A Bigfoot Started Sitting With My Grandpa Every Evening. After He Died, Everything Went Wrong…

The Thing That Came at Seven

For three months before my grandfather died, a Bigfoot sat with him every single evening at exactly 7:00 p.m.

I thought he was losing his mind when he first told me about his “visitor.” But the night I finally saw it for myself—a seven‑and‑a‑half‑foot creature settling down beside Grandpa’s rocking chair like they were old friends—I realized the world was stranger than I’d ever imagined.

And when Grandpa was gone, when that thing showed up at 7:00 p.m. to find an empty chair, everything started going very, very wrong.

1. The Old House in the Hills

My name is Arthur Jenkins, and I’m thirty‑four. I live in Bellingham, Washington, and I make my living as an electrical contractor: warehouses, houses, the occasional weird art installation for some local sculptor who insists the lights must “breathe.”

But for the past six months, my weekends haven’t belonged to Bellingham. They’ve belonged to the hills.

My grandfather, Roy Jenkins, lived forty miles outside of town, up a rutted gravel road that killed shocks for sport. His twenty‑acre property sat in the foothills of the North Cascades, wrapped in Douglas firs and bigleaf maples and a silence that seemed thick enough to hold in your hands.

He liked it that way.

The house was a two‑story craftsman he’d built himself in 1952, after Korea. Wide wraparound porch. Metal roof that turned rain into a constant percussion line. Big windows that looked out on three walls of trees and one narrow slice of the distant, blue‑washed mountains.

He and my grandmother, Helen, had lived there over forty years. She died in 1996. After that, he refused to move.

“I ain’t leaving the house I built with my own two hands to go sit in some apartment over a laundromat,” he’d told my mother. “They can drag my cold corpse out of here, but that’s the only way I’m moving.”

So of course, we all worried.

Weekend Routine

By October of 1998, I’d fallen into a rhythm:

Finish my last job Friday afternoon.
Load the ‘95 F‑150 with groceries, tools, and whatever random thing Mom insisted Grandpa needed.
Drive up the gravel road, trying not to think about how long it had been since his last cardiac checkup.

That particular Friday, the sky was a clear, brittle blue, the kind you get before the real Pacific Northwest rains move in for the long haul. Maples were going red and gold, the ferns at the forest edge half‑collapsed from the first frost.

I pulled up around six.

Grandpa was already on the porch, rocking slow in the old wooden chair, a faded patchwork quilt over his knees. His transistor radio—the same battered thing he’d had my entire life—murmured static and country from an AM station out of town.

“Arthur,” he called, lifting one hand in a small wave. “You’re later than usual.”

“Traffic,” I said, climbing the steps. “How you doing, old man?”

“Can’t complain.” He grinned. “Well, I could, but nobody’d listen.”

He’d been making that joke since I was eight.

We unloaded the truck. I stacked groceries on the kitchen counter while he shuffled around putting away canned goods at a pace that made my teeth itch. His hands trembled slightly when he reached for the higher shelves. The skin under his eyes had a bruise‑like darkness to it, a hollowing.

“You eating enough?” I asked, eyeing the fridge. It held a mostly empty carton of eggs, dubious leftovers, and four identical jars of homemade pickles.

“Eat what I want,” he said. “What I want is mostly canned stew and toast these days.” He eyed me sideways. “You staying the weekend?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Good.” A flicker of something relieved passed across his face. “Good. You’ll stay for dinner. Got venison stew on.”

We ate at the scarred pine table he’d built back when my mom was in high school. The stew tasted exactly like my childhood: salt, pepper, gravy thicker than it needed to be, tender meat from a deer he’d shot himself last year.

He asked about my work; I told him only the non‑boring parts. I told him about my sister Rebecca’s second pregnancy, my mother’s relentless campaign to marry me off.

“You’re thirty‑four,” he said. “Your mother thinks that’s practically the nursing home.”

“I know,” I said. “She’s acting like my next birthday comes with a walker.”

He chuckled, then winced and pressed a hand lightly to his chest. It was fast—just a flicker—but I noticed.

“You okay?”

“Acid reflux,” he said. “Don’t look at me like that.”

After dinner, I started washing dishes. The sun slid down behind the trees, and the kitchen took on that blue‑gray twilight that always made the pine boards look older.

Grandpa finished his last bite of bread, checked his wristwatch—a scratched old Timex—and pushed his chair back with a grunt.

“Well,” he said, “almost seven.”

“You turning in?” I asked. “It’s early.”

“Nah.” He folded the quilt over his arm. “Time to sit on the porch.”

He said it like it was an appointment.

“You do that every night now?”

“Every evening,” he said. “Seven o’clock like clockwork. Haven’t missed for three months.”

I paused with my hands in the soapy water. “Why seven?”

He smiled, a tight little secret‑keeping smile. “You’ll see. Come out at seven‑fifteen. Not before.”

“What does that even—”

He raised one bent finger. “Don’t make sudden moves. Don’t make loud noises. Just sit quiet and watch.”

I stared at him. “Are you messing with me?”

“You’ll see, boy.” He shuffled toward the door, quilt over his shoulder.

