Bigfoot Showed Me What Happened To Over 250 Missing Hunters

Prologue: The Disbelieved

No one believes me, but I know the reason why over 250 hunters have vanished. They say I’m paranoid, suffering from delusions after a bear attack. But bears don’t know how to lead the way. A Bigfoot appeared and guided me through the forest, only for me to witness a horrifying truth. When I recounted what happened that day, they put me in a mental hospital.

My name is James Miller, and I am a trail inspector for the United States Forest Service. For twelve years, I hiked thousands of miles through the forests of the Pacific Northwest, documenting trail conditions, marking hazards, and ensuring public safety. It was a methodical job that suited my practical nature. Measure, record, report. Nothing paranormal, nothing inexplicable. Just trees, trails, and the occasional black bear that sent tourists running.

But something terrible happened over thirty years ago that upended everything. Even sitting here recounting it, I still shiver.

Chapter 1: The Assignment

It all started in September 1994 when my boss, Jack, called me privately into his office. The atmosphere was tense. He handed me a stack of photos—trees gouged by claws, vegetation crushed, bark stripped in vertical strips, soil churned up by massive bipedal movement, and tents torn apart like scraps of paper.

“These were found near the last known location of the hunters who went missing in the Bluff Creek area. Nearly 250 people in just the last two years.”

I was startled. 250 people in two years. That was insane.

“Did no one find them? A trace of something, perhaps?”

Jack shook his head. “A week ago, another disappearance occurred. These are what remain at the scene. An investigation team was sent out a week ago, but they had to return after just one day. They claimed the area wasn’t right and couldn’t continue. But James, this area falls under our jurisdiction. We have a responsibility to clear this up. You’re the most experienced.”

I raised an eyebrow. Rescue teams are tough, seasoned men. What caused them to deem the area unstable? Was something terrifying out there?

Jack insisted, “Pack for three days, maybe four. That section of the trail is about ten to fifteen miles deep from the base of the mountain. Pack everything necessary—even traps and a hunting rifle. Anything that can protect you from any attack. And keep your radio by your side at all times.”

 

Chapter 2: Into Bluff Creek

Two hours later, I went home and prepared my gear. My field kit was standard—sleeping bag, tent, camping stove, first aid kit, water purification tablets, compass, topographic maps, measuring tools, and a Nikon N808 camera with a few rolls of Kodak film. I also packed pepper spray, Capsaicin spray, bear mace, and a hunting rifle. The handheld radio, though signals in deep valleys are often spotty, offered some reassurance.

The next day, around 8:00 a.m., I drove toward Bluff Creek. As the car left the main road and turned onto the trail, the scenery changed markedly. Small towns became sparse, then disappeared. Replacing them were giant sequoias and firs, towering upwards, weaving together to form a dark green canopy that blotted out the sky. Sunlight was reduced to weak, broken streaks piercing through thick foliage, illuminating the dusty, leaf-littered road.

The deeper I went, the thicker the fog became. Ribbons of milky white mist drifted low to the ground like ghosts, wrapping around moss-covered tree trunks. The trail narrowed with a sheer cliff on one side and a deep abyss on the other, filled with tangled wild vegetation that had never seen a human footprint.

Finally, I reached the staging point at the edge of Bluff Creek Forest. I killed the engine. Silence rushed in immediately, heavy and all-encompassing. Stepping out, the cold, damp air hit my nose, carrying the earthy smell of mud, pine resin, and something old, primal.

From the moment I set foot down, a heavy feeling enveloped me. I didn’t know if it was my own anxiety or the atmosphere of the place. The Bluff Creek bed appeared bare with gray-white boulders scattered. Water flowed through rock crevices, murmuring like the whispers of the old forest. Ancient trees, so large that three or four people couldn’t link arms around them, stood like giant guardians, silently observing the tiny intruder that was me.

The feeling of being watched suddenly became more distinct than ever.

