📸 Part I: The Encroaching Shadow

I’m writing this because I don’t know how much longer we can hold on. Three generations of my family have worked this land in rural Oregon, and now we’re seriously talking about walking away from it all. Not because of money or bad crops, but because something that shouldn’t exist won’t leave us alone.

This isn’t one of those stories where someone sees Bigfoot once. This is an ongoing nightmare that’s been getting progressively worse for two years straight. Two years of living in constant fear, watching our farm turn into a trap. The worst part: our two young kids are terrified to step outside. That’s not the childhood we wanted to give them.

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🐓 The Subtle Signs

For the first three years after my wife and I took over the 200-acre property, it was paradise. Life was good. Then, two years ago, the subtle signs began.

Disappearing Livestock: Chickens vanished from a reinforced coop. No feathers, no blood, no signs of a struggle. They just vanished.

Animal Terror: The horses paced their stalls, winnying and kicking. Our goats huddled, staring toward the tree line. Our farm dog would bark, hackles raised, but refused to go near certain parts of the property.

The Smell: We’d notice an odor—musky, almost rotten, but with a sharp quality that made our eyes water. It was strongest near the edge of the property where the woods began.

We blamed coyotes, bears, anything but the impossible. We rationalized it all, explaining it away.

Everything changed on a cold October morning. I was checking the fence line when I felt that prickle of awareness—the instinctive knowledge that I wasn’t alone.

I looked up and there it was, standing between two large trees, maybe fifty yards away, just watching me. It was too tall—at least eight feet—and too broad for a person. It was covered in dark brown, shaggy hair, and its posture was perfectly balanced, bipedal. Its eyes caught the light with an amber glow, and there was intelligence in that gaze. It stared directly at me, sizing me up, deciding something.

Then, I blinked, and it was gone. Vanished into the forest like a ghost.

👣 The Escalation

I didn’t tell my wife immediately, afraid she’d think I was losing my mind. But the evidence escalated. I found massive footprints near the creek—eighteen inches long, five distinct toes, and a stride length over six feet. These were not bear tracks.

Then, the dead goat. Found in the pasture with a neck cleanly broken, no blood, no bite marks, just precise, overwhelming force.

My wife had her own encounter soon after, seeing the massive creature from our clothesline. She screamed, ran inside, and collapsed on the kitchen floor. The time for denial was over.

We discovered we weren’t dealing with one creature. Multiple Bigfoots—a larger, darker one (the aggressor), a smaller reddish-brown one (the curious one), and even a small juvenile—were inhabiting the woods. We heard their coordination at night: wood knocking that echoed across the property—three slow, deliberate knocks, answered by others. They were communicating, coordinating, and circling.

📷 The Camera War and the Final Sign

I installed the good trail cameras, hoping for proof. Within a week, three were gone. One was found smashed to pieces, the casing cracked open. Another was hanging upside down from a branch, repositioned to film the sky. They understood the technology and were actively neutralizing the surveillance.

The property damage intensified:

The storage shed was flattened, the metal roof twisted like foil.

The garden fence was ripped apart, posts yanked from their concrete footings.

The tractor wiring was torn out, costing us $1,500 for repairs.

It felt like deliberate, systematic harassment—an effort to drive us out.

The breaking point was the sighting closest to the house: a trail cam captured the largest Bigfoot standing thirty feet from the back windows at 3:17 a.m., watching the house. Then, prints appeared under the kids’ bedroom windows, where something had stood, watching them sleep. The children began reporting rhythmic tapping on their windows at night.

My wife was ready to leave. The kids slept on our bedroom floor. The entire farm was under siege.

🛑 The Last Stand

One evening, around sunset, I couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed my rifle, my spotlight, and walked to the tree line. I yelled into the woods, declaring that this was my land.

In response, three Bigfoots emerged from different angles, surrounding me in a wide semicircle. The massive leader picked up a thick branch and threw it past my head, landing with a thud. It was a demonstration of overwhelming power.

I backed away, finally understanding. I couldn’t win. They were stronger, more numerous, and they were not leaving.

I realized we had to leave the farm—my heritage, my pride, my livelihood. We contacted a realtor and began packing, carrying the immense guilt of having to sell the property to another family who would walk into a terrifying, hidden war.

The tragic irony: as soon as we started packing, the Sasquatch activity dropped off entirely. They had won. They were simply waiting for us to leave, reclaiming every inch of the land that was always theirs.