The Night Something Watched Us

I’m writing this because I have to. Maybe someone out there will believe me, even if nobody did at the time. What happened during my deployment at a remote training base in North Dakota shattered everything I thought I knew about the world.

I’m former military, but I won’t say which branch or unit. I did my time, earned an honorable discharge, and never reenlisted. This incident is the reason why.

It was February, my first year in, and my first real posting. The base was isolated, surrounded by endless acres of dense forest, used mainly for winter warfare training. In the dead of winter, with most units deployed or on leave, the place became a ghost town. I was stuck with night patrol—new guy duties. They paired me with another rookie, both of us fresh out of basic, both assigned the overnight shift no one wanted.

That night was brutal. Heavy snow, sub-zero temperatures, visibility down to 30 feet. We geared up: thermal layers, heavy coats, boots, masks. Still, the cold cut through everything. Our job was simple: walk the six-mile dirt road circling the training area, check the fence line, radio in every thirty minutes.

The first hour was boring, routine. We crunched through the snow, breath freezing in the air, joking to pass the time. Around the second hour, we found the footprints—massive, three times the size of our boots, parallel to our route, just inside the tree line. They sank deep into the snow, way deeper than ours, even with all our gear. We joked about moose or elk but something felt off.

Twenty minutes later, we found broken branches, snapped eight or nine feet off the ground. They were thick, freshly torn, and the pattern continued along the road, always at the same height. Whatever did this was tall and strong. The forest grew quiet, the silence heavy. Every living thing seemed to be hiding.

At the two-mile marker, we stopped for a radio check. That’s when we heard it—a low, resonant grunt from deep in the woods. Not a bear, not a deer, not anything I’d ever heard. It sounded intentional, almost deliberate. We radioed it in as “wildlife,” but the guy back at base just told us to continue.

Minutes later, we found a deer carcass wedged twelve feet up in a tree, torn apart, blood frozen on the trunk. There were no tracks around it, just deep impressions in the snow. My partner wanted to follow the blood trail—I refused. Whatever did this was strong enough to lift a deer into a tree. I wasn’t going after it with just a pistol.

We kept moving, but the tension was rising. More massive footprints appeared, always pacing us, always just inside the tree line. They looked almost human, but three times the size. The forest closed in, branches forming a tunnel over the road. The wind picked up, driving snow into our faces.

Then we saw it. A colossal dark figure crossed the road ahead, walking upright on two legs, arms swinging low, easily eight feet tall. It vanished into the trees in seconds. My partner grabbed my arm, both of us frozen. We radioed in, reported a “possible intruder.” The guy on duty laughed, thought we were joking.

We shone our lights into the woods, searching for movement. That’s when we heard it—branches snapping on both sides, heavy footsteps pacing us, coordinated, like we were being herded. Rocks and chunks of ice started flying from the darkness, landing dangerously close. We radioed for backup, finally convincing them we were serious.

The smell hit next: wet dog, rotting meat, something musky and wild. It was overwhelming, primal. Then a massive log flew out of the darkness, landing between us with enough force to explode snow and ice everywhere.

We drew our sidearms, flashlights shaking in our hands. That’s when it screamed—a roar that built to a shriek, vibrating through our bones, echoing off the trees. We ran, breaking all protocol, sprinting through the snow as heavy footsteps gave chase.

Suddenly, something burst from the tree line ahead, blocking our path. We stopped, lights illuminating the creature. It was enormous, covered in dark matted fur, shoulders broad, arms long, hands massive. Its face was almost human but wrong—flattened features, deep-set glowing eyes, a jaw too wide, teeth meant for tearing meat. It watched us, intelligent, calculating.

It beat its chest like a gorilla, then screamed again. My partner fired a warning shot. The creature didn’t flinch—just started walking toward us. We fired more, aiming for the legs, the torso. Some shots hit, blood sprayed, but it kept coming. Then it charged. My partner tripped, and the creature lifted him one-handed, examining him up close. I fired again, hitting its leg. It roared, dropped my partner, and turned toward me.

We both emptied our magazines, thirty rounds at close range. The creature was wounded, moving slower, but not stopping. It backhanded me, sending me flying into a snowbank. I lay gasping, pain radiating through my chest. My partner dragged himself to me, and we stared as the creature decided—then it limped back into the trees, leaving us alive.

We ran for the base, radioing for help, barely coherent. Backup arrived. They found the tracks, the blood, the deer carcass, the logs, the shell casings. Everything was documented, measured, photographed. But the creature was gone.

The story spread through the base, twisted and mocked. We became “the Bigfoot hunters.” Jokes, cartoons, fake hunting permits—no one believed us. The official report was filed, but no investigation followed. The evidence disappeared into bureaucracy.

My partner and I carried the memory alone. Nightmares haunted us. I stopped hunting, avoided the woods, never shook the feeling of being watched. Years later, we’d talk about it, always agreeing: it was real.

What haunts me isn’t just the creature—it’s the intelligence in its eyes, the way it chose to let us go. It wasn’t just an animal. It made decisions. It stalked us, used the darkness, threw rocks to intimidate, and stopped at the edge of the floodlights to watch us leave.

Maybe someone else will read this and know they aren’t alone. Maybe you’ll believe me. Maybe not. But I know what I saw. Somewhere in the forests of North Dakota, something walks on two legs, massive, intelligent, and powerful. Science hasn’t explained it. The military ignored it. But it’s out there—and I hope I never see it again.