Big Foot (Email Format)

The Legacy of Willow Creek

Email #1 

Subject: My Family’s Relationship with Bigfoot is… Complicated

Hey there,

Figured I'd drop you a line after binge-watching your channel last night. You folks talk about Bigfoot like you're almost in on the joke—but also kinda serious, which is perfect. Because what I’m about to tell you sounds like a joke... until it’s not.

My name’s Caleb Hunter. I live in Willow Creek, California—yes, that Willow Creek. The Bigfoot statues, the museum, the tourist trap beef jerky stands... we’ve got it all. Most folks here lean into the legend for business. My family? We don’t talk about it.

Because we don’t need to.

We’ve met him...

See, back in 1908, my great-great-granddad Elias was wandering near Bluff Creek, probably half-drunk and fully lost, when he stumbled across something big, hairy, and disturbingly calm. Legend says he offered it a stick of chewing tobacco and called it "Frank." Frank accepted. Didn’t chew it. Just sniffed it and sneezed so loud a hawk fell out of the sky.

That’s how it started.

Since then, every generation of Hunter men (and lately, women—my little sister talks to one like it’s her forest therapist) have maintained contact with what we’ve come to call the Whistlers. Not just one Bigfoot—it's a clan. And somehow, keeping them happy has kept us on top.

Want an example? Town elections? A Hunter always wins. Our crops don’t die, the internet never lags, and one time our old dog fell into the creek and came back younger. I'm not kidding.

There are rules, though. Never take a picture. Never follow them too deep into the woods. Never beat your chest while looking at them. (I mean, why would you?!) And once every seven years, someone in the family spends a night alone by the "Listening Tree." That was me last summer. I heard things. I saw things. And let’s just say, I’m not scared of bears anymore.

If you want more, I’ve got stories that’ll make your eyebrows relocate.

But be warned: this isn’t a cryptid fairytale. It’s real. It’s weird. And yeah… it’s a little hilarious.

Let me know if you want the next chapter.

– Caleb

Email #2 

Subject: The Listening Tree Isn’t Just a Tree

Hey again,

Glad you’re still with me. Most people ghost me after the phrase “younger dog,” but I guess you’re made of sturdier stuff.

You asked about the Listening Tree. Yeah... it’s not just a name we came up with to sound mysterious. It actually listens. And if you're quiet enough, it'll talk back.

Every seven years, someone in our family has to spend a full night beneath it. No phone. No flashlight. Just you, a lantern, and whatever the forest decides to share.

For me, that night came last July. My dad handed me a canvas pack, gave me this dead-serious look, and said, “Remember, don’t speak unless spoken to.” Which, coming from a guy who once yelled at a deer for “eating arrogantly,” felt oddly profound.

So I hiked out past the creek and into the old part of the forest—where the trees don’t rustle so much as breathe. That’s where the Listening Tree lives. It’s this towering redwood that looks like it could file taxes—ancient, weathered, and slightly judgmental.

I sat down at its base, lit the lantern, and waited.

Nothing happened for hours. Just wind, owl sounds, and a raccoon that tried to steal my protein bar. But around midnight, the air got… thick. Like the forest was holding its breath.

Then came the whistling.

Not a bird. Not the wind. Them.

Low, rhythmic whistles echoed from the trees—like a language. Then footsteps. Heavy ones. Crunching leaves like they own the place. And then I saw them: two silhouettes, just beyond the tree line. One tall, broad, moving slow. The other smaller, crouched, watching me.

The bigger one stepped forward and did something weird—it pressed its hand to its chest, then pointed at me.

So I mimicked it.

It nodded. Just once. Then turned and disappeared into the trees.

The little one stayed. Watched. And just before dawn, it made this strange low hum. The kind you feel more in your bones than your ears.

And the Listening Tree? It creaked. Not from wind. Like it was responding.

When I got home, my dad was already waiting on the porch. Just smiled and said, “You’re one of us now.”

Still not sure what that means.

But ever since that night, I’ve been hearing things. Whistles in the wind. Hums in the ground. And once, when my car wouldn’t start, I heard that low whistle—and the engine kicked on like magic.

Coincidence? Maybe. But in Willow Creek… probably not.

More soon, if you’re still curious.

– Caleb