Bigfoot Can Talk – This Woman Captures Terrifying Footage of a Talking Sasquatch

Wani Cu Raha: The Secret of the Shouting Giant

The wildest part of my story, people assume, is the video footage—a ten-second clip where a colossal, hair-covered creature steps out of the trees, scares off two mountain lions, and shouts something that sounds like a word. But that’s not what truly unsettled me. What really messes me up is the three soft taps on my door at 3:00 in the morning, and the feeling, before I opened it, that something gentle was standing behind my ten-year-old son, Denny, on the porch.

My name is Sarah. In 2014, I was 32, divorced, working at a gas station, and living with Denny in a small, remote cabin out toward the Cascades in Washington State. Our life was small and ordinary—just trees, rain, and the quiet I craved after my divorce. But those three days when Denny was gone, and the terrifying knowledge that followed, shattered that ordinary life forever.

The Warnings

It started subtly. Denny, ten, skinny, and all questions, came home from school one afternoon, jittery. “Mom, I saw Bigfoot,” he said, dead serious, pointing to the line of trees near an old stump. I laughed, chalking it up to a nature show. “It was probably a bear,” I dismissed, already focused on dinner. Denny shut down, frustrated by my disbelief—mistake number one.

The little things began to stack up. I found the lid of the metal trash can neatly placed on the ground, the bag inside torn open, a dent high on the rim. The damage was too tall, too deliberate for a raccoon, yet I insisted it was a smarter-than-average bear.

Then Denny started telling me about knocking: three evenly spaced taps on the back wall. I rationalized it as shifting wood, but one night, rinsing plates, I heard it myself: Knock. Knock. Knock. I flipped on the porch light, saw nothing but the trees, and then the smell hit me—a heavy, musky, wild odor, like wet dog and dirt, that vanished as quickly as it appeared. I didn’t tell Denny I’d heard it.

My casual denial and fear of feeding his “Bigfoot story” only deepened the chasm between us.

The situation escalated when I got stuck on a night shift. I came home at 2:00 a.m. and saw the porch light I always left on was off. Denny was asleep on the couch. He claimed the light went off “right after the knocks,” which came first on the back wall, then the front. “And I heard breathing right outside the window,” he said. “He’s checking on us.”

A few days later, dragging the trash can, I saw the footprints: two massive impressions in the damp earth, longer than my boots by a third. Five clear toes. They were spaced in a straight, two-footed stride, far too close to the house for any normal animal. My hand reached for my phone, but a stupid voice in my head whispered, “If you take a picture, then it’s real.” So, I didn’t.

That same night, a long, low, unrecognized sound—not a coyote, not an owl—came from the trees, raising the hair on my arms. Denny squeezed my hand. “That’s him.” Three knocks followed on the wall. I grabbed my gun, went to the back door, and saw nothing but the feeling that someone had just stepped out of sight. I called the ranger the next day, who kindly explained the habits of bears and the weird way sound carries. When I mentioned Bigfoot, he looked away.

The Abduction and the Apology

The day Denny vanished, a heavy feeling settled on me on the drive home. I pulled into the driveway and knew instantly something was wrong: it was too quiet. His backpack, his shoes, a half-eaten apple—all were there. Denny was gone. I searched, screamed, and finally called 911.

The next three days were a blur of flashing lights, crackling radios, and grid searches. Volunteers called his name until the sound became rote. By the third night, the searching had faded to a quiet resignation. I lay in his empty room, running through every horrible scenario.

Around 3:00 a.m., it happened. Three soft knocks on the front door.

“Mom, it’s me,” his voice said, clear as anything. “Please open the door.”

I fumbled the lock. Denny stood there, muddy but unharmed, looking strangely composed. Behind him, filling the top of the doorway, was a massive, dark shape.

My brain locked onto my son. I yanked Denny inside, stepping between him and the thing. Up close, I saw the mud-streaked hair, the shoulders wider than the door frame, the dark, focused, non-animal eyes.

I raised the gun I didn’t even remember drawing. “Get away from my house!”