For a few minutes, I just stood there with a dish in my hand, listening to the screen door slap shut, wondering if this was the start of the thing I’d been dreading: the slow unraveling of his mind.

Three months of a strange seven‑o’clock ritual. Isolation. Grief. Age.

All the warning signs, if you read enough articles in the health section.

At seven‑twelve, curiosity and worry teamed up and pushed me out of the kitchen. I grabbed a beer, opened the screen door as quietly as I could, and stepped onto the porch.

Grandpa was already there. He sat in his rocking chair, quilt over his knees, motionless. The radio was off. The whole property felt hushed in a way that made my skin tighten.

He put a finger to his lips without turning his head.

I eased into the second rocking chair, the one that had been Grandma’s. It creaked in protest. I winced.

“What are we—” I whispered.

“Shh.” His gaze stayed fixed past the clearing, on the treeline where the yard dissolved into the dense shoulder‑to‑shoulder pines. “Watch by the big cedar.”

The clearing in front of the house stretched maybe sixty yards out, an open apron of thin grass and scattered stumps. Beyond it, the forest rose like a wall. The big cedar stood a little apart—massive, ancient, its bark ribbed and deep.

The last light was draining away, leaving everything in blue shadow.

I stared. The sky darkened. My beer sweated in my palm.

Nothing.

I was just about to say something snarky—something about squirrels on schedule—when the line of trees shifted.

Not the wind. Not branches. Something.

It stepped out of the darkness like it had always been there, waiting.

At first, my brain decided it was a bear. We had black bears up here, and they could rear up on their hind legs. But this shape was wrong.

Too tall. Shoulders too broad. Arms dangling too low. The way it moved—balanced, easy, upright—wasn’t like any bear I’d ever seen on TV or out camping.

It took another step forward into the fringe of the clearing, and the light caught it.

Dark, reddish‑brown fur, matted in places, thick over its whole body. Long arms that nearly reached its knees. Hands—actual hands, big and rough and wrong—swinging at its sides.

My fingers closed around the arm of the rocking chair until the wood bit.

It came closer. Thirty yards. Twenty‑five.

Every instinct I had screamed run.

I didn’t move. Grandpa didn’t either.

The creature stopped about twenty feet from the base of the porch. It studied the house, then Grandpa, then me. Its head was conical, the skull sloping back, the face shadowed—more human than ape, but not either. Its eyes reflected just enough twilight to glow faintly.

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion that looked… respectful… it folded its legs and sat cross‑legged on the ground.

Like a person settling down to visit.

“Evening, friend,” Grandpa said. His voice was calm and warm and utterly unlike how I felt. “This here’s my grandson, Arthur. Arthur, meet my visitor.”

The creature turned its head to look at me.

I could see more of its face at that distance—the heavy brow, the broad nose, the wide mouth that held no obvious fangs. The eyes were the worst and best thing: dark, reflective, curious. Intelligent.

My throat felt dry. “What the hell is that?”

“Language,” Grandpa chided automatically. Then, more quietly, “Don’t rightly know what to call him. Bigfoot, I suppose. Sasquatch. Been coming around every evening for three months now. Seven on the dot.”

“You’re serious.” My voice sounded far away.

“Look like I’m joking?”

I looked at the creature—Bigfoot, my brain whispered, incredulous—and back at Grandpa.

“Three months,” I hissed. “And you didn’t tell anyone?”

“Who’d believe me?” he said. “Besides, didn’t seem right. This is between him and me.”

I watched the thing sit there, perfectly still except for its slow breathing. It didn’t fidget. Didn’t sniff or snarl. Just… existed, watching us like we were as strange to it as it was to us.

“What does it want?” I whispered.

Grandpa’s rocking chair creaked softly as he shifted. “Company,” he said. “Near as I can figure. Same thing I want. Gets lonely out here. I think he’s lonely, too.”

2. The Visitor

We sat in silence with the impossible creature for about forty minutes.

The forest breathed around us: crickets, the distant hoot of an owl, the faint rush of a creek down in the ravine. The house popped and creaked as the temperature dropped. Every once in a while, the creature’s chest rose a little deeper, or its head turned a few degrees.

Otherwise, it was a statue.

At seven‑forty‑five, it stood.

Even that was quiet—no grunts, no heavy huffing. It moved like its joints knew exactly how far they could go and no farther.

It looked at Grandpa for a long moment.

Then it turned and walked back toward the cedar. Three steps into the treeline and it was gone, swallowed by shadow like it had never been there.

I realized I’d been holding my breath and let it out in a shaky rush.

“That,” Grandpa said, “is my evening visitor.”

I stared at the empty spot where it had sat. “You’ve been doing this for three months. Every night.”

“Hasn’t missed once.”

“You know what this is, right?” I said. “If people found out—photographs, videos—this would be—”

“Exactly why people don’t get to find out,” he cut in sharply. “You hear me, Arthur? Nobody. Not your sister. Not your mother. Not your drinking buddies. This stays between us.”

“But—”

“That thing’s been living in these woods probably longer than you’ve been alive,” he said. “Maybe longer than I’ve been alive. Only way something like that stays hidden is if people who see it keep their damn mouths shut.”