Chapter 3: The Catastrophic Scene

I spent nearly four hours struggling with the terrain to advance the first six miles. The backpack was heavy, but I didn’t dare stop for too long. This forest had an invisible pressure that weighed on one’s chest, urging movement, urging vigilance.

By early afternoon, I found a relatively flat patch of ground on a rise about thirty meters from the water’s edge. Open enough to observe, hidden enough behind large rocks to avoid the wind and prying eyes. I set up camp with practiced but hurried movements, every sound jarring in the quiet space.

Every time I drove a tent stake into the cold, hard ground, I had to pause, holding my breath to listen. Only the sound of wind whistling through rock crevices and rushing water. No birds, no insects. It was too quiet.

In twelve years of working in the wilderness, I had never experienced silence like this. The forest is never silent. There is always wind, birds, insects. Even my footsteps seemed muffled as if the forest was swallowing the sound. This deadly silence usually signaled two things: a storm was coming or a predator was near.

I should have realized the anomaly right then.

Once the tent was pitched, I stowed some gear inside and began to scout the surrounding area. Then my gaze stopped at a manzanita bush about ten paces away. At a height over seven feet, a branch as thick as a wrist had been broken. I approached cautiously, heart pounding. The break was fresh, sap oozing out bright amber. The tough wood fibers were twisted like someone wringing out a wet towel, stripped into white shreds.

The creature had to be at least eight feet tall and possess supernatural muscular strength.

I photographed everything, noting compass bearings and measurements. My practical mind sought explanations—landslide, heavy equipment, earthquake—but nothing fit.

The trail itself was torn up with deep gouges, almost like claw marks, massive, far larger than any bear I had ever tracked.

Chapter 4: The Battlefield

The area where the hunters were last seen looked catastrophic. What appeared before my eyes was a battlefield, a place that had just suffered nature’s frenzied wrath. The photos failed to capture the violence here.

Ultra durable nylon tents were shredded like confetti, tatters flung onto high branches, snagged at heights of four or five meters. Aluminum frames bent and twisted, tent stakes ripped from the ground with clumps of earth still attached.

Surrounding me, the towering trees looked like a prison boxing me in. A sense of insecurity took hold. Imagine standing there—before you is a desolate crime scene, but surrounding you are trees like giant tombstones. You are exposed from all sides, and in your moment of greatest panic, that creature could rush out and grab you.

I made it back to my tent safely, gathered firewood, and started a fire. The campfire flared up, soothing the eerie silence. The warm orange light created a small circle of safety, pushing back the pitch black night enveloping Bluff Creek Valley.

Chapter 5: The Missing Ribbon

After hastily eating some dry rations, I checked equipment and logged the journey. I pulled out the stack of Polaroid photos I had taken that afternoon to examine under the firelight. Twisted branches, tent carcasses. Each photo was silent evidence of a terrifying presence here.

I emptied the side pouch of my backpack to count the trail marker ribbons. I remembered clearly cutting exactly seventeen strips from the large roll before setting out. Over two miles, at every sharp turn, I tied one. On my run back to the tent, I habitually untied them and stuffed them into my pocket.

I began to count. Fifteen, sixteen. My hand froze. I searched the empty pocket, turned it inside out. Nothing left. I counted again, more slowly. Still only sixteen.

A cold draft ran from my neck to the top of my head, numbing my scalp. Impossible. I didn’t miss a tree. My memory had never betrayed me. It couldn’t have fallen out while walking to the tent. So, someone must have taken it.

But who and when? Not a hunter, not a wild animal. To do that required dexterous hands with flexible thumbs. More importantly, it required thought—understanding that this object does not belong to the forest.

A wave of nausea rose in my throat. There were eyes watching me from the bushes. It waited for me to walk a distance, then quietly stepped out, reached up its oversized arm, and untied the ribbon. Its fingers undid my knot, just like a human. It didn’t take them all to make me get lost—it only took one. A taunt, planting a seed of doubt in my head.

It wanted me to stay in this flimsy tent, nerves tight as guitar strings, waiting for something to happen. It wanted to savor my fear.

