Farmer Shoots BIGFOOT Stealing His Livestock, Then This Happens
Farmer Shoots BIGFOOT Stealing His Livestock — Full Story (Original Narrative)
It straightened up to its full height, rising from its crouch, and I realized it was even bigger than I’d thought. Nine feet easy, maybe more. Its chest rose and fell steadily, not winded at all despite dragging a cow a mile uphill and tearing it apart.
It stepped over the carcass, slow and deliberate.
I lifted my rifle.
My hands were shaking badly—so much that I had to tuck the stock into my shoulder to keep the barrel from wobbling. The safety was already off. My finger rested against the trigger.
I didn’t want to shoot. The realization hit me hard. I wasn’t prepared for this. This wasn’t a deer or a cougar. This was something that understood what a gun was, something that looked at me like a rival—not prey.
I swallowed and shouted the first thing that came to mind.
“Get away from my farm!”
My voice cracked. The creature didn’t flinch. Instead, it let out a deep rumble like a growl—low enough that I felt it vibrate through the ground and into my chest.
Then it took a step toward me.
Instinct took over. I fired.
The rifle’s recoil slammed into my shoulder. The shot hit dead center—I saw the impact—but the creature only staggered a half-step. It looked down at the blood on its chest, then slowly looked back at me.
Not hurt.
Angry.
I fired again. And again. I emptied the rifle, the shots echoing through the silent forest.
The creature let out a roar that shook pine needles from the trees. A sound so powerful and furious that my legs buckled. I scrambled backward, trying to work the bolt, but I had burned through all five rounds.
The monster charged.
I turned and ran.
Branches slapped my face. Roots caught my boots. I didn’t dare look back. The forest behind me erupted with thunderous footsteps—the ground shaking beneath every stride of that thing.
My lungs burned. My heart was a frantic drum.
I could hear it gaining.
Up ahead—sunlight. The edge of the woods.
I burst into the pasture, screaming for my wife. “Get the kids inside! Lock the doors!”
She flung open the front door, her face pale as death. The kids appeared behind her, crying.
I turned to slam the gate shut—forgetting it had been destroyed.
The creature stepped out of the trees.
Even in daylight, it looked like a nightmare. Blood matted on its fur. Steam rising from its body in the cool morning air. It held one massive hand against its chest where I’d shot it, but its rage was undiminished.
It let out a bellow that echoed across the valley.
I dropped the empty rifle and ran for the house.
My wife grabbed the kids and shoved them down the hallway, screaming for me to hurry. I dove inside and slammed the door just as something huge crashed into it from the outside.
The entire frame shuddered. Tools rattled on the walls. Plaster cracked.
Another slam—harder.
The hinges groaned.
My wife jammed the deadbolt while I grabbed the shotgun from behind the coat rack—a 12-gauge loaded with buckshot. I pointed it at the door, praying wood could hold.
The third impact ripped the door completely off, tearing the lock free and splintering the frame.
The shotgun blast hit it square in the face.
The creature roared in pain and stumbled backward, black blood spraying across the porch. It covered its eye with one hand and smashed blindly at the doorway with the other, ripping siding off the house like it was cardboard.
“Upstairs!” I yelled, pushing my wife and kids toward the staircase.
The house shook violently as the creature rammed into the entryway, each strike splintering the walls deeper.
We reached the kids’ room. I shoved them into the closet.
“Hush, no sound,” I whispered, closing the door on their terrified faces.
Downstairs, wood cracked. Furniture slid.
It was inside.
My wife clutched my arm, tears streaking her cheeks. “Please,” she whispered. “Do something.”
But what? I had two shells left. That was it.
Then—
silence.
I held my breath, listening.
Floorboards creaked in the living room. Slow, heavy footsteps. It was searching.
I aimed the shotgun at the doorway.
The footsteps approached the stairs.
One step.
Two.
Three.
The staircase groaned under its weight.
A massive shadow rose into view.
I fired my second-to-last shell into its chest.
The blast pushed it back, but didn’t stop it.
It let out a furious scream and charged up the stairs.
My wife screamed.
I fired the last round into its throat.
The creature fell backward, tumbling down the stairs like a landslide of fur and muscle. It crashed into the wall so hard a picture frame exploded into shards.
Then—silence again.
I held the empty shotgun like a lifeline, staring at the staircase. My whole body trembled.
Minutes passed.
Suddenly, a deep, ragged inhale.
It was still alive.
But it wasn’t climbing again.
Its footsteps dragged. It stumbled toward the open door, choking and growling. It punched the front wall in pure rage, leaving a crater the size of a dinner plate.
Then it limped back into the forest…
and vanished.
Aftermath
We drove to town as fast as our truck could manage. I told the sheriff everything.
He looked at me for a long moment… then quietly said:
“You’re not the first.”
We never returned to that property. The sheriff arranged for our belongings to be moved out while armed officers watched over the farm. They never saw the creature—but they reported rocks thrown at them from the trees and a distinct musky odor whenever night fell.
Insurance wrote the damages up as “bear attack.”
We accepted the payout and left.
The land still sits abandoned.
Neighbors say they hear screams echoing from those woods on moonless nights. That cattle still goes missing. That something enormous moves through the trees like a phantom.
As for me…
I live in town now.
I avoid windows after dark.
I never hunt.
And I’ll never go near a forest again.
Because I learned one thing that night:
We don’t own the wilderness.
We just live beside it.
And some things out there…
want us to remember that.
If you’d like, I can also:
