The Cabin in the Woods: My Six Days as Bigfoot’s Captive

I have photos on my phone that would change everything we think we know about what lives in our forests. Photos of something massive, impossible—something that stared straight into my cabin window, and straight into my soul.

I never believed in monsters. I never believed in legends. But everything changed last winter, when I escaped to my family’s remote mountain cabin, hoping for a week of peace after a brutal divorce. Instead, I found myself trapped, hunted, and studied by something that should not exist.

The cabin was deep in the mountains, miles from the nearest road, surrounded by ancient woods. The first night, I felt the peace I’d been desperate for. But at 2 a.m., I woke to slow, deliberate knocking—thunk, pause, thunk—circling the cabin. My logical mind tried to explain it away, but the fear crept in.

The morning brought fresh gouges in the trees—marks too high and too deep for any bear. I spent the day on edge, and that night, the knocking returned, closer and more insistent. Desperate for answers, I snapped photos with my phone’s flash. That’s when I saw it: a face, huge and covered in dark hair, eyes glowing gold in the light. Not a bear, not a man—something else.

Terror gripped me. I barricaded the door, armed myself with kitchen knives, and waited. Heavy footsteps circled the cabin. Then came guttural grunts and strange clicks—communication, not animal noise. I screamed, and the thing retreated, but I knew it would be back.

At dawn, I awoke to the sound of dragging. Through the window, I watched as the creature—Bigfoot, Sasquatch, whatever you want to call it—hauled massive logs and barricaded every door and window. I was trapped. Panic set in. My phone had no signal, and I realized no one would even know I was missing for days.

Hours passed. I tried everything—prying windows, attacking the door, searching for escape—but the cabin was built solid, and the logs were immovable. Then I saw more of them: three Sasquatch, each enormous, each inspecting the cabin and communicating in their strange language. I was their captive, their specimen.

Days blurred together. My food and water dwindled. The Sasquatch left offerings—berries, fish, roots—outside the door. Were they keeping me alive? Studying me? I watched them through cracks in the walls, documenting their behavior. They had clear social hierarchies, used tools, showed emotion and intelligence far beyond any animal.

On the sixth day, weak and desperate, I heard the smallest Sasquatch move a log from the bedroom window. It pointed toward the forest—an unmistakable gesture: go. I scrambled out, expecting to be stopped, but it simply watched me leave. As I fled, screams and roars erupted behind me—a fight among the creatures, perhaps punishment for the one who showed me mercy.

I ran through the woods, battered and terrified, until I reached my car. I drove, crying with relief and grief, haunted by what I’d seen. I didn’t report it. Who would believe me? The photos are real, but they’re just images—no one can feel the terror, the awe, the humanity in those golden eyes.

I’ve never returned to the cabin. My family sold it, never knowing the truth. I live with nightmares, but also with a strange gratitude. The Sasquatch could have killed me, but one chose compassion. I’ll never know why.

I share this story now not to prove Bigfoot exists, but to warn others: the world is stranger than we imagine, and sometimes, the most unbelievable stories are true. If you venture deep into the wilderness, remember—you are not alone. And sometimes, survival means accepting help from the most unexpected sources.