I zipped up the tent, hugged the gun tight to my chest, finger on the trigger. Time passed slowly. 10 p.m., 11 p.m., midnight. Outside, the wind stopped. Absolute silence returned, so heavy I could hear my heart beating.

Just as sleep was about to defeat me, a sound rang out right next to my ear—dry leaves being crushed, something heavy impacting the ground. It was walking right around here.

A dry snap rang out, like a breaking bone. I lay motionless, muscles rigid as stone, pressing my body into the sleeping bag. A slight vibration transmitted through the cold earth, running up my spine. The footstep of a giant walking on two legs—solid, heavy, deliberate.

It took another step, slower, closer. I held my breath, gripping the pistol until it hurt. Cold sweat pouring down my forehead.

Just as my nerves hit their breaking point, a scent slammed into my nose—pungent, cloying stench of wet fur, matted, soaked in sweat, dirt, and dried blood, mixed with the smell of rotting leaves and sulfur.

It was overpowering, wild, and menacing. My stomach churned violently. Bile rose to my throat. I clamped a hand over my nose and mouth, the other clutching the sleeping bag, clenching my teeth to suppress the urge to vomit.

It wasn’t until near morning that the terrible smell subsided. It seemed the creature had left. It hadn’t attacked me, but it was enough to terrify me.

Chapter 6: The Herding Begins

When the first weak rays of sunlight pierced the leaves, I crawled out of the tent. The freezing morning air helped my lungs wash away some of the foul smell, but the nausea lingered.

I packed up camp, no breakfast. I remembered the creature’s appearance last night. It felt like a warning: Get out. This place does not belong to you.

But I ignored the warning. Instead, I continued walking. Maybe it was professional pride or stubbornness. The boss was waiting for my report, and I needed to answer some questions.

The deeper I went, the more treacherous and hostile the terrain became. Dense blackberry bushes hooked onto my clothes, slippery moss-covered roots waiting to sprain my ankle. The silence was suffocating.

About two hours after leaving the campsite, the feeling of being watched returned. But this time it was naked and harsh. I felt the weight of that gaze glued to the back of my neck, like an invisible drill boring into my flesh.

I knew it was there, not far, hiding behind giant fir trees, moving parallel to me.

Walking about four more miles, I discovered a trail clearly worn from heavy use, but too wide for deer or elk. Trees on both sides had been pushed aside or broken, creating a corridor nearly eight feet wide. The ground was compacted by heavy footsteps over years.

I found a massive footprint at least eighteen inches long and nine inches wide, five distinct toes. The print was about two inches deep, indicating an extremely heavy object. I estimated the weight to be between 500 and 700 pounds.

There were more tracks leading away, spaced about four feet apart—a walking stride, not running.

Suddenly, three sharp, evenly spaced impacts echoed through the forest. Wood striking wood, loud and decisive. The sound repeated—knock, knock, knock—like a warning.

My heart pounded. I stood still, eyes scanning the dense foliage ahead. Nothing moved, only eerie silence.

The forest was silent, as if every small creature was holding its breath, hiding in fear.

I couldn’t see it, but I knew it saw me.

Chapter 7: The Trap

Whatever was watching me seemed content to maintain a fixed distance, as if testing my reaction or simply observing.

I tried to veer toward the east, toward an old trail leading to the main road. Crack. A fresh branch as thick as a thigh snapped in an instant, only ten meters away, hidden behind dense ferns. The message was clear: “Don’t go that way.”

I tried inching toward the west, toward the dry creek bank. Thud. Another terrifying impact echoed from that direction. Someone had slammed a rock against a hollow tree trunk, creating a deep, thudding sound.

I wasn’t being hunted in the usual way. I was being herded by something terrible. It was leading me somewhere.

Only the path ahead remained—a narrow, dark trail leading deep into the Bluff Creek basin, where ancient trees grew so thick that daylight surrendered.

A chill ran down my spine as I realized the terrifying similarity: the missing hunters. Had they also stood where I was now? Had they also tried to find an escape route, but were forced by these violent sounds, driven bit by bit away from safety?

