportionate to its massive frame. One foot was twisted, crushed. The other lay more or less flat, toes splayed.

I’ve got a size 12 boot. I laid my foot mentally alongside it.

The creature’s foot was at least 17 inches long. The toes were thick, with blunt nails—not claws. The sole was calloused and broad, like something that spent its life walking barefoot on rough ground.

I knew, dimly, about the stories. Bigfoot. Sasquatch. The Pacific Northwest’s favorite folkloric ape-man.

I’d always thought they were bullshit. Fun campfire tales for bored hunters.

This thing on the asphalt wasn’t a campfire tale.

It was bleeding.

Steam rose faintly from its body in the cold, mixing with mist. Its chest heaved once, shallowly.

I froze.

It was still alive.

—Jesus Christ —I whispered.

Its eyes flickered. Not fully open, just a tremor behind the lids.

The rational part of me screamed to get back in the truck, call 911, report an accident with… something. Let someone else deal with this.

Another part—some morbid, stunned part—stepped closer instead.

I knelt, just out of reach of its arms, and shone the light across its chest. The ribcage on the right side had caved in. One lung was likely punctured. There was a deep depression where the bumper had hit.

Up close, the smell was overpowering. Musky, earthy, and coppery with fresh blood. Mixed with the stink of crushed organs.

Its skin, where I could see it under the hair, was a leathery gray-brown. Thick, not fragile like ours.

One of its hands twitched.

I flinched, light whipping to the appendage.

The hand had five fingers. Long, thick, creased with callouses. The nails were blackened, cracked. Palm size was larger than a dinner plate.

It was a primate hand. A person hand, scaled up to nightmare size.

As I watched, the fingers flexed weakly, scraping at the asphalt. Nails made a faint, gritty sound.

It was trying to move.

Somewhere in the fogged-over back section of my brain, a voice said: If it lives, they will take it. Dissect it. Hide it. And if you tell anyone, you’ll sound insane.

Another voice said: You killed it. This is manslaughter. Or… something slaughter. You need a police report. A lawyer. A priest.

I staggered back a step, torn between fight and flight and the urge to vomit.

The creature’s eyes opened.

Just a crack, but enough.

They were amber, not fully human, not fully animal. There was pain in them. Confusion. And something like… recognition.

Our gazes locked.

For a heartbeat, the endless forest vanished. The road, the truck, the fog, all gone.

It was just me and it.

The thing’s lips moved, blood bubbling at the corner of its mouth. It made a sound—wet, guttural, like a word being dragged through mud from a throat not made to speak.

Then its chest hitched once, twice.

And stopped.

The light in its eyes went out.

5. What Now?

I don’t know how long I stood there.

Time stretched. Compressed.

The forest loomed silently, as if holding its breath.

Eventually, some autopilot deep in my trucker soul clicked on.

Accident. Scene. Documentation.

I fumbled my phone out with shaking hands, flicked on the camera, and started taking photos. Wide shots, close-ups, everything. The body, the damage to the truck, the blood on the road.

My fingers felt numb. The phone felt too small, too fragile, as I tried to capture something that shouldn’t exist.

I zoomed in on the face. The hands. The feet.

Click. Click. Click.

Evidence, I told myself. Proof.

Unless I was losing my damn mind.

When I’d taken maybe fifty shots, I stopped, breathing hard.

I wiped my free hand across my face and realized I was crying.

—Get it together, Devin —I muttered.

I needed to call someone.

911? What was I going to say? Hi, I hit Bigfoot with my truck. Send an ambulance and maybe Men in Black?

Rick? He’d tell me to shut up, dump the body in a ravine, and keep driving.

I glanced at the splintered logs on the trailer. Illegal load. Illegal route. Illegal everything.

If the cops rolled up and found me here with a truck full of contraband timber and a massive, unknown primate death on my hands… best-case scenario, I was getting charged with a laundry list of crimes.

Worst-case scenario, this thing would vanish into some government lab, and I’d be the lunatic trucker who “hit a monster” and then “panicked.”

My brain picked the path it always did when cornered: the one that minimized immediate pain.

I decided to move the body off the road.

I know how that sounds. Believe me. I’ve gone over it a thousand times. Why didn’t you call someone? Why didn’t you stand there and wait for help? Why did you touch it?

Because I was terrified.

Because the logs on my trailer represented a life I was about to lose.

Because the thing on the road wasn’t supposed to exist, and too many people had too much to gain from it never having existed.

I told myself I’d call anonymously once I was somewhere safer. Drop a pin on the location. Let someone else find it.

I put my phone away, wiped my face again, and approached the body.

Up close, the size was overwhelming. I wasn’t sure I could budge it. But adrenaline does strange things.

I grabbed one massive wrist with both hands. The skin was still faintly warm under the blood and rain. The hair was course and wet, slick against my fingers.

—Sorry —I muttered, to it or to myself, I wasn’t sure.

I braced one foot against the asphalt and pulled.

The arm moved, heavy as sandbags. The shoulder rolled. With a grunt, I managed to angle the torso more fully into the ditch, away from the path of tires.

As I did, something fell from its partially clenched hand and hit the road with a soft clink.

I froze.

It was a piece of metal.

I bent, picked it up.

A bullet. Or what was left of one.

The slug was flattened and mushroomed, deformed from impact. Embedded in the lead were a few short, coarse hairs.

It hadn’t come from my truck. I hadn’t fired any gun. Someone had shot this thing before I ever came around the bend.

And it hadn’t killed it.

It had just lodged under the skin, hidden by hair.

My heart hammered.

I glanced up, scanning the tree line.

If someone had tried to bring this thing down tonight, they might still be out there.

Watching.

At this point, we’ve:

Set up Devin, his motivation, and the illegal haul.
Driven into the remote Olympic night.
Shown the impact at 80 mph with a gigantic, clearly non-human creature.
Described the Sasquatch body in forensic detail.
Shown it alive briefly, then dying.
Introduced the bullet in its flesh, hinting someone else is hunting these things.