‘I CAME FACE TO FACE WITH BIGFOOT’ Farmer’s Disturbing Sasquatch

I Came Face to Face With Bigfoot — And It Tried to Take My Son

It’s three in the morning, and I’m sitting in my truck outside my wife’s parents’ house, hands shaking on the steering wheel. I haven’t slept. I can’t. Every breath sends a sharp pain through my ribs, still bruised and swollen where something impossibly strong struck me. But pain doesn’t matter. My son is inside, sleeping in a warm bed for the first time in three days. That’s all that matters.

Thirty seconds. That’s how close I came to losing him.

I keep replaying it over and over—the sound of his voice, the weight of his small body as I grabbed him, the way the ground shook as that thing walked toward us. I need to tell this story before it eats me alive.

Five years ago, my wife and I bought a small farm deep in the woods. Nothing fancy—twenty chickens, a few goats, a couple pigs. Just enough to scrape by. We worked hard, slept hard, and believed we were building a life worth living. Our six-year-old son loved it there. Feeding the chickens every morning was his favorite job. He called the forest “our backyard.”

I wish I’d never let him think that.

The problems started small. Chickens missing. At first, I blamed foxes or coyotes. That’s normal when you live near the woods. But then one morning, I found the chicken coop door still latched—metal twisted like it had been bent by bare hands. The frame was crushed inward, as if something had simply pushed through without effort.

Then fence posts started falling. Not breaking—falling. Thick wooden posts set two feet into concrete, knocked over like toys.

That’s when I started staying up at night with my rifle.

I never saw anything. But I felt it. That sensation of being watched. Like eyes just beyond the tree line, learning us.

The first time I actually saw it, I thought it was a man. Tall. Too tall. Standing perfectly still between two trees at the edge of our property. I waved, shouted that it was private land. It didn’t respond. As I walked closer, it turned and slipped into the woods—not walking, not running. Just gone.

After that, it appeared often. Always distant. Always watching.

Then came the sounds.

Low, echoing whoops in the night. Wood knocking—three knocks, pause, two knocks, pause, three again. A pattern. Something communicating. Circling us.

My wife tried to rationalize it. Wildlife. Stress. Fatigue. But my son started waking up at night, frightened. Even he could feel it.

Everything changed the night the goats screamed.

I ran out with my flashlight and rifle and found the pen destroyed. Posts snapped clean through. Two goats gone. The others frozen in terror. In the mud were footprints—bare, human-shaped, but enormous. Eighteen inches long. Five toes. Deep impressions that told me whatever made them was unbelievably heavy.

I called the ranger.

He took one look at the tracks and went pale.

Away from the house, he told me to leave. Immediately. Quietly. Said there were things in those woods they didn’t talk about. Things that couldn’t be hunted. Couldn’t be scared away. He told me three other families had fled over the years. Same pattern. Livestock first.

Then children.

That was when fear turned into terror.

The thing started coming closer after that. One afternoon, my son froze mid-play and pointed toward the trees. I looked up and saw it clearly for the first time. Eight feet tall. Broad shoulders. Arms hanging past its knees. Dark fur. A face that was almost human—and unmistakably intelligent.

It was watching my son.

From that moment on, I slept in his room with a rifle across my lap.

Two nights before we planned to leave, it came to the house.

I heard heavy footsteps outside, slow and deliberate. Then breathing. Something tall enough to bend down peered through the window. It walked from room to room, checking each window—especially my son’s.

In the morning, I found massive handprints on the glass.

The final night was worse.

I stepped outside to check the chicken coop after hearing a noise. Everything seemed quiet. I was turning back when I heard my son’s voice behind me.

“Daddy… look. A standing bear.”

He was barefoot in the yard, pointing toward the woods.

It was already walking toward him.

Not running. Walking. Confident. Like it knew it had time.

I ran harder than I ever have in my life. Screaming his name. The creature’s strides were long, effortless. It was closing the distance.

I grabbed my son and shoved him toward the house. The creature reached out.

Something slammed into my ribs with incredible force. I barely stayed upright.

We burst through the door. I barricaded it with a shelf as the thing hit it again and again. The frame cracked. My wife grabbed our son and ran for the back door.

The door exploded inward.

I saw it inside my house—ducking under the frame, filling the room with its stench. It moved with calm purpose, not rage. Not panic.

It was hunting.

We ran to the truck. As we drove away, I saw it through the window—standing in my son’s bedroom, staring at his empty bed.

That image will haunt me until the day I die.

We never went back.

When I returned briefly to retrieve our things, my son’s room was destroyed. Mattress torn apart. Walls gouged. Closet ripped open. It had searched for him.

We abandoned the farm. Let the bank take it. Later, I heard the house burned down.

Now we live in the city. No trees. No woods. My son still checks his closet at night. Still asks for the hall light to stay on. He calls it “the bear man.”

And sometimes, late at night, when everything is quiet, I swear I still hear three knocks… followed by two… then three again.