The forest seemed to be transforming. Twisted oak trees were like giant jailers tightening the circle, forcing me to follow the designated route. Blackberry brambles acted like natural barbed wire fences, blocking any escape attempt. Fog began to rise from the ground, milky and ghostly.

I was a stray sheep, and the giant invisible shepherd out there was cracking the whip to drive me to the slaughterhouse.

Chapter 8: The Confrontation

I gripped the gun, but the barrel shook aimlessly. Shoot at what? There was no other choice. If I stood still, it would advance. If I turned aside, it would block me. The only path I was allowed to take was the one ahead—a road leading to hell.

I took a reckless turn left, squeezing through a gap between ferns toward what looked like clearer ground. That turn brought me face to face with the real nightmare.

A solid black mass moved with absurd speed for its size, towering across the escape route, completely blocking the light filtering down from the canopy. Nearly seven feet tall, its width swallowed the space between two large fir trees. The fur covering its body absorbed all surrounding light, creating a deep, dull, rough black color.

Two oversized arms hung down past its knees, swaying with black fingers curled like steel hooks. It exhaled a deep guttural sound, hitting straight into my sternum, carrying a threatening vibration.

Its message was brutal and clear: Turn back. I won’t say it again.

Primal fear seized control of my brain. I spun around, sprinting back toward the dark trail it had marked out.

I ran—not the run of an athlete, but the desperate flight of an animal cornered.

My foot caught on an old oak root. My whole body lurched forward, slamming my knee onto cold rock. Pain shot up to my brain.

I lay prone, gasping, waiting for the fatal pounce from behind. But nothing happened.

The heavy footsteps behind suddenly stopped. Trembling, I turned my head back to look. About twenty feet away, the shadow stood still, blending into a scorched oak tree, yet standing out due to its abnormal darkness. It stood motionless, arms hanging down, terrifyingly patient.

It was waiting for me to stand up. It didn’t want me dead. Not yet.

Chapter 9: The Herding Continues

It stopped every time I fell, blocked the way when I went wrong. It wanted me alive, conscious, capable of moving on my own two feet.

Why did it need me to walk to the destination myself? Was the place it wanted to take me to somewhere even it didn’t want to carry a corpse? Or was it enjoying my despair, feeding my fear until it was ripe?

I gritted my teeth, suppressed the pain, and scrambled up. As soon as I stood upright, the black shadow in the distance shifted slightly, tilted its head, seemingly satisfied, and then started walking again.

I gathered every fragment about the pursuer through the flickering gaps of the forest canopy. Massive shoulders, covered by thick, dense reddish-brown fur, matted, shaggy, stuck with thorns and mud. Freakishly long arm hanging down past its knees. Biceps rippled with ropey muscles.

Whenever I intended to turn right, the sound of trees snapping cracked like thunder. Whenever I intended to go straight, the sound of rocks smashing blocked me. It wanted to lead me to the exact path it chose.

Had the missing hunters years ago run on this very trail? Had they also felt fear like me and could only accept walking on this path, unable to do anything else? And what was their fate?

 

Chapter 10: The Descent

My legs began to burn, breathing became ragged. I tried to use the terrain to my advantage, heading down a steep ravine where thick vegetation might hide my movement and escape the creature.

My strategy failed instantly. The creature repositioned above me, matching my speed with frightening ease.

Reaching the top, I paused for just a split second to gasp. I looked back. The creature was standing tall on the opposite ridge, clearly visible under a rare ray of sunlight. It tilted its head, eyes observing me across the deep ravine.

It was measuring my strength, calculating how much further it needed to herd me before I reached the destination.

It slowly raised its giant arm and pointed behind my back, deeper into the forest. The gesture was unmistakable—a chilling command. It wanted me to keep moving.

Terrified, I ran headlong in the direction it commanded. The terrain sloped down sharply, dragging me into valleys increasingly narrow and confined.

The creature behind me navigated those tight spaces with eerie grace.

