I Found Out What Bigfoot Does With Human Bodies

Terrifying Sasquatch Discovery

1. The Call

The year was 1997, and the Cascade Mountains of Washington State were locked in one of the coldest winters in decades. Snowpack sat over the ridgelines like frozen waves, the evergreens sagged under the weight of ice, and every breath seemed to crystallize in the air before it faded.

My name is David Thornton, and at thirty‑four, I was a forensic anthropologist for the state. My work lived in that strange space between science and nightmare: skeletal remains, bone trauma, decomposition patterns. I studied the dead to answer questions for the living. Who was this? How did they die? Was it an accident, a murder, or something in between?

On December 18th, as I was wrapping up a report on an old homicide case, my office phone rang. The caller ID listed Stevens County Sheriff’s Department.

I picked up.

—Thornton.

There was a breath, then a woman’s voice—steady, but with something taut beneath it.

—Dr. Thornton? This is Detective Patricia Brennan, Stevens County. Am I catching you at a bad time?

—Not if you’ve got bones, Detective —I said, pushing aside a stack of photos—. What can I do for you?

She didn’t laugh. Most cops at least gave a small chuckle at my gallows humor.

—We’ve got a missing persons situation. Four of them, actually. All experienced hikers. They went missing in Colville National Forest over the last six weeks.

 

I leaned back in my chair.

—Search and rescue?

—We’ve had multiple teams out —she replied—. Dogs. Volunteers. Rangers. We found their vehicles. We found campsites. Tents, stoves, packs. We found footprints leading into the backcountry.

—And?

—And that’s it —she said—. No bodies. No blood. No signs of struggle. Like they just… walked off the map.

I’d dealt with cases like that before—people who wandered, got lost, fell into crevasses, got buried in snow, or simply decided to disappear. But something in her tone held me there.

—So why are you calling a bone guy if you don’t have any bones yet?

There was a pause.

—Because we did find something else —she said—. Tracks.

—Animal?

—They’re… humanoid —she answered slowly—. Humanoid but wrong. Too big, stride too long, and spaced in a way that doesn’t match anything we know up here. I’ve shown the photos to hunters, rangers, trappers. Every one of them says the same thing: If this is a joke, it’s not funny.

I rubbed my forehead.

—Could be a hoax.

—Let me put it this way —she said, and I heard her voice tighten—. These tracks start near each missing hiker’s last known campsite. Then, after a while, the human prints stop. These keep going. Alone.

My skin prickled.

—You’re thinking abduction?

—At this point, I’m thinking I don’t know what the hell to think. But the Sheriff wants a state expert on scene. Someone who can tell us if we’re looking at a person, an animal, or something else.

It was two days before Christmas. I had a full caseload and a family who would be expecting me in Seattle.

But underneath her official tone, I heard genuine fear. Not the panic of someone out of their depth, but the controlled dread of a cop who has seen enough to know this wasn’t just hikers getting lost.

—Send me everything you’ve got —I said—. Photos, reports, GPS coordinates. I’ll review and call you back.

—Already faxing to your office —Brennan replied—. But I’ll be honest, Dr. Thornton. Paper won’t do it justice.

I hesitated a second, then sighed.

—All right, Detective. Two days. I’ll drive up.

I hung up and stared at the empty space on my desk.

Tracks. Humanoid. Too big.

I told myself it was probably some backwoods joker with snowshoes and a bad sense of humor.

I was wrong.

2. The Tracks

Two days later, on December 20th, I was heading north in my Jeep Cherokee, the heater humming against the cold creeping through the doors. Evergreen silhouettes rose up on either side of the highway, and the sky was that heavy, iron gray that promised more snow.

I reached the Stevens County Sheriff’s Office just after noon. The parking lot was half-buried in slush, and my breath fogged in front of me as I stepped out.

Inside, the station was a box of fluorescent light and worn linoleum. Deputies moved quietly from desk to desk, the way people do when they’ve already had bad news that day.

At the front desk, a woman in uniform looked up.

—You must be Dr. Thornton —she said—. Detective Brennan’s waiting for you. Through there, second door on the left.

Detective Patricia Brennan was in her early forties, with short dark hair tucked behind her ears and eyes that looked like they’d seen more than they wanted to. She stood when I entered, extending a firm hand.

—Doctor. Thanks for coming.

—Call me David —I said.

—Patricia —she replied, then gestured to a chair—. Sit. Let me show you what we’re dealing with.

The table was covered with photos, maps, and printed reports. She slid a stack of eight‑by‑ten glossies toward me.

