The Guard’s Confession: Paid to Watch Bigfoot, He Flipped Sides After Its Single Question About Humanity

The Bigfoot behind the steel bars wasn’t supposed to be real, but there it was, shackled to the mountain itself. It breathed heavy clouds into the freezing October air, staring at me with the same hollow, exhausted eyes I’d seen in prisoners of war. They never told me I’d be guarding a living nightmare pulled straight out of the forest, something that shouldn’t exist, and yet was very much alive in front of me.

My name is Nathan Cole. I’m 55 years old and I spent 22 years in the army before the Gulf War sent me home with a bad knee and worse memories. Since ’92, I’d been living in a cabin outside Forks, Washington, doing odd security jobs for logging companies and the occasional private contract. Out here in the Olympic Peninsula, the trees don’t ask questions, and the rain washes away everything you’d rather forget.

It was October 1996 when I got the call. I was fixing the roof on my cabin when my pager went off—Unknown number. I climbed down, walked inside, and dialed back on the landline while lighting a Marlboro.

“Mr. Cole,” a professional voice with an East Coast accent cut through the static. “My name is Dr. Richard Brennan. I’m calling on behalf of Helix Bio Research Corporation. Your name came highly recommended for a specialized security position.”

I took a drag. “I don’t do corporate work.”

“This is field work. Remote location. The pay is $15,000 for two weeks. Cash.”

That got my attention. Fifteen grand was more than I made in six months. “What’s the catch?”

“You sign a non-disclosure agreement, work alone, and don’t ask questions about what you’re guarding. You have military experience, you know the terrain around Olympic National Forest, and you can keep your mouth shut. Those are the qualifications we need.”

I looked around my cabin. Water stain on the ceiling. Truck outside needing new tires. Empty refrigerator. Winter was coming.

“Where and when?”

“Forty miles northeast of your location. A courier delivers the contract tomorrow morning. If interested, be at the coordinates by 0800 hours on October 18th. Come alone. Bring your service weapon.” He hung up.

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The Subject in Containment

Next morning, a gray sedan pulled up at 7 a.m. sharp. A guy handed me a Manila envelope through the window and drove off. Inside was a contract full of legal threats, a map with red coordinates, a $5,000 cashier’s check as a down payment, and simple instructions: Guard a biological specimen in containment. Observe and report. Two weeks minimum radio silence unless emergency.

I should have walked away, but bills don’t pay themselves. I figured they’d caught some endangered animal and didn’t want PETA finding out. I signed the contract and cashed the check.

On October 18th, I loaded my Chevy K10 with supplies, books, my Beretta M9, ammunition, and cheap whiskey. The drive took me deep into logging roads that weren’t on any map, through forests so thick the morning sun barely penetrated. Credence Clearwater Revival played on the cassette deck as I navigated muddy tracks.

The road ended at a small clearing. Two vehicles sat there: a white van and a Ford Explorer. A man in his 40s emerged—a lab guy playing outdoorsman.

“Nathan Cole?”

“That’s me.”

“Dr. Brennan. Follow me.”

We walked a narrow trail until it opened onto a natural shelf in the mountainside. That’s when I saw the containment area. A natural alcove in the rock face, sealed with thick steel bars welded into a frame anchored into the rock. Heavy chains ended in massive cuffs. And inside, sitting in the shadows at the back, was something impossible.

The creature was massive, easily seven feet tall even sitting down. Dark brown hair covered its body, matted and dirty. Shoulders impossibly broad, arms long and powerful. But the face made my blood run cold. Flat, almost human, with a pronounced brow ridge and intelligent eyes watching us with more than animal instinct. A fresh wound on its left shoulder had a makeshift bandage, blood seeping through.

“Jesus Christ,” I whispered.

“Officially, it doesn’t exist,” Brennan said quietly. “We caught it three weeks ago after a logging truck hit it on Route 101. Driver thought he’d struck a bear. Found this instead. We call it Subject 7. And yes, Mr. Cole, it’s real. Genetic tests confirm it. Not human, not quite ape. A relic population that’s avoided detection for centuries.”

It shifted, wincing from the wound. Standing, it would be 7½ feet tall, maybe eight. I couldn’t look away. The creature watched me with the same intensity.

“Your job is simple,” Brennan continued. “Watch it 24 hours a day. Feed it twice daily—vegetation, fruit, raw meat. Do not enter the containment area. Do not attempt communication. Just observe and report. Can you handle that?”

In the creature’s eyes, I saw resignation. Something that knew it was trapped and had given up fighting.

“Yeah, I can handle it.”

The Nod of Recognition

Brennan showed me the camp: a canvas tent with a wood-burning stove, a cot, monitoring equipment, a two-way radio, and a logbook. Radio for emergencies only. He and his team drove away, engine sounds fading until only mountain silence remained.

Around noon, I prepared the first feeding. I loaded apples, carrots, kale, and raw venison into a canvas bag and hiked back to the containment site. The creature was in the same position. I knelt and pushed the bag through the gap at the bottom, then stepped back.

