Man Records Bigfoot Trying to Break Into His Cabin, Then The Worst Happened –

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The Cabin Incident: Night of the Sasquatch

I never believed in Bigfoot. Not really. I’d seen the documentaries, heard the stories, and always dismissed it as folklore, misidentified bears, or people desperate for attention. But what happened at my mountain cabin last summer changed everything.

I’m a single dad, two kids, ages nine and eleven. Their mother’s not in the picture, and it’s just been me and them for years now. When both kids got accepted to a two-week wilderness camp in July, it was the first time in ages I had real time alone. I decided to rent a remote cabin up in the mountains—a place with no cell service, no neighbors, just quiet.

The cabin was cheap, fifty bucks a night. The listing said it was rustic, surrounded by dense pine forest, and isolated. That was exactly what I wanted. I packed light, brought some groceries, a case of good beer, my fishing gear, and an old tackle box inherited from my dad. The drive took three hours, most of it winding up dusty mountain roads. By the time I arrived, the forest felt endless, pressing in on all sides.

The cabin was basic: wood siding, metal roof, a small porch with two chairs, and a stone chimney. The key was supposed to be under the mat, but the door was already cracked open. I called out, just in case, but got no answer. Inside, it was one large room with a kitchen area, a worn couch, a table, and a fireplace. There was a small bedroom and a bathroom. I unpacked, cracked a beer, and sat on the porch as the sun set, feeling the silence settle around me.

The first night was perfect. I slept deeply, woke to sunlight streaming through the window, and made coffee on the stove. After breakfast, I grabbed my fishing gear and followed a faint deer trail into the woods. The stream was clear, cold, and filled with trout. I spent the morning fishing, caught two decent ones for dinner, and returned to the cabin feeling relaxed.

That evening, I fried the fish, sat on the porch, and watched the stars come out. The forest was quiet, peaceful. I read until my eyes grew heavy and went to bed early.

The next day, I decided to hike deeper into the woods. I followed a winding trail, marking landmarks like my dad taught me—a dead tree, a pile of boulders, a stream crossing. About an hour in, I stopped to drink water and noticed a figure through the trees, maybe 150 yards away. At first, I thought it was another hiker, but something felt off. The figure was tall, unnaturally still, and didn’t respond when I called out. Then, it moved—not like a person, but with a quick, fluid motion, disappearing into the forest so fast it made my skin crawl.

I tried to shake it off as nerves, maybe a trick of the light, but the rest of the hike felt uneasy. I kept glancing over my shoulder, feeling watched. Back at the cabin, I made lunch but barely ate. The peaceful feeling from before was gone, replaced by a subtle dread.

That night, the forest was eerily silent. I locked the doors and windows, checked them twice, and tried to sleep. Every sound made me jump. I woke repeatedly, convinced something was moving outside.

On the last morning, I found footprints in the dirt just off the porch. They were huge—twice the size of my own boots, with five elongated toe impressions. The prints circled the cabin, stopping beneath my bedroom window. I knelt down, pressed my hand into the dirt beside them. My hand barely made a dent; whatever left those prints was heavy, maybe 400 pounds or more.

The stride length was enormous, four feet between steps. The prints led into the trees and vanished on rocky ground. I checked the windows again, all locked. I skipped fishing, stayed close to the cabin, and kept glancing at the tree line. The feeling of being watched was overwhelming.

Later, I noticed deep scratches gouged into the bark of several trees near the woodpile—marks seven or eight feet off the ground, far higher than I could reach. The force needed to make those marks was staggering. The scratches were fresh, sap still oozing. They formed parallel lines, almost like territory markings.

I spent the afternoon inside, trying to read, but couldn’t focus. Every sound made me tense. I started my truck, just to make sure it would run if I needed to leave in a hurry.

As the sun set, I decided to bring firewood inside, just in case. The forest felt heavy, the quiet oppressive. I locked the door, checked the windows again, and sat at the kitchen table, staring at the photos I’d taken of the footprints. Five toes, massive ball and heel, not human, not bear. Something else.

Night fell. I ate a can of soup, forced myself to swallow. Set my keys and phone within reach. Turned on every light in the cabin. Lay on the bed in my clothes, boots on, ready to move if I had to.

Around two in the morning, I woke to heavy footsteps outside, crunching on pine needles. Something was circling the cabin, moving deliberately. I sat up, heart pounding, listening. The footsteps moved to the front door. I heard heavy breathing, deep and raspy, not human.

Then, a loud bang. Something hit the door hard, shaking the cabin. Another bang, the deadbolt holding but the door flexing inward. The thing outside was trying to get in. I froze, every muscle locked tight. The footsteps moved to the bedroom window, tested the latch, then to the bathroom window. I heard scraping, grunting, frustration.

Suddenly, the sounds shifted to the front wall—wood splintering, planks being torn away. The creature was attacking the wall itself. I grabbed my phone, hands shaking, and started recording. I crept closer, staying to the side, pointing the camera at the growing hole.

A face appeared in the gap. Dark, matted hair, massive brow, wide flat nose, enormous jaw. The eyes caught the light—pale yellow, huge irises, dark pupils. They weren’t dull. They were intelligent. The creature looked directly at me, and I saw recognition, awareness. It knew I was afraid.

Its mouth opened slightly, showing large, yellowed teeth. The smell hit me—musty, wild, overpowering. The creature slammed its shoulder against the wall, widening the gap. An arm thrust through, massive, covered in hair, thick fingers ending in dark claws. It tore at the planks, making the hole bigger with every movement.

I stopped recording, shoved the phone in my pocket, and ran to the bedroom. The window was my only chance. I fumbled with the latch, pushed it open, climbed through, and dropped into the dirt outside. I stayed low, moved along the side of the cabin toward the truck. The creature was still at the front, focused on breaking through.

I sprinted across the clearing, heart hammering. The creature heard me, let out a roar that shook the windows. I reached the truck, fumbled with the keys, got inside, locked the doors. The creature charged, slammed into the side, denting the metal. I started the engine—stall, then it caught. I floored the gas, the truck lurched forward. The creature kept pace, running alongside at 25, then 30 mph, swinging its arms, fists pounding the truck, claws raking the metal. One claw caught my shoulder, burning pain, blood soaking through my shirt.

I hit the paved road, sped away, shaking, heart racing. The creature faded in the rearview, still running, but falling behind. I didn’t stop until I reached a gas station hours later. The clerk stared at me, bleeding, shaken. I cleaned my wounds, bandaged my shoulder, and drove home.

The video on my phone is shaky, dark, but you can see the face, the eyes, the hand reaching through. I have scars—three white lines from my shoulder blade toward my neck. I tell people it was a hiking accident. No one asks for details.

I haven’t been back to the mountains. Haven’t gone camping. My kids want to go, but I always say no. I watch the video sometimes late at night, when I can’t sleep. I know what I saw. I know it was real.

Bigfoot is real. I have the scars, the video, and the memories to prove it. I’ll never go back.

End.