Archive 198 Bigfoot Stories

One afternoon, I visited the fraternity that I belonged to at Western Kentucky University. I've always loved playing foosball since my college days in the late seventies. I spent all afternoon at the fraternity house playing foosball with the young guys. That day, I dipped a lot of snuff and some beers with the guys. I played until I felt like I needed to get home. It was after nine pm when I got on to I sixty five south, headed

towards Tennessee. I picked up speed as I entered the traffic and was cruising along at seventy four miles per hour. I drove for ten minutes. I guess I was in the fast lane. I had just passed an eighteen wheeler, and I was now passing a car that was behind two other cars, and the lane in front of me was clear for at least two hundred more yards. I was enjoying the XM radio blues music and thinking about the guys I had just wept all afternoon at foos Ball.

Out of nowhere, right in front of me, a jet black dog was coming towards me in my lane. He was as big as a German shepherd. When he saw that I was coming fast at him, he tried to go to his left, and he partially in front of the car that was in front of the car that I was passing. He almost got hit, but he jumped back in my lane, barely escaping that other car. He was dead centered on my grill, and all I had time to do was squeeze the steering wheel and brace

for the impact. I saw him look straight at me. He had red eyes surrounded by white He had white teeth and a red tongue. I later realized that the gate he had wasn't that of a normal dog. It was a creepy gate like you would see in a horror movie or something. His front legs were taller than his back legs. Anyone who knows tractors would understand if I said he had a road crop front end. I squeezed the wheel and I tensed up, and I smacked the hell out of that thing. There was no time

to do anything else. I couldn't swerve left and run off the road, and I couldn't swerve and hit the car that I was passing. There was no time to hit the brakes, so I plastered the thing at seventy four miles per hour. I felt the impact big time. It sounded like a three hundred Winchester mag went off in the front end of my truck. It went underneath the truck and it rolled under there. It sounded like it probably just tore up major stuff from the front

all the way to the back. Immediately, I looked in my rear view mirror to see him come out, but he never did. The car behind me never made any kind of move, and the eighteen wheeler I had passed never made any kind of move either. Nobody but me even saw the thing. I slowed down and I got over to the right lane, and I prepared to get in the emergency lane to stop, but with the traffic like it was that night on the Interstate, I decided to see if I could make it to the Franklin exit.

I didn't hear any squealing, everything sounded good, and my temperature gaze never got hot, so I just kept going. Oh, I was miserable. I just knew that my bumper and grill were all busted up. I was surprised that my radiator was even working. I was surprised that the airbags had never deployed. There was no telling how much damage was underneath my car. I pulled off the Interstate at

Exit one eight, which is my exit. I kept heading towards the house I live about five miles out in the country, and when I pulled into my driveway, I had to peace so bad. I just grabbed my keys and I went into the house to use the bathroom. My neighbors were standing in their front yard, Otherwise I would have let it fly in the driveway. When I came out of the bathroom, I sat down in my recliner. I told my wife I had just torn up my truck,

and I explained what happened. She asked how bad it was, and I told her I hadn't looked at it, but I knew it was bad. She told me that we would just get it fixed, and then she went on to bed. I sat there for hours, remembering how this thing happened. I realized that dogs don't have white around red pupils. I could explain the red part by the lights in his eyes. Maybe dogs have brown surrounding their pupils. The big shiny white teeth, nah, maybe the red tongue.

It was the brightest red lipstick color I have ever seen, and his face planted in the front end of my truck. After studying the situation for hours, I was, and I still am, convinced it was a demon sent to try to kill me. He tried to run me off the road or into the worst wreck of my life. The next morning, my wife went to look at my truck and she came inside and she told me she couldn't find anything wrong with it. I went and looked, and I said, Praise the Lord. There wasn't a dent, a scratch,

There wasn't anything broken, no blood or hair anywhere. It was as if nothing happened, but it did happen, and it should have been bad. All I know is the God that I served saved me from an evil being that tried very hard to hurt me that night. He paid dearly for it, though I busted his tail with the Honda Ridgeline doing seventy four miles an hour. I rejoice over it today and it gives me confidence to

fight the good fight. The next day, I showed my sister and I explained everything, just like I have here. It really creeped her out. She didn't know what to say, and after she thought about it some, she finally said that she knew I was telling the truth and she was very glad that I was okay. Every year on Memorial my extended family would have a get together at a park near Parkersburg, West Virginia. That's my hometown. These were organized by my mother and usually drew about fifty people.

