2 Arguably the Creepiest Bigfoot Encounters I’ve Ever Heard (With Footage)

🌲 The Quiet of the Appalachian Dark

 

The house was one cough away from falling over, and Anna had lived in it for nearly twenty years. Not in the city sense of twenty years, where seasons blurred and new construction redefined the landscape. No, this was Appalachian time: slow, deep, and measured by the rhythmic absence of her husband, the quiet companionship of her hound, and the ceaseless, low-grade ache of a life half-stumped. The injury, a sudden, brutal blood clot that took her left leg above the knee in ’98, had anchored her here, a constant, physical reminder of limits in a place that knew none.

Her existence had shrunk to a manageable radius: the back porch chair, the chicken coop just past the hickory tree, and the worn patch of rug where her dog, an ugly but loved brown and white hound mix, slept. He wasn’t just a dog; he was the “other heartbeat in the house,” the only one who understood the parts that counted, like “you’re all I got.”

It was October 2001, and the woods, normally a chorus of gentle, soft gossip—chickens, owls, chirping brush—began to change their tune.

The first sign wasn’t sound, but absence. Three hens vanished over the course of a week. No feathers, no blood, the gate still latched. A fox would leave a sign, a drag path, a spot under the fence. This was clean, chillingly so. Anna, confined but not helpless, started watching, the old pain in her stump acting as an unwelcome barometer, always signaling the cold turn of the weather first in the bone.

Then came the sound.

One night, she lay awake, jolted not by fear, but by alert. A low, primal awakening that caused her heart to start before her mind could catch up. She heard it: heavy, slow like weight, two-legged.

Her dog confirmed the terror with a low, nervous hiccup-growl, a sound of a creature unsure if it should announce the threat or hide from it. The presence walked past her bedroom window, close enough for the old siding to complain as if under duress. Anna froze, flashlight unlit, holding her breath, listening to the impossible quiet. For thirty seconds, the woods held its breath too, then, way back behind the coop, branches snapped, not twigs. Branches.

The next morning, the smell hit her: wet dog, but sharper, almost sour. She dismissed it, foolishly, as a dead animal she couldn’t find. But the dog, her rock, wouldn’t go near the spot, whining low, tail down. Animals know.

The nightly routine of dread solidified. Around midnight and two a.m., she’d hear movement, sometimes far off near the creek, splashes like something heavy stepping through it on purpose. The woods would go dead quiet every time. It wasn’t the fear of being got, Anna realized. It was the knowing nobody’s coming.

The night before the turning point was the worst. Her dog, Buddy, wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t leave the back door rug, panting like he was hot in the biting October air. He wouldn’t step outside unless she leaned in the doorway, his back legs pressed to her foot “like a kid holding your coat in a crowd.”

Then, from the trees, she heard it: a person trying to whistle, but wrong. Two tones, air blown through teeth, a sound no wild animal made. It was a grotesque, deliberate signal.

The Crack

 

She woke in the chair at dawn, the sun up, the house feeling wrong. Buddy was gone. The back door, which she had meticulously checked, was unlatched. A wave of sickening guilt and fear made her call his name, the cold air rolling in.

Then, the yelp. One single, loud cry, cut short, followed by a crack loud enough to feel in her throat.

Anna moved on adrenaline and a crutch, half-hopping, half-dragging her body across the yard. She rounded the corner of the coop and saw him. “Not dropped, thrown.”

The dog was laid out, head wrong, back twisted like laundry. The front left leg was bent clean the wrong way, bone pushing white through the skin. The lack of blood was the final horror. Just spit and dirt and that same sour, rotten smell, only stronger now, thick enough to taste.

Anna sat hard in the leaves, repeating “no” over and over, a prayer of denial. She locked every window, dragged the dresser in front of the bedroom door—a useless, desperate “theater” of normal rules in a place that had none. Then, through her tears, she heard it: slow, heavy steps walking past the house again, close enough to hear the boards flex and the deep, calm breathing of a creature that was not scared of her at all.

Her husband returned to a white-faced wife and a fresh grave in the yard. He listened, silent, until he saw the torn-up dirt and the matted leaves where something big had shifted its weight. He came back inside, face white. “All right, I’m staying.”

The Unbearable Truth

 

The next morning, he strapped a motion-activated trail camera to the hickory, focused on the coop and the clearing. They sat up that night, the rifle propped on his knee, the TV providing a blue, fragile glow of normalcy.

Around 1:00 a.m., they heard a sound: running, fast, near the tree line. Then, deer blew—that frantic warning sound—followed by the sound of them crashing through the brush. Then, the chasm opened.

It wasn’t a howl or a scream. It was lower, like pressure, a deep chest sound rolling across the yard, enough to buzz the window glass. Neither of them said bear, because they both knew. He, a man scared of little, stayed planted, his hands shaking.

The camera yielded nothing until one frame, time-stamped 3:12 a.m.

Between the coop and the hickory was something.

It was big, taking up most of the frame, leaned forward mid-step. Its arms were too long, hanging past where a person’s hand would be. The hair was dark, almost black, matted. “It ain’t got no snout,” her husband kept repeating. It wasn’t a bear; the head was rounder, sitting forward without much neck.

But the legs: like a person’s legs, bent knee forward, heel up off the ground, with visible calf muscle under the hair. It was taller than any person and wider through the shoulders than two grown men. Its hip was above the five-foot coop fence line.

The image was a finality. “A costume don’t snap a dog like a chicken bone,” Anna stated.

Her husband went “real, real quiet.” Finally, soft: “Okay, we’re done here.”