Slowly, the creature rose to its feet. It limped toward the food, favoring the injured shoulder. Chains clinked softly. Long fingers, almost human, pulled out an apple and bit into it. The crunch echoed.

When done eating, it returned to the back and sat down, pulling the canvas bag close. But before settling, it did something that made my blood run cold. It nodded at me once, clear and deliberate.

That wasn’t instinct. That was communication. That was intelligence.

The Broken Protocol

That night, the temperature dropped hard. Around midnight, the rain came—cold and driving. I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the creature chained to the mountain. At 2 a.m., I pulled on my rain gear and hiked back.

The creature was huddled against the back wall, hair soaked, shivering. The shoulder wound looked worse—the bandage completely soaked with rain and blood. I looked at this impossible creature, and it looked back at me. In that moment, I saw suffering. I saw consciousness. I saw someone, not something, trapped and in pain. The rain didn’t stop for three days.

On the third morning, the rain finally broke. I loaded the feeding and added my personal first aid kit with antibiotics and clean bandages. Then I grabbed a wool blanket from my cot and stuffed it in the bag.

I reached the containment site. The creature’s eyes were closed; its breathing labored. “Hey,” I called out. The eyes opened slowly.

I pushed the food through, then pulled out the blanket. It wouldn’t fit. The creature gripped the bars and pulled itself closer. It pointed at the blanket, then at itself, nodding deliberately.

I folded the blanket lengthwise, threading it through the bars inch by inch. When I got it through, it wrapped the fabric around its shoulders and made a low, rumbling sound.

“You’re welcome,” I said quietly.

I sat on a flat rock. “That shoulder’s infected. It’s going to get worse if someone doesn’t treat it.” They told me not to go in there, but I knew what septic shock looked like.

The creature extended its injured arm through the bars as far as the chains allowed, holding it there.

“You understand me, don’t you? You actually understand what I’m saying.”

The creature kept its arm extended, waiting.

I pulled out the first aid kit and approached. The wound was terrible. I cleaned it with antiseptic wipes, and the creature held perfectly still. Its breathing came faster, harder, but it never made a sound. I applied antibiotic ointment and wrapped it in clean gauze.

When done, it pulled its arm back slowly, examined the bandage, then looked at me and placed one massive hand over its chest, bowing its head slightly. Thank you.

That wasn’t an animal. Animals don’t say thank you.

The Deal

I started treating the creature regularly. We developed communication through gestures. It was no longer a specimen; it was a prisoner with a name I didn’t know, a past I couldn’t comprehend, and a future I was now responsible for.

One afternoon, I brought the notebook and pencil. The creature took them and started to draw. Crude but deliberate lines: a mountain, trees, then five tall, broad-shouldered figures standing together.

“Your family,” I said. It nodded. Then it drew an X through two figures. Dead. It circled the remaining three and added more mountains, more trees. Then it drew a small figure separate from the others—itself, trapped here. The other three were still out there somewhere.

“They’re coming back in ten days,” I told it that night. “They’ll run tests, take samples, maybe dissect you. You’ll never see the forest again.” Something flickered in its eyes: understanding fear.

I looked at the chained, blanket-wrapped being.

“But if I can make them believe you died, stage it right, they might give up. I’d need time to plan it, and I’d need you to trust me.”

The creature reached out one massive hand. I took it. We shook once. Deal.

A few days later, I heard heavy, deliberate footsteps outside. I grabbed my pistol and stepped out. The creature stood at the edge of camp. The chains were broken. Metal links dangled from the cuffs.

“How long have you been able to break those?”

It held up three fingers. Three days. It could have escaped but stayed because I asked it to trust me.

“Why didn’t you run?”

The creature pointed at me, at itself, and made the handshake gesture. A deal. It pulled out the notebook. A map. An X marked 10 miles northeast with three figures.

“That’s where they are.”

It pointed at itself, at me, at the map—together.

“You want me to help you get back to them?”

Another nod.

“Okay. We do this together. Make them believe you’re dead. Wait for them to leave. Then I help you get home.”

The Great Deception

The morning before Brennan’s arrival, I woke before dawn. The plan: Stage a death by septic shock, claim immediate cremation per “biohazard protocol,” and present ashes mixed with deer bones I would hunt.

I spent the morning hunting, collecting a deer’s shoulder bones and ribs. I built a large fire pit, burned the bones until they were charred and fragmented, and mixed them with wood ash. I scattered the prepared ashes across the floor of the containment alcove, making it look like the remains of something much larger. I shot Polaroids of the empty alcove and the “cremation site” for documentation.

At sunset, I went for one last trip. The creature was waiting.

“Tonight,” I said. “After dark, I open the bars. You slip out quietly and hide in the tree line about 50 yards north. I’ll burn some material, scatter the ashes. Tomorrow morning, when they arrive, you stay hidden. Don’t move. Don’t make a sound. After they leave, we head northeast.”

The creature bowed its head slowly. Respect, gratitude, honor.