He fixed me with a look that had not weathered at all with age. “They start coming up here with guns, traps, helicopters… it’s dead. Or in a cage. Neither’s right.”

I opened my mouth, closed it again. Looked back at the trees. A dozen questions burned in my throat.

“Why you?” I asked finally. “Why does it come to you?”

Grandpa’s rocking slowed.

“Dunno,” he said after a moment. “I think maybe it recognizes something. Two old critters at the end of the line. Doesn’t want to be alone. Neither do I.”

The way he said it—at the end of the line—put a cold finger down my spine.

“You’re not—”

“I’m eighty, kid,” he said, but there was no bite in it. “This doesn’t go on forever.”

We went inside. I lay awake half the night listening to the forest, half expecting huge feet on the porch.

They didn’t come. Not that night.

But the visits continued.

Patterns

I stayed the whole weekend.

Saturday: 6:55, we’re on the porch. 7:00 exactly, the creature emerges, sits, watches. 7:45, it stands, leaves. Same path, same distance, like someone had taped an X on the dirt.

“Notice how he always sits in the same spot,” Grandpa said. “Never closer, never further. That’s boundaries, Arthur. That’s respect.”

“Did you train it?” I asked, half‑joking.

“I ain’t training anything that could pull my arms off,” he said.

Sunday repeated the pattern, except for one detail: when it left, the creature paused at the treeline and looked back. The stare stretched to ten seconds, maybe more.

“Different,” I said.

“Yeah,” Grandpa murmured. “Yeah, it is.”

Monday, I had to go back to town. Work doesn’t care about cryptids.

I hugged him, hard. “You call me if anything feels off. Heart, breathing, anything. You promise me.”

He rolled his eyes. “You fuss more than your mother.” But he patted my shoulder. “I’ll call.”

During the week, I phoned him every evening around six‑thirty.

“You out there?” I’d ask.

“Damn right,” he’d say. “And so is he. Seven o’clock, regular as taxes.”

There was a lightness in his voice I hadn’t heard since Grandma died. I hated what that implied—that the happiest I’d heard him in two years was because a giant forest monster had decided he was interesting—but I also couldn’t deny the truth.

He was less alone.

3. The Heart

By the next Friday, I was more anxious than excited to see the thing again.

I pulled up around five‑thirty. Grandpa was already on the porch, quilt tucked in, radio off, just watching the trees.

“You’re early,” he said, but he smiled. “Good. Was hoping you’d get here in time.”

“How you feeling?” I asked. He looked… smaller. Not in height, but in the way old people seem to shrink into their clothes.

“Cold,” he admitted. “Even when it’s not. Doc says that’s the circulation.”

“Doc says anything else?”

“Doc says my heart’s worn out like a pickup engine that’s done too many miles,” he said, too casually. “Pills, rest, don’t stress.”

“You didn’t tell me that.”

He shrugged. “Didn’t want to fuss you. You drive too fast when you’re fussed.”

We ate. He barely touched his spaghetti. That scared me more than any doctor’s report.

At six‑fifty, we were in our chairs.

At seven, the creature stepped out of the treeline.

This time, its whole posture screamed alert. Its head turned constantly, scanning the forest behind it, the slopes beyond. Every few seconds, its nostrils flared.

“He’s nervous,” Grandpa said. “Something’s got him spooked.”

Ten minutes in, it did something new.

It stood and walked forward. One step. Two. Three.

Every muscle in my body coiled. It stopped fifteen feet from the porch.

“Easy,” Grandpa said quietly. “Let’s see.”

The creature made a sound: a low, resonant hum that I felt more in my ribs than my ears. It wasn’t a roar or growl. It was… questioning.

“I’m all right, friend,” Grandpa said. His voice was soft, reassuring. “Don’t you worry about me.”

The creature tilted its head. The hum deepened.

Then it lifted one massive hand and pointed at Grandpa’s chest.

Not vaguely. Precisely. The thick finger hovered in the air over the exact spot where his heart would be.

Grandpa’s breath hitched. “He knows,” he whispered.

“How could it—”

“He knows I’m broken,” Grandpa said quietly. “Animals know when something’s wrong. Maybe he’s more than just animal.”

A gust of wind pushed cold air across the porch, and Grandpa shivered.

“I’m old,” he said out loud, looking at the creature. “Old and tired. Heart’s giving out. But I’m glad you come by. Makes the evenings easier.”

The creature made another sound. Softer. Almost… sad.

They held each other’s gaze for a long time.

Then the creature backed away, step by deliberate step, until it reached its spot. It stayed standing the rest of the visit, shoulders tight.

That night, when I woke up at two a.m. to pee, I heard something outside. Leaves rustling closer than usual. Heavy, slow footfalls pacing along the property’s edge.

I peeked through the guest room window.

In the moonlight, I could see it—a hulking shadow moving in a slow circle around the house, head turning, sniffing the air, every line of its body taut with watchfulness.

Standing guard.

The Decline

The weekend slid into a pattern of worry.

The creature came every evening.
It stayed agitated, often standing instead of sitting.
Grandpa seemed to age in fast‑forward: tired, pale, breathing hard after simple tasks.