—These are from the first scene. October 29th. Hiker’s name: Mark Collins, thirty-seven. Experienced, did solo trips every year. Never came back.

I picked up the first photo. It showed a clearing in the snow, a small bright orange tent half-collapsed, gear scattered around like someone left in a hurry—or never came back at all.

—No sign of a struggle? —I asked.

—None —she said—. Stove still packed. Food in the bear canister. No blood, no drag marks. Now look at this.

She handed me another photo. This one made me sit up straighter.

In the snow, crisp and unmistakable, was a footprint.

It was humanoid. Five clear toes. A heel, an arch. No shoe tread. No boot outline. Just bare, naked skin.

Except it was wrong.

—How long is that? —I asked, my voice lower.

—Seventeen inches —Brennan said—. We measured.

Seventeen inches.

A typical adult male foot is about ten to twelve. Seventeen meant whoever—or whatever—left it was massive.

I studied the depth of the print. The snow had been pressed down hard.

—How much did Collins weigh? —I asked.

—One seventy, maybe —she replied.

—And this print is deeper than his?

She nodded.

—Almost twice as deep.

She pushed over a map next. Red circles marked different spots.

—We’ve got four missing persons: Collins; a couple in their fifties, the Gordons; and a college kid, Evan Clark. Different trails, all within a forty‑mile radius. At each site, we found human tracks, camps, then… nothing. And near that “nothing”? These.

She tapped another photo.

This time, there were two of the large prints side by side, spaced far apart. I measured roughly with my fingers.

—Stride length?

—About five feet between steps —she said—. No human we’ve had up there matches that, and the dogs? They follow the human scent right up to where the human prints stop. Then they start whining, circling. One refused to move further.

I felt a tightness in my chest I couldn’t explain.

—Could be a hoax —I repeated, more to test the idea than because I believed it—. Custom-made wooden feet. Pranksters.

—In four different locations over six weeks, in remote, heavily forested areas, in sub-zero conditions? —Brennan countered—. With no tracks showing approach or retreat from the hoaxer, no vehicle nearby, nothing missing from the campsites?

She shook her head.

—If es un chiste, es el más caro y absurdo del mundo.

I sighed.

—All right. So what do you want from me?

She met my eyes.

—We’ve had reports in these mountains for decades. ‘Large biped.’ ‘Big hairy thing.’ ‘Sasquatch.’ We never had more than stories. Now we’ve got vanished hikers and prints like these. If this is some large, unknown primate, if something is hunting people out there… I need someone who understands bones, anatomy, behavior to see the terrain, the evidence, and tell me if I’m insane.

She paused.

—Or if something else is happening.

I looked at the photos again. My rational mind recoiled from words like Sasquatch. I’d built my career on observable data, on measured fractures and DNA analysis, not campfire tales.

But the tracks were real. The missing people were real.

And the fear in Brennan’s eyes was real.

—When do we go out there? —I asked.

3. Into the Colville

We left early the next morning.

A pale sun tried to push through close-packed clouds as we headed toward Colville National Forest in Brennan’s department Suburban. The roads grew narrower, more treacherous, flanked by tall pines frosted white.

A park ranger joined us, a broad‑shouldered man in his fifties named Greg Halpern. He met us at a ranger station, climbing into the back seat with a thermos clutched in his gloved hands.

—You’re the bone doc? —Halpern asked, nodding toward me.

—That’s what they tell me.

—Then you’re in for a fun day —he muttered, looking out the window.

—Greg was on the initial searches —Brennan explained—. Knows the terrain better than anyone.

We drove in silence for about half an hour before Halpern spoke again.

—You ever spend much time in deep forest in winter, Doc?

—Some —I said—. Mostly at crime scenes.

—This isn’t a crime scene —Halpern replied—. Not like you’re used to. This forest… —He shook his head—. It doesn’t like giving up answers.

I decided not to ask what he meant.

We reached the trailhead used by Mark Collins first. His truck still sat in the small parking area, a thin mound of snow frosting the hood, a yellow notice taped to the windshield: VEHICLE UNDER INVESTIGATION—DO NOT TOW.

The air knifed into my lungs as I stepped out. The world was white and green and silent, except for the faint creak of branches under snow.

—Trail’s this way —Halpern said, shouldering a backpack.

We hiked single file along the narrow path, our boots crunching the crusted snow. After half a mile, the trail veered off toward a small clearing.

—This was Collins’ camp —Brennan said, pointing.

The tent was gone now—collected as evidence—but I could see the rectangular impression where it had stood, slightly less snow-covered than the surrounding area. A blackened circle of stones indicated where a fire had once burned.