Then its sound changed—sharp staccato sounds, clicks or popping noises, deeper, resonant, echoing from deep within its chest. The rhythm became urgent, hurried, as if it was trying to communicate.

A reply echoed back from somewhere in the darkness ahead. There might be more than one of these monsters.

Chapter 11: The Abyss

The ground beneath my feet began to drop more dramatically. The angle so steep I was forced to break or accept throwing myself forward in uncontrolled abandon. Loose soil and rotten leaf litter turned every step dangerously slippery.

I was swept in, sliding uncontrollably toward whatever lay waiting at the bottom.

The creature seemed to sense my weak resistance. It emitted one of those deep commanding sounds again, urgent, as if time had suddenly become a vital factor in whatever plan it was executing.

A looming boulder dislodged from somewhere above, rolling down with increasing momentum. I threw myself to the side, barely avoiding the deadly mass.

The creature stood at the top, silhouetted against the dim light. It hadn’t thrown the rock, but it had used the rock’s movement as a warning. Keep going. Don’t stop. Get to the bottom now.

The slope beneath my feet quickly turned into a chute of death. I gave up trying to balance, letting it sweep me away.

Crash. I hit the bottom with an impact hard enough to knock the air out of my lungs. I lay there gasping, buried in a pile of mud and foul rotting leaves.

Chapter 12: The Graveyard

For a few short seconds that felt like centuries, I was paralyzed, unable to move. My hand sank into something—not mud, but old rotten fabric that tore apart as I touched it. Beneath that fabric was something hard, smooth, cold.

I jerked my hand back, stumbling to stand up, backing away in terror.

My eyes adjusted to the dim light at the bottom of the abyss. What surrounded me made me wish I had gone blind.

Rotting shreds of cloth, moss-covered jungle boots, rusted guns lying scattered. I saw a corpse not far away, still wearing modern camouflage. All mixed together, forming a massive underground graveyard.

The smell of death was so thick it wasn’t just a scent, but a physical entity crawling into nostrils, clinging to the throat.

This was no accident. This was a collection point. These hunters weren’t lost. They were hunted, herded here, killed, and their bodies thrown into this pit.

A crunching sound rang out from above. I looked up, fear strangling my heart again. The creature, the one that herded me here, was coming down.

Unlike my clumsy fall, it moved with the precision of a master climber, claws dug into the sheer cliff, rippling muscles controlling the massive body, descending smoothly, eerily, quietly.

When it touched the ground and stood up straight, all light from above seemed swallowed. It towered—must be nine feet tall, blocking the narrow sky.

Chapter 13: The Witness

It walked closer to me, slowly, deliberately, no threatening growl, no claws raised. It stopped just a few steps away. At this distance, for the first time, I clearly saw the face of a legend—deep set eyes under thick brows, a broad flat nose, and a mouth full of expression.

Those eyes weren’t animal eyes. They had irises. They had emotion.

It stared at me, head tilted, studying me like a scientist observing a strange specimen.

Then it did something that broke every natural law I knew. It bowed down, reached out hands as large as shovels toward me. I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the end.

But no, I felt a gentle lifting force. Rough, calloused hands cradling me, lifting me off the muddy ground like a fragile porcelain doll. It placed me on a cleaner ledge amidst the corpses, adjusted my posture, so I stood firm, then stepped back.

It looked at me, then pointed at the piles of bones around, its head tilted expectantly. Why bring me here? Why show me this horrifying collection?

These bodies weren’t thrown randomly. Many skeletons were arranged neatly. Weapons, backpacks, personal items stacked in separate piles, clearly sorted—metal to metal, fabric to fabric.

This wasn’t the behavior of a wild animal. This was trophy collection after a hunt. Organized behavior. Symbolic thinking.

The Bigfoot before me looked at me, its eyes seeming to say, “Do you see? Do you understand?” It wanted me to be a witness.

Chapter 14: The Alpha Arrives

Suddenly, the deadly silence of the abyss was torn apart. The creature beside me stiffened, every muscle fiber tensed like steel cables. Its eyes left me, staring up at the mouth of the abyss, where the last bit of daylight was being swallowed by darkness.