The park itself is huge, amounting to about three thousand acres. We would secure the biggest spot on the grounds and my mother would prepare the grill while guests brought in tupperware items like salads and gas roles. We got there early in the morning for all the preparation ahead of the people arriving at lunchtime. It was nineteen ninety seven. I was eleven. My friends and I like to explore

the nearby woods. The area was so vast that sometimes we would get lost, but always managed to find our way back. I don't think it would have occurred to any of the adults to call for a search party unless we were still gone by the time it grew dark. Man, have times changed. I remember we were deep in the woods by a pond with a circumference of fifty yards. My friend and I were fast walking. He rushed past

me and put a little distance between us. We were on an incline, so I aimed my eyes downward and started walking faster. And I stumbled into him a few yards up the trail, not expecting him to be standing stock still in the path. He directed my attention to something on the other side of the pond. It looked like a person, but it had a lot of hair, and it wasn't wearing any clothes. I didn't even know what to think. I'd never heard of a thing called

bigfoot or sasquatch. Up until this point, I'd seen the movie Planet of the apes on cable, and that's what I was thinking as both of us stood staring at this thing that was staring back at us. It wasn't much taller than my friend, who, if I was to guess, was five foot without shoes on. This thing had light brown hair all over, with none on its face, which looked like something more like an eight but less like a human. Its eyes were brown, and it just looked

at me with no expression. Then it let out a yell and bounded away from the pond. We started running for the safety of my mother and our get together, scared out of our eleven year old minds. After some hardcore sprinting, it occurred to us that we hadn't a clue which direction we were heading. We were lost. Out of fear, we started arguing, it's this way, now, it's this way. At that point, I let out an expletive

and just started running. My friend reluctantly followed behind. We emerged from the woods in a totally unfamiliar part of the park. Unfortunately, there were some people picnicking there. Me being the more extroverted of the two of us, I walked over to them and told them that we were lost and asked if they could help us. It took thirty minutes of driving around the park, but we pulled up to our picnic site. We'd been gone for hours, but we hadn't been missed. My friend liked to tell

the story of our encounter more than I did. No matter how serious or straight faced we were, people laughed it off, while I responded to the ridicule by dropping the matter altogether. My friend turned the whole thing into a comedy routine. If you believed his version, the thing we saw became the little brother we never had. I guess it's not an easy to believe story. I never really heard of bigfoot sightings in West Virginia up until then.

Maybe in the two thousands that all changed. I guess some just keep what they know quiet because no one takes it serious. In the late nineteen nineties, the Internet wasn't a huge thing, especially for someone my age and had cell phones. Pictures and videos just weren't happening. It makes me wonder how many people saw things, but the technology didn't allow for them to record the evidence and proved that they weren't out of their minds or were just a couple of eleven year olds too stupid to

find their way out of the woods. So I was raised in central Louisiana. As a kid in the nineteen seventies, I had the typical childhood of a boy with access to miles of undeveloped land that surrounded my home, which meant I spent most of my time fishing, hunting, and exploring that land. When I was a teenager, my parents built a new house and we moved. By then, my interests were changing to the kinds of things teenage boys generally think about cars and music and bonfires and girls.

I was in my twenties when my dad sought a deeper connection with his growing sons. He had a friend with a hunting camp in north central Louisiana who invited him to join, and we did as a family. It was a great place that included a thousand acres of piny hills and hardwood bottoms, and a creek along the north end of the property that would flood in the winter. It allowed me to reconnect with my first love being in the woods. The camp house featured a big porch

for relaxing and cooking. We spent a lot of time out there, combing every inch of the property, building stands and brushing blinds, and planting food plots and scouting for the best hunting spots. I got familiar enough with the place that I felt comfortable on evening hunch to walk out without a flashlight, especially if there was even a hint of a moon. I bagged my share of game

that way. It was late in twenty ten, during the rifle season when I decided to take my climber to the backside of the north food food plot, where a strip of hardwoods bordered a pine thicket. I sat twenty feet up in an oak tree and I watched as the sun began to set. It was quiet, and it made me uncomfortable. I scanned the area, but I didn't hear anything. I had a half hour left, but I couldn't shake this weird feeling. The next five minutes seemed

like an eternity. A few leaves rippled, and then there was silence. That weird feeling was growing inside me. I started moving and looking around to the point that I knew any deer that might have been in the area were spooked. But I couldn't stay still. I just wanted to get on the ground and get out. Of there. On the other hand, I was so unnerved that I didn't want to lower my rifle to the ground, and I debated for a few minutes before finally deciding to

climb down. I told myself that I was being ridiculous about that feeling, and that I had ruined the hunt with all the noise I was making. There was no point in staying anyway. Now. I lowered my rifle and climbed down as quickly as I could, and I packed up my stand. I made a lot of noise, and I didn't care. The sun was setting fast, and now I felt like I was being watched. It was getting

dark in that strip of woods. I crossed the food plot, stopping three times to check behind me, and I told myself it could only be a hog or a bobcat. But I knew something was out there and it was watching me. At the other end, I used my scope to scan the tree line. I couldn't see anything. I rode the three wheeler back to camp a little faster than normal, and I breathed a deep sigh of relief when I reached the camp house. I didn't say anything

to the other men. I just ate supper and my dad fixed and I loaded up my gear and I went home. I thought about those last thirty minutes in that tree stand for a long time. I had my rifle with me. I was no rookie in the woods. We'd been members of that hunting club for several years by then, and I'd hunted that same spot repeatedly, and I've hunted it since. But that day I felt insecure.