—We’ve had more snowfall since the disappearance, obviously —Brennan explained—. But we documented what we found.

She knelt and brushed away fresh snow near a fallen log. Underneath, faint but visible, was the ghost of a footprint—human-sized.

—That was Collins’ track —Halpern said—. It led from the tent to the treeline. Then just… stopped. Like he was plucked off the earth.

I turned slowly, scanning. Something in the way the trees pressed close made my skin itch. The conifers stood like sentinels, watching.

—Where did you find the larger prints? —I asked.

Brennan exchanged a look with Halpern.

—Little further in —she said—. Come on.

We followed a faint depression between trees, where snow had once been disturbed and then partially refilled. After a few dozen yards, Halpern stopped.

—Here.

He leaned down and again swept away fresh powder with his gloved hand.

This time, what emerged from the snow made my throat go dry.

A huge, clear footprint, preserved in crusted ice: five toes, a broad forefoot, a recessed arch, a massive heel. No sign of claws. No sole pattern.

—We tarped a couple of the best prints —Brennan said—. That’s why it’s still so clear under there.

She pulled back the corner of a green tarp half-buried in snow. The print was almost pristine.

I crouched, measuring with my own boot.

She was right: seventeen inches long. Seven inches across at the ball of the foot. The depth indicated a creature easily twice my weight—maybe more.

I forced myself to be clinical.

—Whatever left this is heavy, bipedal, and walking with a normal human gait —I said—. Not shambling. Not limping. Toe spread looks natural, though the hallux… —I pointed—. The big toe. It’s slightly more abducted than a human’s would typically be. More like some non-human primates.

—So? —Brennan asked quietly—. Is this a guy in a suit or what?

I looked up at the trees.

—If it’s a hoax, it’s meticulous. The pressure distributions, the stride length, the depth… Whoever did it understands anatomy. This isn’t just someone stomping around in carved wood.

Something about the way the snow held the print, the slight crumble at the edges, told me this had been real, not staged.

My rational mind ran through possibilities: a massive bear with a deformed foot, weather distortions, partial melting then refreezing.

But bears don’t leave consistent, alternating bipedal tracks over hundreds of yards. And they don’t have five forward-facing toes like that.

—Show me where the human prints stop —I said.

We walked another fifty feet. At a certain point, even the faint remnants of Collins’ prints vanished.

The large tracks, however, continued.

They went on, deeper into the forest, each step a measured, enormous stride.

—We followed them for about half a mile —Halpern said—. Then the snow got too hard-packed and the trail vanished. Dogs wouldn’t go further anyway.

—Wouldn’t? —I echoed, glancing back at him.

His jaw tightened.

—They tucked their tails and balked. One of them actually tried to pull her handler back toward the road. I’ve worked with that dog five winters. Never seen her refuse a trail.

Something moved high up in the canopy—a clump of snow dropping, harmless. But my body reacted like it was a threat, muscles tightening, heartbeat quickening.

I realized, with an uncomfortable jolt, that we were standing in the middle of a forest where something large had walked and not come back.

And four humans had gone missing in its wake.

4. Folklore and Evidence

Back at the ranger station, we warmed up with burnt coffee and microwaved burritos while Brennan spread more evidence on a scarred wooden table.

—The Gordons disappeared from a campground about twenty miles from Collins’ site —she said, pointing to a map—. They were found—well, not found, but their campsite was—three days after they failed to check in with their daughter. Same pattern: campsite intact, human prints leading into the woods, then nothing. These tracks nearby.

She slid more photos over. Same huge, bare footprints. Same stride.

—Evan Clark disappeared two weeks after that —she continued—. Solo overnighter. Same story.

—Any sightings? —I asked—. Of a large animal? Strange sounds?

Halpern shifted.

—You’ll get all kinds of stories if you go down to the taverns —he said—. People walking home after a few drinks hear “howls” in the woods. Hunters swear they saw a “big man” watching them from the treeline. The Salish and other local tribes… They’ve got stories older than this country.

I nodded.

—About Sasquatch.

—Yeah —he said—. They call them different names. Sasq’ets. Sémat. Hairy ones. Forest guardians. Or forest thieves. Depends on the version.

—You believe in that? —I asked carefully.

He took a long sip of his coffee before answering.

—Doesn’t matter what I believe —Halpern said—. I believe in tracks I can see and people who go missing. And I believe there’s things in these woods nobody’s written a field guide for yet.

Brennan tapped the table with her pen.

—Legends or no, I have to put something in my report —dijo, más brusca—. Missing persons. Possible foul play. We can’t write “abducted by cryptid.”

She looked at me.