She cried then, not from fear, but from the sudden, chilling clarity of the other kind of fear. Not something might get me, but something is letting me live.

They left the same day. As Anna waited in the truck, she watched her husband limp-walk toward the tree line, raise his rifle, and fire two shots into the brush.

“What was that for?” she asked.

“Respectfully letting him know we ain’t prey,” he said.

They sought help—a sheriff’s office adjacent buddy, a game officer—but the picture and the story were too big, too toxic. They were told it was a black bear even after explaining the two-legged gait and the missing snout. They shut up, moved to the city, to a rented place where the noise was human noise, not that dead quiet.

Anna still paid taxes on the land she wouldn’t set foot on. That’s what it did to her.

📷 The Digging Man

 

North Georgia, years later. For Alex, 24, life was centered around the thin line between civilization and the suffocating tangle of kudzu and thick pine where old cars and forgotten junk went to die. He rented a small place on the edge of the woods, next to the Tylers, an older couple who were away for two months on an RV trip. Alex was watching their place, tasked with keeping away the kind of trespassers who strip sheds for copper.

On a Saturday night, Alex and his friends—two buddies, two girlfriends—were hanging out, the night “normal, stupid normal,” filled with low music, beer, and tired conversation. Alex, a gearhead who loved his drone with a decent light and night mode, wasn’t looking for trouble.

Trouble came in the form of a sound from the Tyler’s yard: rattling junk, metal, a slow scrape.

His buddy Matt thought it was thieves. Alex’s first thought was, “Great. Now I got to be the adult.” They listened, and the scraping noise returned, slow, long pause, long pause. “More like somebody digging.” He couldn’t shake the feeling: “like hearing something you’re not supposed to hear.”

He launched the drone. The little hum of the props cut the silence.

The spotlight revealed immediate disarray. The ground was scuffed up, dragged in circles. The shed door was bent. And then he saw it.

Hunched low, back rounded, the figure looked like a guy in a hoodie until the light resolved the shape: brown hair, thick, wider up top than any human he knew. The neck was almost non-existent.

And the arms: long in a way that looked wrong, the elbows sitting lower than expected.

It wasn’t using a shovel. It was using its hands. The weight was forward on one arm, the other used to scoop, pull, and throw dirt in chunks, fast but controlled, like it had done this a thousand times.

Alex whispered, “Guys.”

Matt, dead quiet, asked, “What the [ __ ] is that?”

Alex’s brain fought for normalcy, trying to force the shape into a recognizable frame: bear, has to be a bear. But it moved differently. A bear paws and swipes. This thing scooped.

Then, it stopped. It froze like a statue, and then, the part burned into his memory: It turned its head and looked straight up at the drone. It didn’t just look up; it tracked it, found it, locked on.

The Unburying

 

The light hit the face. Alex’s girlfriend gasped, holding in a scream. The eyes caught the reflection, dimmer, flat amber, too human, but not. For a split second, it looked mad.

Then, they heard it: a hard push of air, not a growl, like someone who’d been lifting something heavy and let the breath punch out.

The woods went silent. The bugs stopped, the frogs muted. “Like the whole tree line just muted.” That sudden, absolute silence made Alex’s eyes water.

Then, the creature stood. Slowly, deliberately. It was massive; its hip was higher than the five-foot fence. It took two steps, vanishing right behind the big, bent tree at the back corner of the yard.

Alex followed with the drone, swinging, tilting. Nothing. It should have been right there, but there was no movement in the brush, no black shape, no shaking limbs. It was just gone.

Instead of calling the police, they did the stupid thing: they climbed the fence. Adrenaline, bravado, and a desperate need to know.

The smell hit them instantly: wet dog, garbage, and something coppery, thick.

The hole was soft, muddy, about a foot deep. And in it: bones. Different sizes, not laid out neat, just thrown in the dark, wet soil. Ribs, a leg.

“That’s human. That’s human,” his girlfriend cried, holding his arm until her nails broke the skin. Alex’s stomach dropped. This wasn’t a monster hunt; this was a crime scene they had stumbled into, alcohol on their breath, standing in someone else’s yard.

He called 911, saying only, “We thought we had trespassers and we found bones.”

Awareness

 

Deputies arrived. The searchlights flooded the yard. They were questioned, looking guilty as hell. They only took Alex seriously when they finally looked in the hole. “Don’t touch that,” one deputy snapped to the other, the same words Alex had used. The deputies pushed them back, taped off the area.

A deputy later told them what they saw: deer, dog, coyote bones, older and newer, stacked together. “Looks like something’s been killing out here and cashing it.”

Alex understood. Caching meant storing. The creature wasn’t burying. It was unburying. It was coming back to eat.

Alex told them about the something, describing the size, the movement, the drone interaction. The deputy didn’t laugh, just stared, saying, “We don’t get a lot of this.”

Later, alone in his living room, Alex replayed the footage.

The moment the creature stopped and looked up. It wasn’t startled. It wasn’t scared.

“What I saw, and I hate that I’m saying this out loud because it sounds insane, was awareness.”

It was annoyed. Like you again.

That was the thought that kept him up: If it wasn’t the first time, how many nights had they been talking and laughing with the fire pit, and it was 20, 30 yards away in the dark, quiet, listening?

He posted the clip online for an hour. Within that time, he received the usual comments—fake, ghillie suit, idiot—but also two messages from accounts with no profile pictures, telling him to take it down because it was active evidence in an investigation.

He deleted it. He still had the raw file, but he learned his lesson. Belief didn’t matter.

Now, he doesn’t go outside after dark without a light and a weapon. He knows it sounds paranoid. He doesn’t care.