I've never had that feeling since. In the summer of twenty fifteen, my dad and my daughter and I went to look at our family land in north central Mississippi. My uncle, who lives nearby, met us and rode around the property with us. We rode our four wheelers over the entire eighty acres for many hours. When we got back to the trucks, I suggested we ride down to the old store and show my daughter, who was eleven

at the time. It was one of those old time mercantiles where my great grandparents used to buy their goods. We poked around for a while, examining the artifacts, before heading across the road to the old house where the stor's former owned once lived. Back then, they were considered well off. The house stood back from the road, with trees and bushes growing up in front of it. It was a big, well constructed wood frame, single story that

had managed to weather the years. We weren't sure of the integrity of the inside floor, so my daughter stayed at the four wheeler with my dad while my uncle and I went inside to explore. It was typical of an abandoned house. Debris littered the floor and some of the windows were broken out. We were standing in the kitchen that ran the back of the house and my uncle was explaining the cistern to me when I noticed a sound coming from a small opening on the opposite

wall that went up to the attic. Neither I nor my uncle knew what the opening was for. My uncle suggested it might be a vent. I asked him what the noise was, and he didn't know. Maybe it's just the wind, he all. As we stood there and talked for a few more seconds, I noticed the noise getting louder. It was too regular to be the wind. It sounded like breathing. It sounds like something's up there. Uncle Jake said,

maybe it's some kind of animal. We continued to talk until the breathing got so loud it interrupted our conversation. It was deep and harsh and getting louder by the minute. It felt aggressive, and again I asked what it was. I don't know what that is, he answered, maybe it's a panther. My uncle, Jake was a big man who'd worked hard all his life and spent a great deal of it outside. As I looked at him now, I could tell that that noise had him shook up. Let's

get out of here, I said. My dad noticed immediately how disturb my uncle was, so we asked if anything was wrong. I told him something was in there and we didn't know what it was, so we were getting out. We explained everything to my dad and daughter. Once we got back to the trucks, my uncle reiterated that he didn't know what it was. He was clearly still visibly shaken. I'm not really afraid of anything, not even death, well, taxes maybe, but that was one of the most frightening

experiences I've had in my life. I would never have made the connection to an animal with that lung capacity if not for listening to your channel and hearing other stories about heavy breathing and powerful vocalizations. We never saw it, and I'm glad we didn't. All I know is from the volume of the air that was coming from behind that wall. It had to be something big or supernatural or both. Whatever it was, it did not want us

in there. When I married my current wife, I was blessed to have a new family who loved the outdoors as much as I did. My father in law is a life long outdoorsman and a biologist who owned several tracks of hunting land in northern Louisiana, most of it as parcels from their old family homestead. The Friday after Thanksgiving, my daughter, now twenty three, and I were on an afternoon hunt. It was a warm day, but misty and a little foggy. My father in law put us on

a box stand on a power line. The lane was fifteen yards wide and two hundred yards long, and it stretched from a small rise down to a creek. Facing the crete and to our left was a twenty acre cutover with young pines, and to our right was a strip of cutover that went into hardwoods and then into the creek bottom. We were right in the middle of the lane, the perfect spot to catch a deer crossing

over from feeding to bedding. It was peak rut season, so we were expecting to see something and hopefully take one home. With forty five minutes of light left, Brooke and I were intently watching the edges of the lanes for movement. Out of the bottom of the hardwoods, we heard a loud, distinct knock. It sounded like someone took an axe handle and hit an old, hollow tree with all their might. It was solid and resonant and dry and woody. The echo reverberated through the timber behind us.