—That’s where you come in. You work with human remains. You’ve seen bear predation, cougar attacks, human violence. If something is killing these people, we need to know what kind of patterns to look for, where bodies might be hidden, how to interpret… whatever we find.

—If we find them —I said.

The unspoken hung between us:

What if we do find them… and they’re not like anything we’ve seen before?

Halpern cleared his throat.

—There’s one more thing we should show him —dijo—. From an older case.

Brennan hesitated.

—That was never conclusively tied to these disappearances —protestó.

—Maybe not —respondió él—. But you tell me any other time we saw that kind of damage.

She exhaló, defeated.

—Fine. Go ahead.

Halpern left the room for a minute and returned with a cardboard evidence box. He set it on the table and opened it carefully.

Inside, wrapped in butcher paper, were bones.

My mind clicked automatically into work mode. I pulled on gloves and unfolded the paper.

It was a human femur, or rather, what was left of one. Lower half, sheared cleanly just above the condyles. The surface of the break was… wrong.

Another wrapped package contained part of a humerus, similarly broken.

—These were found four years ago —Brennan said—. Hunter got lost, fell down a ravine. Or that’s what we thought. They only found parts of him. Most of the long bones were missing. No spine, no skull. Just fragments like these.

I lifted the femur, holding it up to the light. The break edge was smooth in some areas, crushed in others, marked by striations.

Not random fracture lines. Not typical carnivore tooth marks either.

I felt my mouth go dry.

—What do you see? —Brennan asked.

I turned the bone slowly.

—This isn’t typical scavenger activity —I said—. Bears, wolves, cougars… they leave specific patterns. Bite pits, punctures, gnawing marks at the ends, shredded periosteum. This…

I pointed to a section.

—These grooves are… parallel. Repeated. Something very strong applied focused pressure here and here, then snapped the bone.

—Like what? —Halpern asked.

I hesitated.

—Closest analogue I can think of is primate processing —I said finally—. Large apes crack bones deliberately to get at the marrow. They hold the bone, brace it, and apply force against a rock or with their hands. You get marks like this.

—So you’re saying a person did this? —Brennan asked—. Cannibalism?

—Possibly —I said—. But the force required here… —I traced another crushed area—. To break a femur like this, without tools, you’d need tremendous strength. It’s not impossible for a human, but unusual.

The room felt suddenly smaller.

—You think this could be connected? —she asked.

I set the bone down carefully.

—I think you have missing hikers, anomalous tracks, and at least one case of unusual bone breakage in this region —I said—. I can’t say they’re definitively connected. But I wouldn’t bet against it.

None of us spoke for a moment.

Outside, the sky had darkened further. Snowflakes started to drift down, tapping lightly against the station windows.

5. The Night in the Cabin

They put me up in a ranger cabin near the forest edge for the night. It was a squat building of weathered wood with a small stove, a narrow bed, and just enough furniture to pretend it was cozy instead of utilitarian.

—Radio’s on the table —Halpern said, dropping my duffel by the door—. Channel nine if you need us. Weather’s turning. Wouldn’t be surprised if we’re snowed in by morning.

—Comforting —I muttered.

He gave me a thin smile.

—Relax, Doc. We’ve got plenty of critters up here, but most of them don’t want anything to do with humans. Stay inside after dark, don’t open the door to anyone you didn’t invite, and you’ll be fine.

The last line sounded like a joke, but his eyes didn’t quite match the tone.

—We heading back out tomorrow? —I asked.

—Yeah —respondió—. Brennan wants to hit the last known spot of the college kid, Evan. Fresh snow means trails will be gone, but maybe your eyes will see something we missed.

He paused at the door.

—Oh, and… if you hear anything tonight… weird sounds, tree knocks, whistles… just remember sound carries strange in the cold. Could be branches, owls, wind. Don’t go chasing ghosts.

—You’re doing a great job reassuring me —I said dryly.

He chuckled once, then his face grew serious again.

—Seriously, Doc. Stay inside.

When he left, the cabin felt very quiet.

I started a small fire in the pot‑bellied stove, made some instant soup, and spread out my notes on the small table. The bones. The tracks. The missing hikers.

And the stories.

In my line of work, you learn early that people have always used monsters to make sense of darkness. The unknown becomes a shape, a name. Sasquatch, Bigfoot, Yeti, Yowie. Different forests, different cultures, same idea: a large, hidden, humanlike creature living just beyond the edges of our knowledge.

The scientist in me balked. The consistency of these myths could just as easily be explained by shared human fears.