A sound rolled through the forest canopy, echoing down into the abyss like an invisible tsunami. Deep, profound, and heavy, vibrating my chest.

It dragged on, echoing between the two cliffs, carrying the tone of an authoritative interrogation. The roar of an ancient and brutal king demanding the intruder reveal themselves.

The Bigfoot beside me shuddered violently. It began pacing in the narrow space, restless, long arms flailing wildly.

Just as that deep horn sound faded, another howl responded from the opposite direction—sharp, aggressive, angry. The scream of an alpha detecting the scent of a traitor in the territory.

The Bigfoot beside me was now trembling, hunched shoulders, head bowed low, whimpering weak sounds. It knew who was coming and what awaited it.

Chapter 15: The Escape

The Bigfoot rushed toward me, grabbed my belt—not roughly, but urgently. It lifted me up, shoving me toward a jagged section of the cliff, pressing my feet onto a narrow rock ledge. Its mouth emitted urgent, pleading sounds—trying to help me escape.

It chased me for miles, herded me into this pit of bodies just to show me the truth, that its kin harmed these people. Now it was trying to save me from its own kind, to prove that it was different.

I grabbed the roots, pulling my heavy body up. My dislocated wrist screamed in pain, fingernails tearing as I clawed at cold rock. But I climbed, climbed for my life.

Darkness suddenly descended on my head. At the edge of the abyss, blocking the only way to life, the first of the new arrivals appeared. Colossal—if the Bigfoot guiding me was nine feet tall, this one must be eleven feet high. Towering like a ziggurat of flesh.

Oversized arms hung down to its knees, hands ending in thick claws. Its fur was pitch black, matted with mud and pine resin, crisscrossed with lumpy white scars.

It stood there, bloodshot eyes, took a deep breath, and let out a roar that shook the cliff.

Right behind it, a second giant lumbered out. Massive and ferocious, identical.

The smaller one didn’t run. It stood blocking at the foot of the cliff, emitting anxious sounds, as if trying to explain, trying to beg. The two giants growled back, pointing at the corpses, then at the small one—aggressive, convicting a traitor.

Suddenly, the largest black Bigfoot, seemingly the alpha, swung its arm, swatting the small Bigfoot aside. The small one slammed hard into the cliff, crying out in pain.

The two giants began to advance, claws digging into the rock, pulling their massive bodies up with cold precision. They knew I had no escape.

The smaller Bigfoot rushed forward, ramming into the two giants clinging to the cliff. A terrifying noise rang out. All three massive bodies entangled, free falling to the bottom of the abyss.

I didn’t dare look down, but my ears heard it all—a terrifying sound when those massive bodies hit the ground, frenzied roars, painful whimpers.

I climbed, grasped any root, pulling my exhausted body upward.

Chapter 16: The Aftermath

I reached the mouth of the abyss. The gray light of the old forest appeared. A mournful, broken howl rang out from the bottom. The final cry of a life being taken. Then silence.

I stood up, head down, and ran. I ran like a wounded wild animal, afraid that if I slowed for just one second, I would die at their hands.

My lungs felt like tearing apart, my legs were numb. I ran through bushes, tearing my clothes over tangled roots. I ran until I met a steep slope, almost vertical, blocking the way. No other choice. I closed my eyes, hugged my head, and threw myself down it.

My body rolled, impact, pain, spinning, crack—I heard my ribs break. I fell into a thick fern bush at the bottom and passed out.

When I woke up, I found myself in a hospital. The smell of antiseptic hit my nose, but it felt more pleasant than that foul, disgusting smell. Both my left leg and right arm were broken.

Chapter 17: The Disbelieved

No one could suspect what horrors I had endured.

“James, you’re awake. You’ve been out for five days. I thought you were going to die,” Jack said.

“How am I here? I only remember fainting.”

“I didn’t hear from you after two days. Fearing you were in danger, I and two rescue teams went to look and found you unconscious near the forest edge, two miles in. What happened? Your injuries are severe. Were you attacked by something?”