Darkness fell. I unlocked the padlocks, and the barred section swung open. The creature stepped through, taking a deep breath of free air, the first in four weeks.

“North,” I whispered. “Fifty yards, the thicket. Go.”

It moved silently into the darkness, disappearing like a shadow.

By 2 a.m., everything was ready. I radioed base.

“Cole to base. Emergency situation… The specimen is dead. Expired approximately 2300 hours. I’ve cremated the remains per containment protocol. Requesting immediate team arrival.”

The static cleared and a different voice cut in. “Brennan. Mr. Cole, this is Dr. Brennan. Walk me through exactly what happened.”

I recited my prepared statement—septic shock, immediate cremation, protocol 7—keeping my voice steady and professional.

“We’ll be there first light,” Brennan said, furious. “Don’t touch anything else. Don’t leave the site.”

The Price of Freedom

Three vehicles pulled into the clearing at 5 a.m. Brennan and five others.

“Show me,” Brennan commanded.

I led them to the alcove. Brennan knelt by the ashes, picking up a bone fragment.

“Bone structure is consistent,” he said quietly. “Size and density match what we’d expect. Collect samples. I want everything analyzed back at the lab.”

While the technicians worked, Marcus Webb, the head of security, pulled me aside. “You made a tough call in a difficult situation. These things happen.”

Brennan emerged, pulling off his gloves. “We’re done here. Pack up the samples and sweep the rest of the site.”

“What about my payment?” I asked.

Webb handed me an envelope. “The remaining $10,000 as agreed.” He added a warning about the NDA. “You never saw anything here. This location doesn’t exist. Understand?”

“Perfectly.”

They loaded up and drove away. When the sound of the engines faded, I turned toward the tree line.

“They’re gone,” I called out softly.

The creature emerged from the thicket. It moved to the empty alcove, picked up a small stone, and placed it carefully at the entrance—a memorial.

“Come on,” I said. “We’ve got a long hike ahead of us. Let’s get you home.”

The Promise of the Mountain

We left within the hour. The creature moved through the forest like it was part of it, while I crashed through underbrush like the clumsy human I was. My bad knee was screaming by mid-afternoon. We reached a deep valley untouched by logging. The air smelled cleaner, wilder.

Then, the creature stopped. Three figures emerged from the trees ahead. They were similar in size, but each was distinct. The reunion was silent and profound, touches of foreheads and hands, examining the creature’s healing wound.

The creature I’d freed gestured for me to come closer. It pointed at me, then at the others—Friend, helper, protector.

The tallest one, the elder, touched my face gently, acknowledging me. Then it led us to a cave hidden behind a waterfall. Inside, the walls were covered with pictographs: art, history, story. They showed their existence spanning centuries, their numbers declining as humans arrived. Dozens became tens. Tens became five. Five became three.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry for what we’ve done.”

The old one showed me the newest carving: a human figure standing between these creatures and others with weapons. The protective figure. It pointed at that figure, then firmly at me.

The creature I’d freed drew in the notebook: humans destroying the forest, cutting trees, spreading. Then it drew the four of them disappearing deeper into the mountains. Finally, it drew a human figure alone, standing at the edge of that wilderness, with a line connecting it to the hidden creatures.

“You want me to be a guardian, to keep the secret, but also keep you safe?”

The old one stepped forward, touched the carving, and made a sound—a deep, resonant word. The creature I’d freed touched my shoulder and made the same sound. They were giving me a name. In their language, in their history, I was now the protective figure, the guardian.

“Okay,” I said, my voice rough. “Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll protect you. I’ll make sure your hiding places stay hidden.“

The old one gripped my hand. A promise made and received.

The creature pulled out one of the blankets I’d given it, carefully folded, and handed it to me—a reminder, a piece of shared history. We shook hands one final time. It stepped back into the darkness of the cave and disappeared.

The End of the Story

Three months later, I heard about a proposed logging expansion into the Northeast Olympic wilderness—the area where they hid. I attended every public meeting. I filed environmental impact complaints. I became that annoying guy who showed up at every hearing with another objection. I made sure those permits got tied up in red tape for years. Eventually, the company gave up.

I kept the blanket folded in a drawer, touching it sometimes when I needed to remember why I was doing this. I never saw them again, but I didn’t need to. Some things don’t need proof to be real. Some mysteries don’t need solving.

I’m 62 now. My knee is worse. And I’ve spent the last seven years fighting to protect wilderness areas that most people don’t even know exist. I’ve prevented three logging projects and gotten one valley designated as a protected ecological research zone, off-limits to everyone. People think I’m crazy, an obsessed environmentalist. And I let them think that, because the truth—that I’m protecting the last refuge of an intelligent species driven to near extinction by human expansion—that truth would destroy everything.

The creature showed me something more important than words: that we humans have always been the monsters. We’re the ones who hunt what we don’t understand. We’re the ones who destroy what we can’t control. And sometimes the only way to protect something beautiful and rare is to make sure the world never knows it exists.

I keep the secret. I guard the wilderness. And I’ll keep that promise until the day I die.