But the scientist in me also knew there were species of primates we only discovered in the twentieth century. Gorillas were considered “legend” until 1902. The Saola, a large mammal in Vietnam, wasn’t described until the 1990s.

Could there be a large, reclusive primate in the forests of North America that had eluded definitive proof?

I’d always said no.

Now, looking at those photos, remembering the feel of that femur in my hands… I wasn’t so sure.

By the time I’d run out of rational explanations for the bones and the tracks, night had fallen completely. The cabin’s single window reflected my own face back at me, ghostly in the glass.

I checked my watch. 11:17 p.m.

Outside, the wind had picked up, moaning low through the trees. Snow buffeted the side of the cabin in soft thumps.

I was thinking about turning in when I heard it.

A sound that cut clean through wind and crackling fire.

Not close. Not far. Somewhere in the forest.

A howl.

It wasn’t a wolf. I’d heard wolves. This sound started low and rose up through registers no dog ever hit, ending in a strange, almost wordless cry, like something trying to speak and failing.

Every hair on my arms lifted.

I stood, moving slowly to the window, though I knew I wouldn’t see anything. The glass reflected only the cabin interior, the fire, my own tense face.

The howl came again, this time a little closer. Then, faintly, like an answer, another came from a different direction.

I swallowed.

Branches creaked. Snow slid off a roof. Wood popped in the stove.

I told myself it was an elk. A fox. The wind.

Something in my bones disagreed.

Then I heard another sound.

Not from the forest.

From the porch.

A single, heavy thump, as if something had stepped onto the wooden boards outside the front door.

My heart lurched into my throat.

Another step. The planks groaned under weight.

I backed away from the door without meaning to, every instinct screaming don’t make a sound.

The cabin walls felt suddenly thin. Flimsy.

Something exhaled outside. A long, slow breath, like air moving through a massive chest.

The doorknob rattled.

Once.

Twice.

Slowly.

I stared at it, frozen.

The rational part of me whispered that it was a prank. Someone messing with the out-of-towner. Halpern, maybe. Or one of the younger rangers.

Then the doorknob turned further than any casual test would. The latch strained. Wood creaked.

I realized, with a surge of cold clarity, that if not for the deadbolt I’d slid across earlier, the door would already be open.

Whatever was outside gave the door a gentle shove.

Not a battering slam.

A testing push.

The hinges whined.

My hand inched toward the radio on the table, moving as quietly as I could. I picked it up, thumb hovering over the button, but didn’t press it yet.

The pressure on the door ceased.

Silence.

I held my breath.

Then, softly, from just the other side of the wood, came a sound I will never forget.

A sniffing. Deep, deliberate inhalations, as if something were smelling along the doorframe, cataloguing every scent.

Including mine.

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from making any noise.

The sniffing moved, up and to the left, toward the window. I whipped my head around.

In the reflection, for just a fraction of a second, I saw something that didn’t belong.

A shadow darker than the night outside, blocking part of the pale snow. Wide. Tall. With a suggestion of broad shoulders and a head that nearly brushed the roofline.

And then two faint points in the glass—no, not in the glass, beyond it—lined up with my own eyes.

Eyes.

Looking back at me.

I dropped behind the table, heart hammering, radio clutched so tightly my fingers hurt.

The sniffing stopped.

Ten long seconds passed.

Then, as softly as it had come, the weight left the porch. The boards creaked in reverse. I heard three, four heavy steps crunch in the snow.

Then nothing but the wind.

I stayed on the floor for a full five minutes, counting my breaths, waiting for the doorknob to rattle again.

It didn’t.

Finally, with shaking hands, I clicked the radio.

—This is Thornton —susurré—. Anyone awake?

Static, then Halpern’s voice, groggy.

—Yeah… Halpern here. You all right, Doc?

I hesitated.

What was I going to say? Hey, Greg, I think Bigfoot just tried the door?

—Thought I heard something —dije al fin—. Just wanted to check in.

—Probably the wind —respondió, but there was a small edge to his voice—. You’re in one of the older cabins. They creak. Get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.

—Yeah —dije—. Thanks.

I put the radio down.

Sleep, it turned out, was a lost cause.

Because as I lay in the narrow bed, staring at the ceiling, one thought circled my mind like a vulture:

Something out there knew I was here. And it was curious.

I hadn’t seen its face. Not really.

But I was starting to understand something vital.

If this thing—or things—were smart enough to investigate, to sniff, to test doors, then their interaction with human beings wasn’t random.

And if they were taking hikers, if those broken bones belonged to their victims…

Then I wasn’t just dealing with a rare animal.

I was dealing with a predator that understood us.

And I was going to find out what it did with the bodies.