Sunday night, the creature barely stayed twenty minutes before pacing, then leaving, then circling the house later.

“He knows something’s coming,” Grandpa said. “End of the line. Animals sense that.”

I hated how calmly he said it.

Monday morning, I begged him again to come stay with me in town.

“If I’m going to go,” he said, “I’m doing it here. In my own chair. Looking at my own trees.”

I drove back to Bellingham with my stomach in a knot.

I called every night.

Monday, he sounded okay.

Tuesday, weaker.

Wednesday, tired. “Just going to turn in early,” he said. “Stop worrying. I’ll see you Friday.”

Thursday at six‑thirty, he didn’t answer.

At six‑forty, he didn’t answer.

At six‑forty‑five, I was already halfway to the truck when my phone rang.

“Arthur Jenkins?” a man’s voice asked. “This is Deputy Carlson with the county sheriff.”

The words blurred after that.

Neighbor four miles down saw the porch lights weren’t on.

Came up to check.

Found him in the rocking chair.

Looked peaceful.

Coroner estimated time of death around six‑forty‑five.

Fifteen minutes before seven.

Before his visitor.

4. The Empty Chair

I drove that road like a man possessed, gravel spitting from under my tires, the truck skidding around a corner that could’ve sent me into a ravine.

By the time I got there, the deputy’s car was in the drive, its light bar dark. The sky had gone full night. The house windows glowed warm.

The warmth felt like a lie.

He was gone. They’d already taken the body into town.

What was left was just an indent in the cushion of the rocking chair, the quilt folded neatly over the arm.

The deputy offered me a paper cup of coffee and practiced condolences.

“You okay here alone tonight?” he asked finally.

“I’ll manage,” I said.

He drove off, taillights vanishing down the road. The property sank into its usual deep quiet.

I sat on the porch, in the second chair, staring at Grandpa’s empty one.

It was nine‑thirty. I kept thinking about the time.

Six‑forty‑five. Fifteen minutes before.

Had the creature come? Had it stepped out at seven to find emptiness? Had it walked up to the porch and sniffed death? Or had it stayed hidden, sensing something wrong, unwilling to cross some invisible line?

I wrapped the quilt around my shoulders. It still smelled faintly like his laundry soap, and underneath, like cedar and old tobacco.

Forest sounds ebbed and flowed.

At some point, I must’ve dozed off, because the next thing I knew, I was waking in the guest room to pitch darkness and the faint sound of movement.

Not out in the trees. Closer.

On the porch.

I eased out of bed, every board in the old floor protesting. The house felt different—emptier, like a note just slightly off key.

At the front window, I moved the curtain the smallest possible amount.

The thing was right there.

Five feet away, on the other side of the glass.

It stood beside Grandpa’s chair, hulking shape outlined in starlight, head bowed. For a few seconds, it didn’t move at all.

Then it reached out one massive hand and touched the arm of the rocking chair with a delicacy that made my chest ache. The chair shifted, creaked as it rocked slowly.

The creature made a sound.

I’d heard its questions, its alert hums, its warning barks. This was different.

A long, low, rising wail that started deep in its chest and climbed until it trembled in my teeth. Grief, pure and raw, poured into the night.

If an animal howled like that in a movie, you’d call it melodramatic. In real life, it was unbearable.

It pressed its hand to the back of the chair for a moment longer, as if trying to feel for something that wasn’t there.

Then it turned and disappeared down the steps.

Branches cracked as it moved around the house, faster than I’d ever heard it move. A tree somewhere near the driveway shuddered violently, shedding a rain of leaves.

I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the floor with my knees against my chest, hands over my face, breathing hard.

We weren’t supposed to do this, I thought. We weren’t supposed to teach monsters how to grieve.

5. When Grief Turns

The next morning, the property bore scars.

Footprints—huge, deep, clear—circled the house. They came close to windows, doubled back, lingered near the porch. A section of railing looked splintered, as if something had grabbed it hard. Deep gouges raked the siding below Grandpa’s bedroom window.

It had been trying to see him. To find him.

I cleaned up what I could. Called the funeral home. Called my mom. Called Rebecca.

They arrived over the next few days, filling the house with murmured condolences, casseroles, and tissues. I didn’t tell them about the creature. Grandpa had made me promise.

Friday evening, my family left me alone for a while to go through his papers.

I checked my watch at six‑fifty‑five, then put the last folder down.

This was stupid. But I went to the porch anyway.

I sat in Grandpa’s chair. The wood felt heavier than it ever had before.

The clearing lay still under a gray October sky.

7:00 p.m.

It stepped out.

Same path, same cadence, like habit had imprinted on its muscles. It walked to its spot, then stopped, head tilting.

The chair it was accustomed to seeing occupied was empty. The person who sat there was gone.

It stared for a long time.

Then its head snapped toward me.

Its eyes, even at that distance, sharpened.

I swallowed. “He’s gone,” I said quietly, not sure why I was talking out loud. “Grandpa’s gone. His heart… stopped.”

The creature stood in one smooth motion. It took several steps closer to the porch, halving the distance between us. I forced myself not to scramble back.