“Mom, don’t!” Denny screamed, grabbing my arm. “Don’t hurt him! He’s Uncle!”

The creature flinched, startled, making a deep, short sound. The gun went off, the bullet tearing into the porch roof. The creature grabbed the porch post, then stepped backward into the shadows. In that split second, our eyes met. I saw confusion, perhaps even hurt.

I slammed the door. “Why did you do that?” Denny yelled, hitting my arm. “He brought me home!”

Denny told me everything: He followed a rabbit into the trees and got lost. The creature—“Uncle”—stepped out, held his hand, and led him without stumbling to a cave in a rock face. Inside, “Auntie”, shorter with lighter hair, sat near a bed of ferns. Uncle fed him berries and protected him.

He was there for three days. They didn’t speak in human words, but he felt their intention. On the third day, when Denny signed and said, “Home,” Uncle sighed, then nodded. On their journey back, Denny heard men with guns passing nearby. Uncle stepped in front of the cave entrance, blocking the view, while Auntie pulled Denny deeper into the darkness.

“He helped me,” Denny concluded. “You always say nobody’s out here to help us, but he is.”

Two days later, the front door was cracked, the frame splintered, but nothing was missing. On the porch, a basket woven from bark and branches sat next to the doormat. Inside were roots, berries, and a strange fruit.

“It’s from him,” Denny said. “He brought food to say sorry.”

My mind went to force; Denny’s went to apology.

The Video and the Word

I started searching online, driven by a need to understand the knocks and the murmurs Denny heard. I found the old recordings known as Samurai Chatter—deep, fast, speech-like sounds recorded in the 1970s. When I put headphones on, parts of the rhythm felt horrifyingly familiar.

I isolated one clip where a phrase sounded like “Wani cu raha.” I recalled a comment suggesting the phrase meant, “I’m here. Don’t be afraid.” If that’s what he’d been saying to my son in the cave, it was a terrifyingly human act.

Then I got the video.

It was a beautiful afternoon. I walked to the creek, my phone in my hand. Two mountain lions had me cornered on the rocky bank. I lifted my arms to look big, and my thumb accidentally hit the camera icon.

Then, a roar—deeper, rougher than any lion—crashed from the trees. He stepped out.

The camera shook violently, but he was there: a massive, hair-covered chest, a heavy brow. The mountain lions bolted. He drew in a huge breath, and then he shouted it:

“WANI CU RAHA!”

The sound hit the phone, distorting the microphone. He stood there for a second, then turned and vanished. Ten seconds of clear footage. I had proof—proof that would bring drones, rifles, and men seeking a “trophy.” The first feeling I had was not excitement, but dread.

He stepped between me and two lions, risking himself, and shouted a word that felt like, “I’m here. Don’t be afraid.” I owed him more than I owed anyone who wanted proof.

We settled into a strange truce. I left apples at the tree line. Denny talked to the trees.

A few months later, Denny, sensing his presence, asked, “Do you want to see where I was? He’ll take us.”

The large male—Uncle—stepped out from the trees. I followed him and Denny through the deep woods. The creature moved with silent, effortless purpose. I saw the rock face, the small cave mouth, and Auntie, watching us. Along the rock wall, I saw markings—smudged lines and circles—art, perhaps, or a record.

I spoke to him, not in words he understood, but in clear intent: “I promise I won’t tell anyone where this is.”

He tilted his head and made a string of deep syllables. Denny smiled. “He says safe, I think.”

I moved us away from the cabin a few years later, trading the quiet of the forest for the noise of the town. I took the video off my main phone and put it on an old one, with no cloud, no backup. It lives in a drawer.

I sit on the secret. Maybe it makes me a coward. But something out there saved my son, hid him from the kind of men who would now hunt him. He brought my son home. He saved me from two mountain lions. I owe him.

Sometimes, at 3:00 a.m., I still hear it: three soft knocks on a door that isn’t there anymore. And I remember the creature on the camera screen, staring past the lens, like a neighbor at the edge of the light, saying the only thing that has ever really mattered: “I’m here. Don’t be afraid.”