The Michigan Dogman

A speculative folktale of terror.

Dear Reader: This week you have the option to read this short story, or to listen to it as an audio drama that I have produced! [1] The story is one of folklore, written like a ghost story you would tell around a campfire. If you have feedback our questions about the narration, please let me know in the comments.

People say you can’t really get lost in the Michigan woods, not unless you’re a child or drunk. Not like the Grand Canyon or Yosemite, where you can walk twenty miles without running into a single soul. There is a stretch of woods, though, one I know well, that has caused me a great deal of pain and suffering. It sits between Black River and Lost Cabin Trail in the lower peninsula, and it’s where Thomas and I visited for one weekend every year, for the last six years. Year seven will never happen.

Thomas was my college roommate. We both graduated with computer science degrees, traded our love of the outdoors for twelve-hour-a-day startups, got married, had kids and then grew apart as friends do sometimes. He called out of the blue one day after a harsh burnout. It didn’t matter that he could retire at thirty-five off his stock options alone. There was nothing left but the shell of a man, his marriage in shambles, his children familiar with their father only through the glow of a monitor.

We met up on a patch of private land owned by a family friend, hiked North along Black River and then trekked East, deep into the forest. It was just what he needed, just what we both needed. That first year was glorious and I could tell it gave Thomas hope. Subsequent years were almost as fulfilling, but I could sense he was changing. An uncovered affair meant divorce was inevitable and his kids despised him for being a homewrecker. Drinking was the only way he knew how to cope. Thomas’s outlook on life grew dark, his dreams slowly turning to ash, resulting in a nervous breakdown.

When year six rolled around, I had to drag him along, trying desperately to convince him it was the only thing that could give him perspective. Instead, it brought unspeakable terror.

At the end of August, it was time to leave. Kids would be entering school soon — sports and extracurricular activities taking up too much time for us to find another open weekend. We met, backpacks filled for two days and two nights of camping and hiked into the wilderness. Thomas wasn’t interested in walking the shores of the river this time, feeling despondent and lost, he wanted to vanish immediately into the trees. 

The first day and night went by without incident. Thomas looked to be relaxing, opening up about his family and the struggle he was having finding a purpose. On the second day we decided to head back over to Black River, do some fishing and cook our catch for dinner that evening. It should have been straight West, an hour’s hike at most. When one hour turned to three, we both grew concerned. A clearing did eventually open, but it wasn’t the river that greeted us. It was our campground. Thomas was hysterical, shouting obscenities, repeating over and over that the trip was a big mistake.

I couldn’t console him. He said the woods were no longer a comfort — they were a vice, squeezing out every last bit of his sanity. I agreed that we needed to leave. Festering beneath the surface was a disquieting uneasiness, as we tore down our tents, then packed up our backpacks.

Thick, full treetops normally offered a reprieve from the blistering sun. That ordinary comfort was gone when late afternoon rolled around, both of us sweating profusely. Thomas was frantic, hiking quickly ahead by at least twenty yards, determined to find his car. When I couldn’t keep up, I shouted for him to stop. The ground was swelling with dead branches, leaves, weeds and dirt, a decaying, organic quicksand. Nothing was recognizable. Being lost sounded too unreasonable, not for us, not for two sober middle-aged men. I must not have been thinking straight.

Reluctantly, we decided to stay for one more night. By morning our heads would be clear, I reasoned. A small campfire was built by the time nightfall arrived. Instead of pitching tents, we cleared some underbrush and laid out sleeping bags. There was a part of me that feared Thomas was in a poor mental state — poor enough to do something drastic out here in the middle of nowhere. Thankfully, we carried no handguns or else I would have pushed through, hiking all night if necessary until we arrived back where we started.

Sleep came in fits until at last, I started slipping into unconsciousness. The sound that woke me in the darkness was the scream of a beast I did not recognize, mixed between a howl and an infant screaming. Shooting upright, I looked over at Thomas, who was already out of his sleeping bag, wide awake, standing next to the fire. I started to speak, but he shushed me and pointed out beyond the tree line. A half-moon lit up the area just enough for me to see the horror creeping through the woods, slowly making its way in our direction.

It would walk on all fours briefly, then stand on its hind legs, sniffing up into the air, snorting out dense vapors of condensation. Without question it was at least seven feet tall. When it came into clear view, both Thomas and I shuddered, backing away slowly, trying not to make any sudden moves. It had the torso of a man, but the hindquarters and the head of a massive canine, smelling of rotting meat that stained its teeth red — whatever it had eaten last. Auburn eyes gleamed, setting our reality on fire.

Once a clouded memory from my childhood, now crystal clear, I remembered what my grandfather used to say when I would venture out alone too far into the Michigan woods.

Watch out for the dogman. He’s fond of eating wayward sons and daughters.

Thomas turned to look at me as if he was intruding on my thoughts. He smiled, a long awkward grin. Then, he turned and ran. The creature chased him on all fours with long strides, back paws thudding like horse’s hooves. If I had heard screams of fright or the struggle of a man hanging onto life by a thread, it would have made it more real. There was only silence and then the faint sound of something gnawing on bone and flesh.

Running toward what I thought was the direction of our vehicles, I was sure that thing would leap at me, tearing me to shreds. Sooner than expected, I was on a gravel driveway, my SUV nearby, only a few minutes from our location. How impossible this all seemed, and even more impossible as I drove several hours back home, trying to make sense of what I had witnessed.

The sun was rising when I flung open the door to our house, my wife confused by my appearance and the hollow look in my eyes. There was nothing I could say that wasn’t laced with insanity.

The next day a search party was sent looking for Thomas. They found what was left of him. No animal in Michigan could do that to a human, the long scratches and nicks in the bone presumed to be caused by an ax or a hunting knife of some sort. A murder weapon. The prosecutor made quick work of the case, bringing it national attention for all the wrong reasons. They should have been talking about the dogman.

No one will believe me. You’re my last hope. Heed my warning if you ever go hiking in those woods. Thomas can’t be saved. From this prison cell, I can’t save you either. You need to right your wrongs before it’s too late — before you end up like me, or worse yet, like Thomas — a wayward son.

[1] “This House” Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com), Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 4.0 License http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/; “SCP-x2x (Unseen Presence)” Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com), Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 4.0 License http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/; "Chase Pulse Faster" Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com) Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 4.0 License http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/