Up close, it looked different.

Not physically—still huge, still furred, still utterly alien—but something in its posture had changed. The way its shoulders hunched. The way its chest rose too quickly, too shallow.

It made a noise—high for its range, questioning but loud—almost like a name called into the dark with no expectation of answer.

“He’s not coming back,” I said. Saying it hurt. “He died.”

The creature’s breath hitched. Its chest swelled, then deflated.

Then came that sound again—the grieving cry I’d heard the night before—but longer this time, worse. It echoed off the hills, bounced around the clearing, slid between the trees and up under my skin.

My own eyes blurred. I wasn’t ready to watch my own grief reflected in something not even human.

Afterward, it turned away abruptly and strode back to the treeline, faster than usual, movements jerky.

Dark swallowed it.

Night fell. I heard it in the forest for hours, crashing through underbrush in a way it never had before, shredding the careful silence that had always seemed part of it. The wind carried snatches of low, broken sounds.

The next night, it didn’t wait for seven.

It came and went, circling the house, approaching the porch, retreating. At one point, around 2 a.m., the front door rattled as if something tested the handle, gentle but insistent.

The knob held. The lock would not have stopped it if it had really wanted in.

By Sunday, when Rebecca and her husband Tom arrived, my nerves were shot.

When Others See

We were eating dinner—microwave lasagna and over‑boiled green beans—when I felt it.

That prickling on the back of my neck, the sense of being watched without knowing from where.

The clock read six‑fifty‑three.

“I’m going to get some air,” I said.

Tom glanced at the window. “In this cold?”

“I like the cold.”

He snorted. “You’re weird.”

On the porch, I wrapped the quilt around myself and sat in the second chair this time. I didn’t know why; instinct, maybe. The idea of sitting in Grandpa’s spot felt wrong.

At seven, the creature came.

It emerged from the trees slower than usual. Its steps were careful, almost hesitant. When it saw me—not Grandpa—its pace quickened.

It walked closer than ever before until it stood ten feet from the porch stairs.

The last of the light caught its eyes. Those eyes—God, I still see them in some dreams—were stormy with confusion, pain, and something like accusation.

“I know,” I said softly. “I know you miss him. I do, too.”

It made a sharp sound that distorted halfway through, like it wasn’t sure if it wanted to be a bark of anger or another mourning call.

The front door opened behind me.

“Arthur, you okay out—”

Tom stepped out onto the porch, words dying in his throat as he saw it.

He froze. For a heartbeat, none of us moved.

“What the hell,” Tom whispered. “That’s… that’s not a bear.”

The creature jerked at his voice, eyes snapping to him, then back to me. Its nostrils flared, chest heaving.

“Get inside,” I said quietly, without taking my eyes off it. “Now.”

“I’m not leaving you—”

“Tom,” I said, sharper. “Get Rebecca and Emma into the back bedroom and lock the door.”

Something in my tone must’ve cut through his shock. He stumbled backward inside, yelling for Rebecca.

The creature took another step forward, one huge foot landing on the bottom stair. The boards creaked under its weight.

I stood slowly, hands visible, heart racing so hard it hurt. “I’m not him,” I said. “I’m not Grandpa.”

It made a low growl, not at full volume, but enough to vibrate the air between us.

“He’s gone,” I said. “You know that. You’ve been looking for him. He’s not here. I can’t be him.”

It slammed one fist into the porch post, not aiming at me—but the wood cracked with a gunshot sound.

Inside, Emma started crying.

The creature’s head snapped toward the noise. It hesitated.

In that hesitation, I saw it—the war between instinct and something like conscience. It was hurt and angry and bereft and very, very strong. It could have cut through that wall like cardboard if it chose.

I lifted my hands higher. “If you come in,” I said quietly, “people will shoot you. You know that, right? If not me, then someone else. They’ll hurt you. You don’t want that. I don’t want that.”

Its hand stayed on the splintered post.

Then slowly, fingers shaking, it let go.

We stared at each other, frozen in a little pocket of time.

Finally, it stepped down off the porch. Another step back. And another.

At twenty feet, it stopped, made one more low, pained sound, then turned and strode back to the treeline.

“Arthur,” Rebecca’s voice called from inside, thin with fear. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” I lied automatically as I stepped in, shutting and bolting the door. “Just… a big animal. It’s gone.”

Tom grabbed my arm. “Don’t you dare,” he hissed. “Don’t you dare say ‘nothing.’ What did I just see?”

I looked at him, then at my sister, then at my niece clinging to Rebecca’s leg. They deserved the truth. Or at least some of it.

“A Bigfoot,” I said finally. “He used to visit Grandpa. They… were friends.”

The room went quiet in that stunned, disbelieving way that means people are trying to decide whether to laugh at you or call someone.

And over all of it, the ticking of the kitchen clock marched on toward eight o’clock.

6. The Attachment

I kept Grandpa’s secret from the world, but after that night, Tom and Rebecca knew. I couldn’t lie to them about the broken railing, about the footprints impossible to mistake.

We argued about calling someone. Fish and Wildlife. The sheriff. A university.

