Surveillance Cameras Capture Bigfoot Moments Before It Heroically Saves Me From a Deadly Attack in the Wilderness—Unbelievable Sasquatch Encounter Story

How a Bigfoot Saved Me: A True Appalachian Nightmare

I never imagined I’d be the person telling this story. For three years, I lived alone in a small cabin on the edge of an Appalachian mountain town, surrounded more by forest than by civilization. It was peaceful—at least, it was until the nightmare began. What happened in those woods changed everything I thought I knew about what lurks in the darkness.

My cabin sat on five acres at the very edge of town, backed by thousands of acres of dense Appalachian forest. The nearest neighbor was half a mile down a dirt road. I bought the place cheap because most people didn’t want to live so isolated, but I loved it—the quiet, the trees, the wildlife.

Of course, living that close to wilderness came with challenges. Bears wandered through looking for food. Wild boars tore up my garden. Deer ate everything I tried to grow. Raccoons got into my trash no matter how tightly I secured it. So I installed eight security cameras around the property, covering every angle of the cabin and clearing. Checking those cameras every morning became a ritual: coffee first, then the footage. Mostly, it was just deer or the occasional black bear passing through. Sometimes a fox or coyote. Normal mountain wildlife. Nothing unusual.

.

.

.

For two years, life was simple and predictable. I worked remotely as a software developer, spent evenings on the porch watching sunsets, and slept soundly. Isolation never bothered me. If anything, I thrived in it.

Then, about three weeks before everything changed, the nightmares began.

The first night, I woke at 3 a.m., drenched in sweat, heart hammering. In the dream, something massive moved through the trees toward my cabin. I couldn’t see it clearly—only shadows, movement, and the sound of heavy branches snapping. It was coming closer, and I knew something terrible would happen when it reached me. The dream was vivid—cold mountain air on my skin, pine and damp earth smells, every snap of a branch clear and directional. I could track it by sound alone. But I was paralyzed, unable to move or call for help.

I tried to shake it off—just a bad dream. I checked the cameras on my phone. Nothing unusual. I went back to bed, but sleep was elusive. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw shadows moving between the trees.

The dream returned every night. The same massive presence, the same dread, waking in terror just before it reached the cabin. Two nights felt like more than coincidence. I rationalized it—too many horror movies, isolation, stress.

But the dreams worsened. By the third week, I dreaded sleep. The presence in the dream grew closer; I could hear its heavy breathing, feel the ground shake beneath its steps. I still couldn’t see it clearly—only flashes of dark fur, massive shoulders, eyes reflecting moonlight.

I became obsessed with checking the cameras, scanning footage nightly for anything unusual. But the nightmares continued, relentless and vivid. I lost sleep, weight, appetite. My work suffered. I stopped going into town except when necessary, stopped answering calls. My world shrank to the cabin, the cameras, and the nightmares.

I started seeing patterns in the footage that probably weren’t there—a deer appearing three nights in a row at the same time, a broken branch that looked disturbed. I was grasping at straws, desperate for proof to validate my fear.

One afternoon, I stopped at the local bar. A friend noticed my exhaustion and asked if I was okay. Without thinking, I told him about the nightmares, the feeling of being watched, the loss of sleep. He suggested seeing a doctor or taking a vacation, but those didn’t touch the real problem.

An old woman overheard and approached. She was in her seventies, with sharp eyes that seemed to look through me. “Be very careful,” she whispered. “There are things in these mountains that don’t want to be found. But sometimes they find us. Your dreams are warnings. Listen to them. And whatever you do, don’t trust voices in the dark that sound like those you love.”

Her words haunted me. That night, the nightmare came again—closer than ever.

Then, on the fifth night, I checked the camera footage before getting out of bed. At 3:47 a.m., a face appeared on camera three—the northwest corner of my cabin. Not a bear, not a person, but a massive creature covered in dark, matted fur. Its features were humanlike but not human. Its eyes reflected the camera’s infrared light with eerie intelligence. It looked contemplative, studying the camera, then turned and disappeared into the darkness.

I realized the nightmares weren’t just dreams. They were warnings. This Bigfoot was the massive presence moving through my dreams. It had found me.

That night, I didn’t try to sleep. I turned on every light, set up my laptop to watch all eight camera feeds, and kept my loaded rifle within reach. Hours passed with nothing but usual wildlife activity. Yet, I felt something watching just beyond the cameras’ reach.

At 2:30 a.m. on the third night, I heard heavy footsteps circling the cabin. Suddenly, all eight cameras lost signal simultaneously—no power outage