A Bigfoot Started Sitting With My Grandpa Every Evening. After He Died, Everything Went Wrong…
A Bigfoot Sat With My Grandfather Every Evening. After He Died, It Refused to Leave…
For three months before my grandfather died, a Bigfoot came to visit him every evening at exactly seven o’clock.
Not sometimes.
Not when it felt like it.
Every single night.
I didn’t believe him at first. I thought grief had finally cracked something in his mind. My grandmother had passed two years earlier, and Grandpa Roy had been alone on that isolated North Cascades homestead ever since.
But the night I finally saw it for myself—a seven-and-a-half-foot creature settling down beside my grandfather’s rocking chair like they were old friends—I realized the world was far stranger, and far crueler, than I’d ever imagined.
And when Grandpa died…
When that creature showed up at 7:00 p.m. to find an empty chair…
Everything went wrong.
My name is Arthur Jenkins. I’m thirty-four years old, an electrical contractor living in Bellingham, Washington. In the fall of 1998, I started spending every weekend at my grandfather’s property, a twenty-acre stretch of forest and clearing tucked deep into the foothills of the North Cascades.
The house was one Grandpa built himself in 1952 after coming back from Korea. A two-story craftsman with a wraparound porch, a metal roof that sang softly when it rained, and dense forest pressing in on three sides.
It was beautiful.
And terrifyingly isolated.
The nearest neighbor lived four miles down a muddy gravel road.
That Friday in mid-October, Grandpa casually told me he had a visitor.
“At seven o’clock,” he said. “Every evening.”
He told me to come out to the porch at 7:15. Not earlier. Not later. And when I did, he warned me not to move suddenly. Not to make noise.
That should’ve been my first clue that this wasn’t dementia.
At exactly 7:00 p.m., something massive stepped out of the trees.
At first, I thought it was a bear. But bears don’t walk upright. They don’t move with that kind of balance. That intention.
The thing was huge—easily seven and a half feet tall—covered in dark reddish-brown fur, with arms too long and shoulders too broad. It approached the porch, stopped twenty feet away, and then… sat down.
Cross-legged.
Like a person settling in for company.
“Evening, friend,” Grandpa said gently.
I couldn’t breathe.
For forty-five minutes, the three of us sat there. My grandfather rocking slowly in his chair. The creature unmoving, silent, watchful. Not threatening. Not curious.
Present.
When it finally stood and disappeared back into the trees, Grandpa told me the truth. The creature had been coming every night for three months. Always at seven. Always leaving before eight.
“They’re lonely, you know,” Grandpa said softly. “Same as people.”
I wanted to tell someone. Scientists. Authorities.
Grandpa stopped me cold.
“They’ll hunt him,” he said. “Or cage him. And neither of those is right.”
So I promised.
Two weeks later, Grandpa told me his heart was failing.
The creature seemed to know before I did.
On its last visit with Grandpa alive, it stepped closer than ever before. Pointed at his chest. Made a low, worried sound.
They stood facing each other in the fading October light—an old man and an ancient creature, both nearing the end of things.
Grandpa died the next evening.
At 6:45 p.m.
Fifteen minutes before seven.
I was sitting alone on the porch the night after he died when the creature came.
It walked to its usual spot… then froze.
It stared at the empty rocking chair.
It tilted its head.
Made a soft, questioning sound.
“He’s gone,” I whispered. “I’m sorry.”
The creature stepped closer. Its breathing deepened. It made a sound I will never forget—a long, hollow, rising call that echoed across the clearing.
Grief.
Pure and unmistakable.
That night, it didn’t leave.
At two in the morning, I saw it standing on the porch, gently rocking Grandpa’s empty chair with one massive finger.
After the funeral, the creature came every night.
But it wasn’t the same.
It didn’t sit anymore.
It paced. Watched the house. Circled it. Scratched at the siding. Left massive footprints inches from the door.
Once, it slammed both hands against the porch railing so hard the entire house shook.
It wasn’t angry.
It was desperate.
When my sister and her family visited, the creature roared when it saw me sitting in Grandpa’s chair. Not because it hated me—but because I wasn’t him.
And I realized something terrible.
The creature wasn’t just grieving.
It was attaching.
To me.
I made a choice.
I told it I’d stay.
I promised that every weekend, at seven o’clock, I would sit on that porch. Just like Grandpa had.
For a while, it worked.
The creature calmed. It sat again. It waited.
But grief doesn’t fade evenly.
It deepens.
Soon, it began watching me before seven. Waiting near my truck. Circling the house at night. Scratching my vehicle. Leaving gifts inside the house after figuring out how to open the door.
Antlers. Stones. A crude wooden carving shaped like a man.
It wasn’t trying to hurt me.
It was trying to belong.
When I told it to stay out of the house, it climbed onto the roof instead. Bent metal. Cracked beams.
It watched me through the windows.
And one night, when I didn’t come out at seven, it tried the door.
Slowly.
Testing.
Learning.
That’s when I understood the truth.
My grandfather had given it something he never should have.
Not friendship.
Dependence.
The last night I saw it, it sat on the roof as I loaded my truck.
It didn’t move.
Didn’t make a sound.
Just watched me leave.
I don’t know where it went after that.
Sometimes, late at night, my phone rings once and stops.
No number.
No record.
Just silence.
And I know—somewhere in the dark forests of the North Cascades—something ancient is still waiting.
At seven o’clock.
For a friend who will never come back.
