Truck Driver Stumbles Upon a Sasquatch Roadkill

THE ONE THEY LEFT BEHIND

I still drive Highway 101 sometimes, but never at night, and never alone. Not since the night something in the road forced me to pull over—something I wasn’t meant to see. The company thinks I hit an elk. My dispatcher still jokes about how I “screamed like a kid.” If he knew the truth, he’d never laugh again.

That night began like every other. My rig hummed beneath me, a familiar companion on another long run. The air smelled of wet pine, and the redwoods stood like giants on both sides of the road. Midnight came and went. I felt good—alert, caffeinated, listening to a crackly radio show where callers argued about ghosts.

Then, maybe ten miles north of Garberville, I saw it.

A shape in my lane. Big. Too big.

I braked gently, hazards blinking, and eased the truck to a stop. Headlights washed over a dark heap—hair, limbs, something massive and twisted. I grabbed my flashlight, muttering, “Please don’t be a moose.” It wasn’t.

The first thing I saw up close was a hand.

Not a paw. Not a hoof.

A hand.

Thick, leathery skin. Nails like worn-down stone. Fingers longer than any human’s. My beam of light crawled up an arm thick as a telephone pole and settled on a face I’d never forget. The features were close to human—too close. A heavy brow. Deep-set eyes, now half-open and glassy. A mouth with teeth meant for tearing. Hair matted with blood and dirt.

Eight feet long. Maybe more.

“Jesus…” I whispered. “Jesus Christ…”

And that’s when I heard the sound.

A low, trembling moan from the treeline, like grief given a voice. Then another. And another. Soft at first, like something trying not to be heard. Then louder, more insistent.

Not cries of pain.

Cries of mourning.

My skin crawled. I took a step back toward my truck. Leaves rustled. Branches cracked. Something—no, several somethings—moved in the shadows.

The first one stepped out.

Nine feet tall and built like a nightmare of muscle and fur. Eyes like dim embers. It looked at the body on the road, not at me. Then another appeared, and another, until six of them stood at the road’s edge.

I froze.

If I ran, they’d chase. If I screamed, they’d panic. If I moved too fast, I’d die. So I stayed perfectly still, breathing shallow, my flashlight shaking in my hand.

The largest one knelt beside the dead creature and placed a massive hand on its chest. The others surrounded the body, forming a circle. They touched it gently—intimately. Some stroked its face. One let out a sound so raw and guttural it made my stomach twist.

This wasn’t scavenging.

It was a funeral.

I don’t know how long I watched. Seconds. Minutes. Time didn’t behave correctly in that moment. My heart hammered in my chest, but none of them even looked in my direction.

Until one did.

A smaller one—maybe an adolescent—turned its head toward me. Its eyes weren’t hostile. Curious, maybe. Confused. It emitted a soft sound like a question.

The others stopped. Looked at me. Six pairs of glowing eyes, suddenly aware of the human who had stumbled into their ritual.

The biggest one stood.

It took one slow step toward me.

Then another.

I lifted both hands, palms out. “I didn’t do this,” I whispered. “I’m just passing through.”

A stupid thing to say. Pointless. But what else do you say to a creature that could crush your ribs with a flick?

It stopped ten feet away. Close enough that I could smell its musk—earth, pine pitch, wet fur. It raised one huge hand.

Not to strike.

To mirror me.

A gesture. Maybe of peace. Maybe of recognition. Maybe a warning.

My throat tightened. Slowly, I raised my hand higher, matching its height.

For a moment—an impossible, fragile moment—I felt like I was standing before something ancient. Something that had lived in these forests long before humans carved their highways through the trees. Something that mourned its dead the same way we do.

Then everything changed.

A distant rumble echoed through the forest. Engines. Multiple. Off-road vehicles, heavy ones, rolling fast.

The creatures heard it before I did.

The biggest turned its head sharply toward the sound and barked something urgent. The others responded instantly, gathering around the fallen body. Their movements were frantic now—not ceremonial.

They weren’t just mourning.

They were trying to hide the corpse.

The engines grew louder. Closer. The Sasquatch looked from the body to the approaching lights. Agitated. Cornered.

The adolescent—the one who’d looked at me first—reached out suddenly and grabbed my sleeve. Not hard, but insistently. As if telling me: Go. Now.

I stumbled backward, nearly tripping over my own boots. The largest creature barked again, and the adolescent released me.

Then they lifted the dead one—effortlessly—and vanished into the dark forest with terrifying speed. Leaves rustled. Branches shook. Then silence.

A second later, three black trucks burst around the bend, tires screeching. No logos. No plates. Men in tactical gear jumped out, armed with rifles and floodlights.

One grabbed me immediately. “Did you see anything?”

I shook my head. “Just roadkill. Big. I didn’t get close.”

He stared at me too long. Suspicious. Then he pushed me back toward my truck. “Get out of here. Road’s closed.”

I didn’t argue.

As I pulled away, I caught a glimpse in my mirror—four men with flashlights searching the treeline, weapons drawn, like they knew exactly what they were hunting.

I kept driving until the mountains faded behind me and the sky turned pale with dawn.

Three months later, I still see those eyes in my dreams—those ancient, grieving eyes. But the part that haunts me most isn’t the creatures.

It’s the men who showed up minutes later.

They knew.

They knew, and they were prepared.

Whatever lives in those mountains… it’s not the monsters we grew up fearing.

It’s the people hunting them.

And someday, the world will learn which one is truly dangerous.