“Grandpa made me promise,” I said. “No one comes up here with guns and camera crews.”

“It almost came through the wall,” Rebecca said. “You can’t just—manage this on your own like it’s a demanding neighbor.”

But that’s exactly what I tried to do.

After the funeral, after Mom went back to Seattle and Rebecca to Mount Vernon, I settled into a temporary pattern:

Work in town Monday through Friday.
Drive up Friday evening.
Be on the porch at seven.
Sit through the creature’s visit.
Sleep uneasily.
Repeat Saturday and Sunday.
Leave Monday morning while it watched from the treeline or the ridge.

At first, it seemed to help.

The creature still grieved. You could see it in the way it hunched, in the low sounds it made sometimes without meaning to. But it no longer slammed the porch or circled the house all night.

It sat at its spot.

It watched me.

Then, after forty‑five minutes—always forty‑five minutes—it left.

I told myself I was honoring Grandpa this way. That I was… continuing something he started. That maybe I was helping the creature through its version of heartbreak.

It took three weeks for me to realize I was wrong.

Lines Crossed

The first Friday of November, I stepped out of my truck at six and knew I wasn’t alone.

The forest was too quiet, in that way where the silence feels full.

I scanned the treeline, hand instinctively going to the tire iron behind the driver’s seat.

“Hey,” I called. “Seven, remember? I’ll be on the porch.”

Something shifted behind the cedar. I couldn’t see it clearly—just bulk—but I felt the weight of its attention.

At seven, it appeared like clockwork. But the stare it leveled at me was different: hungrier, almost. More… expectant.

The next morning, I found footprints on the porch itself. Mud tracked up to the door, inches from the threshold.

It had come up in the night. Stood just outside. Maybe listened to me turn over in my sleep.

“Okay,” I said out loud to no one, heart thudding. “Not okay.”

That evening, it sat closer. Just a few feet, but the difference was stark. The invisible line it had always respected had been nudged inward.

“That’s close enough,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “We keep our distance. You know that.”

Its brow wrinkled, an almost human expression of confusion and hurt. It didn’t move back.

Sunday, I woke to scratches on my truck door, long gouges furrowing the paint and metal.

Not from aggression—the lines were straight, not raking—but from touch. Curiosity.

It was exploring me. My things. Extending the idea of “us” into spaces that had always been only mine.

That evening, when I told it I had to leave in the morning, it became visibly agitated. It pointed at the truck, at me, at the house, then made a sound that rose and broke.

“I have to work,” I said. “I can’t live here full‑time. I’ll be back Friday.”

If it understood anything, it didn’t like it.

Monday morning, when I drove away, I saw it in the rearview mirror. It stood in the clearing, not at its usual spot, but halfway to the house, watching my truck disappear with an intensity that made my skin crawl.

7. The House Gifts

The following Friday, the front door was open.

Not broken. Not splintered. Just… open.

A cold rush of dread swept through me. I grabbed the tire iron and pushed the door wider with my foot.

“Hello?” I called, because habit kills more people than curiosity.

The house smelled like damp earth and musk under the usual scent of dust and old books.

Nothing was smashed. The TV sat untouched. My tools were where I’d left them. But everything felt subtly wrong.

The kitchen chairs had been moved—pushed back from the table in a weird, uneven pattern. The quilt from Grandpa’s rocking chair lay folded on the living room floor, carefully, like someone had tried to imitate how humans fold things but didn’t quite understand.

And on the kitchen table, someone had arranged a little altar.

A deer antler, clean and curved.

Three perfect pine cones, similar in size, tips still sticky with sap.

A ring of smooth river stones framing the center.

And in the middle of the circle: a small carved figure, whittled crudely from some pale wood. It had a head, a torso, stubby limbs. Two dots for eyes. Simple, but deliberate.

I stared at it, and the meaning hit me with an awful clarity.

It was an offering.

The floor creaked behind me.

I turned slowly.

The creature stood just outside the open door, filling the frame, watching me with enormous, wary hope.

It made a low, questioning sound. Its gaze flicked from my face to the table and back.

“You… brought these?” I asked, voice unsteady.

Another sound. Softer. Expectant.

“You can’t come inside,” I said, a little too fast. “This is my space. You had to… open the door.” The idea of it turning the knob with those hands sent a shiver through me.

It shifted its weight, confusion and hurt practically radiating from it.

“I appreciate the gifts,” I said more gently, gesturing at the table. “These are… good. Thank you. But the house is off‑limits. You stay outside. I stay inside. We meet on the porch. That’s the rule.”

The word rule felt feeble and human and utterly inadequate.

It stared at me for a long time, then made a low, uncertain sound and stepped away. Not toward the forest.

Around the side of the house.

I heard the scrape of wood, the creak of strain. When I got to the back window and peeked out, my stomach dropped.

It had climbed onto the one‑story section of the roof above the kitchen and was sitting there, legs drawn up, watching me through the glass.

“Get down,” I called, because that’s what you say when something is on your roof, whether it’s a raccoon or a cryptid.

It didn’t move. Just watched.

It had found a loophole: not inside, but above. Still close. Still present.