It was a tree knock. My daughter looked at me with a mix of surprising concern with a slight smile. She asked, did you hear that? Yep? I said, Well what was it? She whispered, is that a bigfoot? Well? How do you answer that? We had watched a lot of television shows over the years, from MythBusters and ghost Hunters to the show with the team stomping through the woods, yelling and beating on trees. It all seemed silly and

it was made for TV. They all talked about wood knocks, and my daughter was fully aware of what she had heard. She put her theory together instantly. This was really happening, well, I told her I think there's a house through there. Maybe they're cutting firewood or someone missed the lit. She gave me a doubtful look that said, okay, Dad, if you say so. There was a trailer house nearby, but it wasn't in the direction we heard the knock. We returned our attention to the hunt. Two minutes later, a

second loud knock came from the same place. Maybe if it is a bigfoot, it'll push them deer in our direction. I tried to joke, but my daughter was having none of it. This time. She raised her eyebrows and turned to look back down the lane. We weren't really scared, but it was just kind of unnerving. We stayed and

hunted until it was too dark to see. On our way home, she asked me if I thought there was something down in those woods, and I told her I didn't know, but her inquisitive mind in shore senses told her that sound was telltale evidence of something. The next morning, my father in law directed us to a stand that was right in the middle of those hardwoods on the creek, a little east of but very close to where we

heard the wood knocks. We were facing the creek with a small hill to our left and open hardwood bottom to our right. Falling oaks from the recent hurricane provided our cover. A front had moved through, so it was cool and clear, which promised deer activity. We were in the stand before daylight. At seven, the woods came alive with birds and squirrels. The light breeze was stirring the leaves, and we saw two dough run through, chased by a buck,

moving too fast to shoot. My father in law was in the box stand we'd use the day before and managed to get off a couple of shots, and I made a mental note of how far his shot was. It was one hundred and fifty yards. Things settled down again by nine o'clock and at ten we were waiting for the next session of deer activity, when to our right we heard a whistle. Yes, that's right, we heard a whistle. It sounded like it was mimicking a bird, but with more air and a different tone than a

bird chirp. It was too short blast, with the second one rising in pits like a quail. We were both certain that it was not a bird. We were quite familiar with the native bird sounds. Dad, that was a whistle, Brooke said, what do you think that was? I asked, and she raised her eyebrows and opened her eyes a little wider, and then we heard it again, this time a little closer, as if to make sure it was heard.

We looked at each other but didn't say a word, and I raised my binoculars and Brooke looked through her scope and the whistle came from fifty yards out, but the coverage was too thick to penetrate. We sat there for another hour, looking and listening and looking some more, and we heard nothing but the breeze and rustling of dried leaves. The clouds came in and it got colder.

Still nothing. There were no deer, no squirrels, just silence. Eventually, we went back to the vehicle and we headed home, and I checked behind us several times as we walked out. These stories and experiences may not seem that impressive, but when it's actually happening to you, you have some background information and it's unnerving. Fifteen years ago, I probably wouldn't have noticed a knock, a chirp, a whistle, or a broken tree in the woods. I probably wouldn't have noticed

the unusual quietness. But today it's different. Have a different outlook now. On the opening day of deer season twenty twenty one, my wife and I were hunting another track of family land, not far from where Brooke and Eye had the acttivity the year before. It was early morning and we were headed to another box stand. We opened the gate and crossed the clear cut to the sixty acre Northwest Corner plot, where it was still heavily wooded. The road beyond the gate followed the tree line to

the west, and then it turned north. We were easing down this road when we came up on a tree that had fallen and was blocking our path. We were only forty yards from where we normally parked, so we got out, gathered our stuff, and walked the rest of the way Beyond the tree. We followed the foot path that ammeled one hundred and fifty yards down to the box stand. It was a beautiful morning. My wife and

I sat and sipped coffee and enjoyed the view. Unfortunately, deer hunting doesn't mean deer shooting, and by mid morning we decided nothing was going to happen until evening, so we headed back to get some lunch. We eased back down the lane to the woodline, and I stood there taking in the scene, and it occurred to me that no other trees were broken or blown over, only that one tree that stopped our progress, and it seemed strange.

I looked back into the woods to see if there were any trees there that looked like they'd sustained a recent storm damage, and I didn't see any. When we got to the truck, I surveyed the fallen tree. It was lying exactly perpendicular to the road. It was broken off eight feet off the ground. The break was jagged, but the tree wasn't lying next to the trunk. It was several feet away, as if it had been dragged

or thrown across the road. There was underbrush growing between the base of the tree and the bottom of the trunk. It had to have happened in late spring or early summer. The tree had leaves on it, so it happened when it was in full foliage. It didn't make sense at all. We've had a lot of hurricane and straight line wind damage, but oak trees don't have deep root systems. When they're blown over, they tend to uproot, they don't snap off.

It might have been a tornado but the leaves weren't stripped, and there were no other trees down. I've heard theories of tree breaks being markers and warnings. I've seen pictures of saplings and trees broken off, and I've heard stories of rocks and even tree trunks being thrown. This tree was a foot in diameter. I went back and took pictures of it before we cut it up. It was neither dead when it broke, nor very old in tree years, and it was curious how it was placed directly across

the road. I'm not saying, but I am kind of saying, keep your eyes and ears open.