PART 3: Woman Meets a Talking Bigfoot Child, Then Something Amazing Happened – Sasquatch Story

🍎 The Price of Silence

The autumn visit six months after the initial encounter was supposed to be a return to normalcy—the quiet escape I’d always craved. But the cabin had become a charged space, a border crossing. It wasn’t my refuge anymore; it was a post office for the impossible.

I drove up in late October. The air was colder, the leaves mostly down, and the whole forest felt brittle and sharp. My usual supplies were now supplemented by a heavy-duty camping backpack stuffed with premium goods: bags of rice, high-calorie nuts, dense blocks of dried fruit, and—a personal touch I couldn’t explain—a dozen crisp, red apples. A strange, silent tribute to the species that had claimed me as their temporary quartermaster.

My first act upon arrival was not to unpack my own bags, but to make the delivery.

📦 The Exchange on the Stone

I walked to the flat-topped boulder, my designated drop-off point, feeling the familiar, low hum of anxiety mixed with a profound sense of obligation. The boulder was exactly as I had left it. I placed the new, fully loaded backpack squarely on the stone. It felt heavy with unspoken promises.

I stepped back about ten yards, stood under the shelter of the pine, and waited. I didn’t wait long.

There was a subtle shift in the shadows fifteen feet away—a compression of the air that was soundless, yet unmistakable. The mother was there. I couldn’t see her clearly, but the sheer presence of that immense mass was palpable, a deep gravitational pull in the darkness.

She wasn’t observing me with the harsh, assessing gaze from the first night. This was a different form of surveillance: silent, patient, and utterly confident in my obedience. She allowed me the space to complete my assigned task, giving me time to retreat before claiming the offering. It was a calculated, necessary distance.

I turned slowly, deliberately, and walked back to the cabin without looking back. I went inside, stoked the stove for the first time, and sat watching the perimeter through the small, grimy window, waiting for the sound of departure.

The sound never came.

Instead, ten minutes later, I saw a movement near the boulder. Not the mother, but a smaller figure. The child.

It was visibly bigger now, perhaps a year older, its reddish-brown fur thicker, its small body more robust. It approached the backpack tentatively, smelling it, touching the bright nylon fabric with careful, investigative fingers. Then, using a technique clearly taught, it pulled the heavy pack toward the darkest line of the trees. It moved with a surprising, youthful agility, hauling a load that should have been too much for it.

Before it disappeared, it stopped, looked directly at my cabin window—the window I was hiding behind—and raised its small hand, making a brief, soft gesture that I could only interpret as recognition. Then, it too vanished. The forest remained silent. The exchange was complete. The contract fulfilled.

🎁 The Impossible Return

I didn’t check the boulder until the next morning. I had to wait. Immediate gratification was not part of this arrangement; patience and adherence to the creature’s timeline were the only rules.

When I reached the spot, the large backpack was gone. The boulder was swept clean of leaves and pine needles. And in the center, arranged with an almost artistic precision, was this visit’s payment, the “tax” for my servitude:

A dozen red apples. The same kind I had packed, but perfectly halved, the cores removed, and laid out in a neat spiral. But they weren’t my apples. They were bruised and scratched, clearly foraged from a human orchard miles away, or perhaps stolen from a nearby farm stand. They were a bizarre mirror, a return of the intended offering, showing they didn’t need or perhaps trust my fresh fruit.

Three large, flawless pieces of gray slate. These weren’t just random rocks. They were flat, thin, and warm to the touch, almost perfectly square, and each one bore a distinct, freshly scratched marking.

I knelt, picking up the slates one by one. The first had a circular etching, a simple, perfect O. The second held a long, clean, downward line, a I. The third was the most complex: a shape that looked like a curved, almost elegant version of the alphabet letter R.

I ran my fingers over the scratches. They were deep and purposeful, clearly made with a sharp stone.

This was a quantum leap beyond a shed antler. This was intentional notation.

🤯 The Revelation in the Symbols

They weren’t just taking supplies; they were attempting to communicate with the only medium they knew I possessed: symbolism.

I carried the slates back to the cabin, laying them out on the wooden table. I stared at them all day.

Did O mean “Safe,” “Circle,” or “Home”? Did I mean “One,” “I,” or “Me”? Did R mean “Run,” “Danger,” or perhaps “Right/Correct”?

I felt a dizzying surge of frustration and excitement. They were speaking, and I was illiterate.

That evening, I did something incredibly risky. I took a piece of chalk I used for marking supplies, found a smooth, dark section of the floorboards near the table, and I knelt down.

Beside their three symbols, I drew three of my own, slowly and carefully:

A crude stick figure of a woman, pointing to myself. (Me/I)

A crude drawing of the small Sasquatch. (Child)

A large, simple drawing of an apple. (Food)

Then, I looked at the apple drawing and, next to it, I drew their circular O.

Finally, I made one more symbol: A crude picture of my car, wheels and all. And beside it, a large, definitive X.

I was telling them: I (Stick Figure) see Child. I give Food (Apple). The car (My return) is NOT (X) until next time.

The silence was the only answer.

The next morning, the slates were gone. The chalk marks remained.

I knew then that the most incredible part of the story wasn’t the encounter; it was the ongoing lesson. They had accepted my symbols into their own lexicon, testing the very limits of inter-species communication.

I packed up and drove home, leaving the scratched floorboards as the final piece of the transaction. The mystery was no longer about proving existence; it was about learning an impossible language, one symbol at a time, across a chasm of evolutionary difference. I was no longer a human in the woods; I was a teacher, a student, and a provider, bound by a contract sealed with a single, massive hand and the vibrating word, Oum.