05 Jan The Night I Met the Dogman

I’ve heard the stories about the Michigan Dogman my whole life. Born and raised in Michigan, you can’t escape the tales—people swear it only comes around every seven years, but I’ve always figured that was just part of the myth. Truth be told, I never thought I’d have my own encounter, let alone one that still haunts my dreams.

It happened in the dead of winter, years ago, when I was visiting my cousin’s cabin up north. Hunting season was my favorite time of year, and I’d been hunting these woods since I was a teenager. I knew every trail, every tree stand, every sound. Or at least, I thought I did.

That morning, I woke up early—3:47 AM, to be exact. I remember the time because I glanced at the clock as I grabbed my rifle and headed out into the freezing darkness. The snow crunched beneath my boots as I made my way to my blind, which I’d set up the day before in a clearing about a mile from the cabin.

The woods were alive with sound—owls hooting, squirrels scurrying, and the occasional rustle of leaves as some small animal moved through the underbrush. It was peaceful, familiar.

And then, all at once, the forest went silent.

I don’t mean it just quieted down; I mean dead silent. No wind, no animals, nothing. The kind of silence that makes your ears ring and your chest tighten. I froze, straining to hear anything—anything at all.

Then came the sound of something big moving through the trees.

I gripped my rifle tighter and brought my scope up, scanning the clearing. That’s when I saw it: a six-point buck stepping cautiously into view, its head low as it nibbled on the tall grass.

I lined up my shot, steadying my breath, but before I could pull the trigger, the buck’s head shot up. It wasn’t looking at me; it was looking at something behind it.

And then it was gone.

A blur of black fur flashed through the clearing, and the buck let out a gut-wrenching shriek. It all happened so fast that I could barely process it. The sound of the deer’s death carried from the right—low, wet, and final.

My first thought was a bear. It had to be. But my gut told me otherwise.

I swung my scope toward the sound and saw it.

The thing was massive, crouched low over the deer’s body. Its fur was black with patches of gray, matted and dirty. I could hear its deep, raspy breathing—almost like a dog after a long run, but heavier.

I should have stayed in the blind. I should have just watched, quiet and still. But fear and instinct took over.

I stood up and tried to unzip the blind to slip out quietly, but the zipper caught, and I stumbled forward, crashing to the ground.

The creature’s head snapped up at the noise, and in that moment, it stood.

It stood on two legs.

The thing was at least seven feet tall, with long, muscular limbs and shoulders broader than any man’s. Its face was like a wolf’s but more angular, its snout long and lined with teeth that caught the faint moonlight. And its eyes—they burned an unnatural yellow, locked onto me like it was sizing me up.

Then it let out a sound I’ll never forget—a howl that started low and guttural before climbing into a high-pitched roar. The force of it rattled in my chest, and I knew I had seconds, if that.

I raised my rifle and fired.

The shot hit it in the shoulder, and I know it connected—I saw the impact and the spray of blood. But the creature didn’t go down. It didn’t even flinch.

It roared again, and that was all the convincing I needed. I ran.

I don’t remember how I made it back to the cabin. My legs burned, my lungs screamed, and the whole time, I didn’t dare look back. The thought of those glowing eyes chasing me was enough to keep me moving faster than I’d ever run in my life.

When I reached the cabin, I slammed the door shut, locked it, and bolted every window. The next thing I knew, I was crouched in a corner, rifle in hand, waiting for the sound of its claws on the porch.

But the sound never came.

* * * * * *

The next morning, my dad and I went back to the blind to check things out.

The clearing was a mess. Blood was everywhere, staining the snow in dark, sticky patches. The deer was gone—dragged off, judging by the deep grooves in the snow—but what stood out most were the prints.

They were huge, clawed, and unmistakably canine. But they weren’t normal dog prints. The stride was too long, the depth too heavy. And then there was my blind—it had been torn apart, shredded like it was made of paper.

The blood trail led away from the clearing, circling back toward the cabin. It stopped just outside the guest room window, the one I’d been sleeping in.

That was the last time I ever went to the cabin.

A year later, my cousin went hunting up there and brought his husky, Rocky, along. He left Rocky outside overnight, figuring the dog would be fine.

The next morning, he found Rocky cowering under the house, shaking and whimpering like he’d seen the devil himself. The porch had deep claw marks gouged into the wood, and the snow was littered with prints like the ones I’d seen.

After that, my cousin packed up the cabin and left. He hasn’t been there since.

---

🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available

Written by Craig Groshek (retold from a true scary story)
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

🔔 More stories from author: Craig Groshek (retold from a true scary story)

Publisher's Notes: N/A

Author's Notes: N/A

More Stories from Author Craig Groshek (retold from a true scary story):

No posts found.

Related Stories:

No posts found.

You Might Also Enjoy:

Average Rating:

10

Those Wise Eyes

Average Rating:

7.83

8 Matches

Average Rating:

9.83

Hospitality

Average Rating:

10

Terror in the Mind of the Abyss

Recommended Reading:

Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).