2 Hours of MOST TERRIFYING Bigfoot Encounters Caught On Camera
HE SHOT AT BIGFOOT — AND IT HUNTED HIM FOR THE REST OF THE NIGHT
Most people laugh at Bigfoot stories.
They imagine blurry footage, hoaxes, bored campers chasing shadows. Bram Oaks used to be one of those people. A practical man. A lifelong hunter. Someone who trusted only what left tracks in the dirt or blood on the ground.
That belief ended on March 8th, 2017.
It was supposed to be a simple solo hunt in the Cascade foothills. Early spring. Fog clinging low to the forest floor. Bram had been tracking elk sign all morning, moving slow, careful, confident. The woods were quiet, but not unusually so. Just damp. Heavy. Still.
Then something moved.
Not ahead of him.
Not behind him.
Beside him.
The sound wasn’t light. It wasn’t careless. It was the steady compression of moss under tremendous weight, matching his pace step for step. Bram froze.
So did it.
His instincts screamed, predator.
When he raised his rifle, he didn’t see what he fired at. Only a massive upright shape shifting between the trees—too tall, too broad, wrong in a way his mind rejected even as his finger pulled the trigger.
The shot cracked through the forest.
Whatever he hit didn’t fall.
Instead, it followed.
Bram ran.
In panic, he veered off the marked trail, plunging deeper into unfamiliar terrain. The orange blazes vanished. The forest closed in. Fog swallowed distance and direction. Behind him, the footsteps returned—unhurried, deliberate, patient.
This wasn’t a chase.
It was a hunt.
He stopped to catch his breath, leaning against a cedar. That’s when he heard it clearly—footsteps pacing him from the right, about fifty yards away. Always parallel. Never closing. Never falling behind.
When he sped up, it sped up.
When he slowed, it slowed.
The message was unmistakable.
You cannot escape.
Then came the knocking.
A deep, resonant THUD echoed through the trees ahead of him. Seconds later, another answered from behind. Different tone. Different direction.
Bram realized he wasn’t being followed by one thing.
He was being bracketed.
He broke into a desperate jog, branches tearing at his jacket, rifle bouncing uselessly against his chest. The knocking stopped, replaced by something worse—silence.
Silence meant they no longer needed signals.
They knew exactly where he was.
Near a creek bed, he stumbled across a footprint that dropped his stomach through the forest floor. Eighteen inches long. Five toes. Deep enough that water was already seeping into it.
Nothing human made prints like that.
Nothing human took six-foot strides without effort.
The tracks curved—not away from him, but ahead, arcing to guide him deeper into the woods.
That’s when he understood.
They weren’t just tracking him.
They were herding him.
A branch snapped behind him. Bram spun, rifle raised, finger trembling on the trigger. Fog shifted. Shadows moved within shadows. He felt eyes on him—focused, intelligent, patient.
Running blindly would kill him.
He climbed.
Scrambling up loose gravel and exposed roots, lungs burning, legs shaking. Halfway up the slope, something slammed into the hillside beside him.
A rock.
Basketball-sized.
Thrown with enough force to bury itself in dirt and stone.
Bram looked down the slope and saw it.
Eight… maybe nine feet tall. Upright. Broad shoulders filling the space between trees. Arms hanging low. A silhouette of impossible mass standing calmly at the base of the hill.
Another rock flew past his head and exploded bark from a tree inches away.
This wasn’t warning fire.
This was control.
Bram fired back. The muzzle flash lit the fog. No scream. No sign of injury. The creature vanished behind cover with terrifying speed.
When Bram crested the ridge, visibility opened slightly. He ran again—but the footsteps returned. Still unhurried. Still steady.
That’s when he heard the growl.
Low. Resonant. So deep it vibrated inside his chest. Not a bear. Not a cat. Something older. Something that reached into the part of the brain that remembered when humans weren’t the top of the food chain.
Exhausted, nearly collapsing, Bram dove into a hollow beneath an eroded creek bank, roots forming a cage above him. He pressed into the mud, barely breathing.
Footsteps approached.
Heavy. Confident.
They stopped directly above him.
He could hear breathing now.
A branch pushed through the roots, probing the space methodically. Testing. Measuring.
Sniffing.
The smell of sweat and fear betrayed him completely. Still, after endless seconds, the footsteps moved away.
Then another set approached from the opposite direction.
They were coordinating.
He glimpsed one passing—an enormous leg, fur-covered, muscles shifting beneath the hair. A foot spread wide, toes gripping the earth like fingers.
When silence finally returned, Bram crawled free and moved again—upward, toward clearer ground.
That’s when he saw it fully.
Standing on a rocky outcrop in a shaft of sunlight. Reddish-brown fur. Massive frame. Dark eyes locked onto him with unmistakable intelligence.
Not animal instinct.
Judgment.
Bram raised his rifle and fired.
The creature vanished instantly, reappearing seconds later much closer. A roar tore through the forest as it charged, covering ground impossibly fast. Bram fired again—hit it—saw the impact.
It barely slowed.
The creature passed him so close he felt the wind of its swing. It could have killed him.
It didn’t.
Instead, others emerged—blocking his escape routes, positioning themselves with calm precision.
Then the largest one raised an arm.
And pointed.
Toward the river.
Leave.
Bram understood.
This was a boundary.
Cross it and live.
Return—and die.
He lowered his rifle and ran until the forest released him. He never hunted again. Never returned to those mountains.
Because predators kill to eat.
Animals flee when threatened.
But what hunted Bram Oaks did neither.
It taught him something.
And it wanted him to remember.