That night, after our 7:00 porch visit, it climbed back onto the roof and stayed there. I heard it moving overhead well past midnight, the occasional low sound drifting down through the boards.

The next morning, I found new dents in the metal roofing. Little cracks in the shingles. Its mere presence was breaking the structure that had held my grandparents’ whole life.

“You’re going to destroy this place,” I told it later, standing in the yard, looking up at its silhouette against the sky. “I can’t live here if you’re on the roof. I can’t fix this every week.”

It peered down, head tilted, as if trying to decode my tone.

I realized then that it wasn’t just grief making it cling. It was the memory of consistency—of seven o’clock every evening, of a man who never left. In its mind, I’d stepped into that role.

And then, stubbornly human, I’d refused to be the role.

8. Breaking Point

I tried to establish boundaries more aggressively after that.

I refused to answer the door when it rattled the knob at odd hours.

I stayed inside at seven one evening, just to test what it would do.

It did not go well.

At seven, it emerged on schedule, walked to its spot, sat. Waited.

After five minutes, it stood and came to the porch, peering at the empty chairs. It made its calling sound—loud, rising, echoing. The sound hit me like a physical shove.

I stayed behind the curtain, heart pounding.

It climbed the steps. The house shook just slightly with its weight. It tried the doorknob, gentle at first, then harder. The lock rattled in the frame.

If it decided to really push, the wood would splinter.

“Please go,” I whispered to the door. “Please.”

For a long moment, the knob trembled, and the wood groaned.

Then the pressure eased. Footsteps thudded across the boards, down the stairs, around the house.

A minute later, I heard it climb back onto the roof, more roughly than before.

It stayed up there all night. All the next day. When I finally left Monday around noon, it was still there, hunched, watching me. It didn’t even pretend to hide anymore.

The world narrowed to one fact:

I couldn’t live my life with a grieving giant camping on my roof.
It couldn’t live its life with me coming and going like a faulty heartbeat.

And Grandpa’s promise—don’t tell—sat in the middle, heavy and impossible.

The next week, something new started.

My phone rang.

No caller ID, just “Incoming Call.”

I answered. “Hello?”

Silence. Then, faintly, a low sound—too low to be heard across a line, but somehow there.

I hung up.

The next night, seven on the dot, it rang again.

Same silence. Same distant, impossible hum, like someone had put a microphone twenty yards from the clearing.

Emotion doesn’t follow rules. Neither, apparently, did whatever weird connection had formed between this house, that creature, and me.

9. One Last Visit

By the end of November, I’d hit a wall. My work was suffering, my sleep was a mess, and the house—Grandpa’s house—felt less like a refuge and more like a contested border zone.

Rebecca’s husband, Tom, said the obvious thing over the phone: “You can’t fix this. You are not obligated to emotionally rehabilitate Bigfoot.”

Logically, he was right.

Emotionally, it felt like betraying Grandpa.

I drove up that Friday with a plan I hated.

As I pulled into the clearing, I saw it immediately: the hulking shape on the roofline, still as part of the structure, watching.

It climbed down with surprising speed and stood in the yard as I parked. It didn’t approach, but it didn’t retreat either. Waiting.

We didn’t do the porch ritual that night, not exactly.

I stood at the railing. It sat at its usual spot.

“This isn’t working,” I said, my breath fogging the air. “You know that. I can’t be here every day. I can’t sleep under you stomping on the roof. You can’t follow me to town. You lived alone for years before Grandpa. You can live alone again.”

Its head tilted. The look in its eyes was… tired. Hurt. Stubborn.

I went on, because I had to.

“You helped him,” I said. “Those months, you made his life better. I think you know that. Now he’s gone. Nothing brings him back. Not me. Not you. Not… whatever this is.” I waved vaguely between us.

It made a sound in response, low and long and filled with pain that had nowhere to go.

Grief, I’d learned, is awful in humans.

In something huge and strong that doesn’t fully understand its own emotions, it’s terrifying.

“Hurting me won’t fix it,” I said quietly. “Keeping me here won’t fix it. I’d die. Other people would come. They’d have guns, traps, helicopters. You’d die, too. The only way you live is by staying wild. Staying away from us.”

Something in its posture changed—anger flaring over hurt.

It surged to its feet and charged the porch.

This wasn’t a test this time. The impact of its weight as it hit the railing sounded like a tree snapping in a storm. Wood exploded into splinters. The railing gave way, and it spilled onto the porch in one smooth, terrifying motion.

Suddenly, it was six feet away from me. No boards between us. Just air.

I couldn’t move. Fight or flight had short‑circuited. All I could do was stand there, heart hammering, watching its chest heave.

It raised its hand.

I flinched.

The blow never came.

Instead, it thumped its hand against its own chest. Once. Twice. Three times. The sound was a meaty drumbeat.

Then it pointed that same hand at me.

Then at Grandpa’s empty chair.

Then it mimed something breaking—hands pulling apart, fingers splaying.

I understood.

Its heart. My heart. The chair. The visits. The rupture.

“I know,” I said, tears stinging my eyes. “I know it hurts. I know you lost him. I lost him, too. It feels like something tore right through you and left a hole behind.”

