This Bigfoot Hunted and K!lled an Entire Hunting Group in Appalachian Mountains
For twenty-five years, I have carried this story like a curse—something heavy and poisonous that never loosens its grip. The official records say it was a bear attack. Three men killed by a rogue black bear in the Appalachian wilderness in March of 2000. Case closed. Neat. Clean. Comfortable.
It’s a lie.
My name is Larry, and I am the only one who came back alive.
We called it Man Week. Every spring, four friends escaping jobs, families, and responsibility to pretend—just for a few days—that we were still the boys who grew up chasing creeks and climbing ridges in West Virginia. Rick, the park ranger. Mike, the construction worker built like a tank. Dave, the teacher with a love for local legends. And me.
Rick chose the campsite that year—a remote clearing deep in the Monongahela National Forest, accessible only by a half-forgotten logging road. No cell service. No tourists. Just mountains, trees, and silence.
The Night We Became Prey in the Appalachian Mountains
For twenty-five years, I have carried this story like a curse—something heavy and poisonous that never loosens its grip. The official records say it was a bear attack. Three men killed by a rogue black bear in the Appalachian wilderness in March of 2000. Case closed. Neat. Clean. Comfortable.
It’s a lie.
My name is Larry, and I am the only one who came back alive.
We called it Man Week. Every spring, four friends escaping jobs, families, and responsibility to pretend—just for a few days—that we were still the boys who grew up chasing creeks and climbing ridges in West Virginia. Rick, the park ranger. Mike, the construction worker built like a tank. Dave, the teacher with a love for local legends. And me.
Rick chose the campsite that year—a remote clearing deep in the Monongahela National Forest, accessible only by a half-forgotten logging road. No cell service. No tourists. Just mountains, trees, and silence.
The first two days were perfect. Cold nights. Clear skies. Campfire laughter. Trail cameras catching deer, foxes, even a rare bull elk near the creek. It felt like old times.
But on the third night, the woods changed.
Dave started telling stories by the fire—local folklore his grandfather had passed down from the logging days. Stories about something the old-timers called the Shadow Walker. A thing that moved upright through the forest. Stronger than ten men. Smarter than any animal. Something that didn’t fear humans—because it hunted them.
Rick laughed it off. Said fear makes patterns where none exist.
But even he kept shining his flashlight into the trees.
That night, I heard footsteps outside the camp. Too slow. Too deliberate. Heavy enough to feel through the ground. By morning, the trail cameras showed nothing unusual. Whatever had been out there knew how to avoid them.
The fourth night brought silence.
No insects. No owls. No wind. Just a thick fog crawling through the trees like something alive. Then came the sound.
A low, mournful call rolled down from the ridge above us. Not a howl. Not a scream. Something almost human—but stretched, distorted, powerful. It echoed through the hollows, bounced off the mountains, impossible to locate.
Rick said it was a bear.
But his voice shook.
The calls came again. And again. Always closer. Always circling. Like something testing us.
That night, we barely slept.
On the fifth day, one trail camera caught something. Three images. The first was empty forest. The second—just a shadow. The third…
A massive upright shape. Seven, maybe eight feet tall. Broad shoulders. Arms hanging too long. It wasn’t running. It wasn’t charging.
It was watching the camera.
Rick called it inconclusive. A trick of light. A bear standing upright.
But I saw intelligence in that posture.
Our final night arrived under low clouds and damp cold. We took turns standing watch. Around 11 p.m., the sounds started again—but this time they were different. Shorter. Sharper. Aggressive. Coming from multiple directions at once.
Communication.
Dave stood by the fire, knife in one hand, flashlight in the other, trembling. Then the forest went dead silent.
That’s when he broke.
He said he had to go relieve himself. Rick told him not to. Begged him to wait. But fear makes people irrational.
Dave walked toward the trees.
We watched his flashlight move… then stop.
The scream that followed didn’t sound human.
It rose into a pitch I didn’t know a man could make—then cut off instantly, like someone flipping a switch. A roar followed, so deep and powerful it vibrated in my chest.
We ran.
We found Dave pressed against a tree—and standing ten feet from him was something that erased every explanation I had ever believed in.
Eight feet tall. Covered in dark hair that swallowed the light. Arms like cables of muscle. Hands that looked capable of tearing a man apart without effort. But the face…
Humanoid. Intelligent. Ancient.
It looked at us like we were animals that had wandered into the wrong territory.
For a few seconds, time stopped.
Then Mike ran.
That was the mistake.
The creature roared—and answering calls erupted from the forest in every direction.
There were more.
What followed was fifteen minutes of pure terror.
We were hunted.
Not chased blindly—but driven. Flanked. Herded. They communicated constantly, cutting us off, forcing us deeper into terrain they knew intimately. I heard Mike scream first. Then nothing.
Rick’s voice came next—calling for help before dissolving into agony.
I ran until my lungs burned and my legs failed, crashing through darkness, convinced every breath would be my last. Then suddenly… silence.
I hid until dawn.
I found the road. I walked for hours. When I reached the ranger station, I was torn, bleeding, half-mad with terror. They listened. They nodded.
Then they searched.
The campsite was destroyed. Gear scattered. Trees damaged in ways no bear could manage. But no bodies were found.
One trail camera survived.
I saw the footage.
Multiple upright creatures. Coordinated. Intelligent. Real.
The investigator called it fake.
A hoax.
Within days, the story changed. A known aggressive black bear. Case closed. The bear was killed. I was fined, banned, discredited.
My friends’ families blamed me.
Twenty-five years have passed.
People still go missing in those mountains. Campsites destroyed. No bodies. Same explanations. Same silence.
I’m almost sixty now. I don’t care if I’m believed anymore.
But I know this:
What hunted us wasn’t a bear.
It was something ancient.
Something intelligent.
And it’s still there.
Watching.
Waiting.
