Hiker’s Final Moments Before a Giant Bigfoot Caught Him
Hiker’s Final Moments – A Sasquatch Encounter
When the cracked screen flickered awake, my stomach dropped.
A prompt appeared: “RECOVERY FILES DETECTED – VIEW?”
I tapped yes.
The gallery opened — a single unreadable thumbnail with a red warning icon. The file name was a timestamp from three nights earlier. My hands shook. I hit play.
At first, only static and the soft crunch of boots on snow. Then the camera steadied. The missing hiker — young, grinning, breath fogging in the cold air — swung the camera around to show a sheer cliff face behind him.
“Last push before camp,” he whispered. “Snow’s deeper than expected though — check this out.”
He turned the phone toward massive footprints in the powder. Long strides. Too long. The kid laughed nervously.
“Probably a moose,” he joked, but his voice cracked slightly.
The video cut to later. Dark, now. The phone lay sideways on the ground, pointed toward the trees. The boy whispered again — this time terrified:
“It’s been following me since the ridge. I can hear it breathing.”
In the video, the boy pointed his light into the trees. The beam caught only snowflakes falling — until two red reflections blinked back from the darkness… and rose higher. Higher.
The breathing came through the mic then — wet, heavy, close.
He ran. The camera jerked violently. Branches whipped across the lens. He screamed — not a startled shout, but the raw cry of someone who realizes they are prey.
The final image before the phone fell was a hand — a gigantic, black-furred hand — filling the frame. Then everything turned sideways. The sound that followed still haunts me:
Bones snapping. A gurgling plea. Dragging. Muffled roars.
The video ended abruptly.
My breath fogged the air. The silence around me suddenly felt… inhabited.
A twig snapped behind me.
I spun, phone clutched in my fingers. Nothing. No — not nothing. The forest had changed. The quiet was gone. I could hear movement. Multiple directions. Careful. Coordinated.
I shoved the phone into my jacket and started climbing the ravine wall. Dirt crumbled beneath my boots. My heartbeat pounded in my ears. Halfway up, something boomed below — heavier than any bear.
The air filled with a low, resonant growl.
I made the mistake of looking down.
A shape stood at the bottom of the ravine — half-hidden by shadow and ferns. Broad shoulders like a truck cab. Fur hanging in thick strands. Arms too long. Legs built for power. Its head angled up — eyes glinting like embers.
It stepped closer, revealing a massive humanoid form. Eight… nine feet tall. Muscles rippling beneath dark fur.
It wasn’t a legend.
Not a myth.
It was real. And it was tracking me.
I scrambled up the slope, tearing fingernails and skin as I clawed through roots. I didn’t look back again. I didn’t dare.
When I finally reached the top, I didn’t run — I sprinted. Branches slapped my face; thorns cut my arms; adrenaline drowned pain.
Behind me — a thundering stride. The forest floor shook.
I veered toward thicker brush — anywhere that would slow something big.
The trees blurred. My lungs burned. My boots snagged roots, sending me crashing into the dirt. I rolled, coughing, and pointed my pepper spray behind me like it was a gun.
Silence.
Then a low chuffing breath… inching closer.
A massive silhouette loomed between the cedars, watching.
Testing me.
Hunting me.
I pushed myself backward until bark pressed against my spine. The creature remained still — only its eyes moved, tracking every twitch.
Minutes stretched like hours.
Then — distant howls echoed through the mountains. Not wolves. Not any animal I knew.
Multiple voices. Deeper. Closer.
The creature turned its head slightly — listening. Then it melted into the dark, disappearing without a sound. Not a snapped twig. Not a rustled branch.
Gone.
But the feeling of being watched never left.
I forced myself up and kept running, checking my GPS obsessively. Camp was a mile away. A mile through a predator’s territory.
I reached the clearing just as daylight thinned. Nothing looked disturbed — but my tent suddenly felt like a trap.
I grabbed only what I needed — my pack, food, essential gear. I left everything else. I wasn’t spending another night here.
As I slung the pack over my shoulder, a rock — a fist-sized rock — landed at my feet.
Thrown.
Deliberately.
A warning.
More stones clacked against trunks around me. The sound boxed me in, tightening the perimeter. Panic surged.
I bolted for the trail — the human trail — the only place I thought I might be safer. I didn’t stop until the trees thinned and the first sliver of the parking turnout peeked through the branches.
My truck. My lifeline. Still there.
I slid into the driver’s seat, slammed the locks, and turned the key. The engine roared. Relief hit me so hard I almost cried.
But before I could shift into drive…
something stepped onto the road.
A towering silhouette — backlit by the moon, breath steaming like smoke. Wide chest rising and falling. Its long arm hung low, fingers almost brushing the ground.
It stared — not with animal curiosity, but with recognition.
And disappointment.
As if to say:
This is not over.
Then, slowly, it turned… and vanished into the timberline.
I drove straight to the nearest ranger station and demanded to speak to someone in charge. They listened. Took notes. Then smiled that careful bureaucratic smile people wear when they think you’re delusional.
They confiscated the phone “as evidence.”
They refused to play the video in front of me.
I wasn’t invited to help anymore.
That was three months ago. The case is officially closed — “environmental exposure leading to presumed death.” No remains. No further search planned.
The family received nothing but condolences.
But I wake every night hearing the hiker’s final scream.
And sometimes… I wake to silence.
A too-perfect silence.
The way the forest fell silent right before it appeared.
I’ve started checking the trees near my apartment. The telephone poles. The alley behind the building.
Because sometimes I see bark peeled high up.
Sometimes I find fresh mud with massive footprints washed by rain.
And sometimes — when I’m grabbing groceries late at night — something tall slips between shadows behind me.
Watching.
Waiting.
The mountains aren’t its only hunting ground.
It followed me.
And I know it will finish what it started.
Because I didn’t just witness a death.
I trespassed into a territory that was never meant for humans.
And the Guardian never forgets an intruder.