We were both breathing hard now, like we’d run a race without moving.

“You can’t fill that hole,” I said. “Not with me. Not with anyone. It just… becomes part of you. You learn to walk around it. That’s what people do. Maybe that’s what your kind does, too. I don’t know. But I know you can’t stand on this porch forever.”

It let out a sound so full of anguish that it broke something inside me.

Then, to my utter bewilderment, it sank down.

It sat on the porch floorboards, legs folded. Then it bent forward, bringing its huge hands up to its head, fingers digging into the fur at its temples.

Its shoulders shook.

I don’t know if Bigfoots can cry. If they can’t, this was the closest analog: a full‑body expression of a grief so large it had nowhere safe to go.

My knees gave out, and I slid down the wall until I sat too, maybe eight feet from it. Not touching, but not as far as we’d once stayed.

“My grandmother died two years ago,” I said into the cold air. “Grandpa thought he’d follow within a month. He didn’t. He stayed. And he was so damn lonely. Then you showed up. You gave him something he didn’t know he needed. And then he went anyway.”

The creature’s breathing slowed, from ragged to steady.

“Losing her broke him,” I said. “Losing him broke you. Losing him broke me. It’s… the same story, different species.”

We stayed like that as the sky went from blue to violet to black.

Finally, after what felt like an hour but was probably closer to forty‑five minutes—always forty‑five—it straightened.

Slow. Stiff.

It looked at me. Really looked. And in its eyes, I saw something new.

Not acceptance. Not yet. But the start of it.

It made a small sound. A question.

I understood the shape of that question: One more?

I nodded.

We moved then, together.

I dragged Grandpa’s rocking chair down off the porch and into the yard, closer to the spot where it always sat. It watched me, then lowered itself into its usual place.

I sat in the rocking chair facing it.

For one last time, we had an evening visit.

No porch between us. No railing. Just cold air, the smell of damp earth, and the rustle of the forest.

We didn’t speak. It didn’t vocalize much after that first small sound. We just sat as the light faded and the stars came out, two living things holding the same absence between us.

At the forty‑five‑minute mark—because of course it was—the creature stood.

So did I.

It took a few steps closer, slow and deliberate, until it stood near enough that I could see individual gray hairs in its fur.

It lifted one hand, carefully, like it was moving something far more fragile than a human should be to it, and set that hand on my shoulder. Not squeezing. Just resting.

The weight was heavy, but the touch was gentle.

We stayed like that for a heartbeat.

Then it withdrew its hand, turned, and walked toward the treeline.

At the forest’s edge, it stopped and looked back.

The look was not pleading, or angry, or confused.

It was something quieter. Something that felt like gratitude. And goodbye.

Then it stepped between two firs and was gone.

I never saw it again.

10. What Remains

I came back the next weekend. Sat on the porch at seven, heart pounding.

Nothing came.

I came back the weekend after that. Same routine.

Still nothing.

Oh, I saw signs—the occasional massive footprint near the property line, a distant shadow on a ridgeline that might’ve been it. Sometimes, late at night, I heard a sound carried faintly on the wind, low and resonant, not quite mournful anymore.

But it never came to the clearing again.

The gifts it had left—antler, pine cones, carved wooden figure—I kept. They sit now on a mantle in my townhouse, next to photographs of my grandparents.

I sold Grandpa’s property eventually. I couldn’t keep up with the maintenance, and being there without him—or the creature—was like living in the echo of someone else’s life.

But I didn’t sell to some developer with dreams of vacation cabins and hot tubs.

I sold to a conservation trust. They promised to keep the land wild. No logging. No subdivisions. Just forest.

That mattered.

It’s 2005 now. Seven years since my grandfather died in his rocking chair at six‑forty‑five on a Thursday evening.

Seven years since something impossible stepped out of the forest, sat down in his silence, and changed everything.

I don’t tell this story much.

Who would believe it? “My grandpa befriended Bigfoot, and then I had to teach Bigfoot how to let him go” is not a thing you drop into small talk.

But I think about it more than I admit.

I think about an eighty‑year‑old man and a creature that shouldn’t exist, both of them old in their own ways, both of them watching the world move past, both of them unwilling to meet the end alone.

I think about how everything went wrong after Grandpa died—roofs dented, doors rattled, a porch railing broken, fear in my sister’s eyes.

But under that, before that, something had gone right:

For three months, an old man wasn’t alone at sunset.
For three months, a monster wasn’t just a monster.
For three months, two beings shared time without needing to speak the same language.

Grief made a mess of what followed. It always does.

But the visits themselves?

Those were the miracle.

Sometimes, late at night, my phone will ring once, just once, at seven.

I’ll answer, and there’ll be nothing but the hush of the line.

If I listen hard enough, past the static and my own pulse, I almost think I can hear it—that low, resonant sound, steady now, not mournful.

Not calling for someone who won’t answer anymore.

Just… there.

A reminder that somewhere out in the dark shoulder of the North Cascades, something huge and impossible is still alive. Still wild. Still carrying the memory of an old man who sat with it every evening at seven o’clock.

The visits ended.

The connection didn’t.