I told Jack about the three wild creatures named Bigfoot, about the cave containing the unfortunate hunters.

“Is what you’re saying true?” Jack asked skeptically.

“It’s true. I still remember the way to that cave very clearly. It’s very likely the bodies are still there.”

“If what you say is true, this is quite serious. We will need a lot of force and equipment to go there. Rest well and ensure you can guide the upcoming trip.”

Two weeks later, I returned to Bluff Creek. But this time, I didn’t go alone.

The sound of helicopter blades tore through the quiet sky. Below, a convoy of jeeps from the police and rescue team churned up the muddy trail.

“Sure about this direction, James?” Jack asked, eyes glued to the topo map.

“I never forget the smell of death, Jack. Another 500 meters. Turn left down the western ravine. It’s right down there.”

The convoy stopped. We walked the final leg. I was supported by two medics.

There it was, the sheer cliff where I had fallen. The ravine of death.

Down there, I screamed, pointing into the misty abyss. “Hundreds of bodies, guns, backpacks, all lying down there.”

The tactical team dropped ropes, rappelling down to the bottom one by one.

But no screams. Jack’s radio crackled. “Boss, we’ve reached the bottom. Area secure.”

“What?” Jack frowned. “Search thoroughly. The hunters were harmed. They were lying there. I saw it with my own eyes.”

“Nothing here, boss. Just rocks, broken branches, and mud. Not a single body. Everything is clean. We only found one trail marker ribbon.”

Impossible. I screamed, pushing the medics away, limping toward the edge. Ignoring the pain, I demanded to be lowered.

When my feet touched the dirt at the bottom, I froze. Nothing. Completely empty. The ravine was just a desolate basin full of pebbles and green moss. The ritualistically arranged piles of bones—gone. Rusted guns—no trace. Even the signs of the landslide were gone. Only the marker ribbon that was taken from me that day remained.

I was certain they deliberately left it for me. They were warning me.

I collapsed to my knees, frantically digging at the mud. “They are down here. The monsters must have buried them.”

Jack walked closer, his eyes replaced by pity. “James, stop it. You don’t understand.”

“It was Bigfoot. Three of them. Two as big as buildings. A smaller one saved me. They fought here.”

“Bigfoot isn’t real, James. Bears?”

I laughed maniacally. “Bears know how to gather victims’ items and stack them neatly? Bears know tactical herding? You’re crazy, Jack. I saw them.”

“Maybe you fell here and hit your head very hard, James. Your brain created hallucinations to protect you from the truth that you were attacked by a bear and nearly died. The monsters, just your mind rationalizing the fear.”

Chapter 18: The Perfect Camouflage

They put me in a mental hospital. Acute post-traumatic stress disorder accompanied by delusional hallucinations.

The doctor told Jack, “He experienced a massive shock. Being lost and attacked by a wild animal triggered the brain’s defense mechanism, creating false memories of monsters and bodies to cover up his own helplessness.”

Will he recover? “Needs time. Currently, he still fully believes that story. He believes those creatures cleaned up the scene. They walked away.”

I looked down at my hands. They were still trembling.

They said I was crazy, paranoid, but I know the truth. Those two giant Bigfoots harmed the hunters, and I was saved by the outcast. I don’t know the fate of the small Bigfoot. Maybe it died like them, but it saved my life.

Though no one believes me, I know what happened that day was real. And they are still out there. No one will find them. They are stronger, smarter than we think. They know how to lure and harm humans. And when discovered, they clean the scene wisely.

Why did they do that? To turn me, the sole witness, into a liar. They knew how to make me look like a madman in everyone’s eyes. That is the perfect camouflage. No one believes a madman talking about monsters, and their secret remains protected forever.

I know no matter what I say, no one will believe me. But please remember my words. Don’t be alone in a silent forest. Don’t be curious. Don’t search. Turn around and run. Run for your life because they are still out there. They are watching.

And next time, maybe there won’t be an outcast stepping in to save you.