These four werewolf/dogman stories were retrieved from Archives and Special Collections at Bowling Green State University in Bowling Green, Ohio.
Update 2026: Reader discernment is called for on these stories. The names do not match up with the events being described. There is reason to believe this was a creative writing project. However, no author is listed.
“The Napoleon Incident” (1989) – Bill Kowalski
Never been much for putting things down on paper, but my daughter Amy got me this journal after what happened. Says it might help. Maybe she’s right. I’m Bill Kowalski, born and raised in Napoleon, Ohio. Worked at Campbell Soup for 23 years, met my wife Linda there when she was doing inventory control. Got three kids, all grown now. Used to think life was pretty simple before that night in ’89.
I was doing maintenance work back then, keeping those big cookers running smooth. Night shift paid better, and with Amy starting college, we needed the money. Linda hated me working nights, but twenty-three years of factory work teaches you to take what you can get. The drive home at 3 AM never bothered me much – just me, my thermos of coffee, and Johnny Cash on the radio.
That stretch of County Road P between Napoleon and Florida, it runs right along the Maumee River. Real pretty in daylight, all trees and water. Different story at night. October 17, 1989 – can’t forget that date if I tried. Air was crisp, leaves were falling. Full moon made the river look like silver.
I’d just finished a twelve-hour shift. Was thinking about Linda’s pot roast in the fridge when my headlights caught something by the water. At first, I figured it was a deer – we get plenty around here. Then it moved.
This thing… it was drinking like a dog would, but bigger than any dog had a right to be. When it stood up, I felt my heart stop. Had to be eight feet if it was an inch. Built like those wrestlers my boy Tommy watches, but covered in this dark, matted fur. Not black exactly, more like dark brown with gray patches. Its eyes though… Jesus, those eyes. Reflected amber in my headlights, but they weren’t animal eyes. Had intelligence in them. Malice too.
My old ’82 Chevy picked that moment to die. Engine just cut out, radio too. Started pumping the gas, turning the key, whole time watching this thing in my rearview. It moved weird, kind of rolling walk on its back legs, arms – and they were arms, not front legs – swinging at its sides. Had these massive hands with claws that looked like black daggers.
It came right up to my truck. Could hear it breathing, this deep, wet sound. When it pressed its face against my window, I saw teeth longer than my fingers. The fog from its breath spread across the glass, and that’s when the cracking started. Like spider webs spreading through the window.
I’m not ashamed to say I was crying, praying to God and promising everything under the sun if He’d just let me start that truck. The window was starting to bow inward when the engine finally caught. Never hit the gas so hard in my life. Looking back, I saw it standing in the middle of the road, watching me go.
Told Linda that night. She believed me – said she’d never seen me so scared. Went to Father Matthews the next day, started going to church regular again. Tried telling a few people at work, but you know how that goes. Some laughed, some shared their own stories in whispers.
Quit the night shift right after. Took the pay cut. Started drinking too much for a while, but Linda helped me through it. Found out I wasn’t the first to see something out there. Old-timers at the VFW, they knew. Talk about things they saw in the ’60s and ’70s, same area. Similar descriptions too.
That was twenty-five years ago now. Still drive that road sometimes – have to, living here. Never at night though. When my grandson Timmy begs to go camping by the river, I make up excuses. Linda says I’m being silly, that whatever I saw must’ve moved on. Maybe she’s right.
But sometimes, driving that road in broad daylight, I catch myself looking at the tree line. And sometimes, just sometimes, I swear something’s looking back. My hands shake so bad I can barely hold the wheel. Because deep down, I know what’s out there. Know it’s still watching, still waiting. And I pray my grandkids never have to see what I saw that night by the Maumee River.
“The Paulding Woods” (1995) – Derek Weber
I never meant to spend that night in the woods. My name’s Derek Weber, and back in ’95 I was working as a land surveyor for the county. Good job, steady work, kept me outdoors which I liked. Had my own little place outside Paulding, nothing fancy but it was mine. Spent most weekends hunting or fishing, just a regular guy trying to make his way.
That September, we were mapping out some properties east of town where they were planning a new development. Usually worked with a partner, but Steve called in sick that day. Should’ve waited for him, but I had deadlines. Figured I could handle the basic measurements myself.
Got a late start that day, around 4 PM. Property was mostly old-growth forest, thick with oak and maple. Had my equipment – transit level, measuring wheel, the usual gear. Sun was setting faster than I expected, but I wanted to finish the northeast corner. That’s when my measuring wheel got stuck in some brambles.
While I was untangling it, I heard this weird sound – like somebody dragging something heavy through the leaves. Thought maybe it was a deer at first, but it was too deliberate, too rhythmic. Then the smell hit me. Anyone who’s ever been around dogs knows that wet dog smell – this was similar but wrong somehow. Musky, wild, with something else underneath. Something that made my lizard brain scream “run.”
I clicked on my heavy-duty Maglite, swung it toward the sound. Nothing at first, just trees and shadows. Then something moved. Growing up in Ohio, you get used to seeing animals in the woods. This wasn’t like anything I’d ever seen.
It was standing behind a big oak, partially hidden, but I could see enough. The height’s what got me first – had to be over seven feet. Built like a bodybuilder but covered in this thick, grayish-brown fur. Its head was massive, shaped like a wolf’s but bigger than any wolf should be. Eyes reflected green in my flashlight, and they were focused right on me.
The thing stepped out from behind the tree, moving on two legs like it was the most natural thing in the world. Its hands – and they were hands, not paws – had these long fingers with black claws. It wasn’t just some animal. There was intelligence in those eyes, something almost human but not quite.
I dropped my gear and ran. Behind me, I heard it moving through the woods, keeping pace easily. Didn’t sound like it was chasing me exactly, more like it was herding me. Every time I tried to angle back toward my truck, there’d be a crash of branches from that direction, forcing me to change course.
Ended up spending six hours lost in those woods, running until my legs gave out, hiding, then running again whenever I heard it moving nearby. Found my way out around 3 AM when I stumbled onto County Road 176. Walked three miles back to my truck.
My equipment was there the next morning, neatly piled. Nothing broken, nothing missing. But there were prints in the soft earth around it – huge canine prints, but the weight distribution was all wrong, like something that walked on two legs.
I quit my job the following week. Couldn’t handle being in the woods alone anymore. Took a pay cut to work construction in Fort Wayne. My wife – girlfriend back then – thought I was crazy until she found me crying in our bedroom one night. Told her everything. She believed me, or at least believed that I believed it.
Started looking into similar stories after that. Found out about the Defiance Werewolf sightings from the ’70s, just thirty miles away. Talked to some old-timers who had their own encounters. Most wouldn’t say much, just shook their heads and changed the subject.
Twenty years later, I still wake up sometimes, heart pounding, thinking I smell that weird musky odor. My kids don’t understand why I won’t go camping with them. How do you tell your children that there are things in this world that science can’t explain? That somewhere in the woods of Northwest Ohio, there’s something that walks like a man but isn’t one?
I’ve got a good life now. Own my own construction company, three beautiful kids, happy marriage. But I keep a loaded rifle by my bed, and I never go into the woods alone. Some nights, when the wind blows just right, I swear I can hear howling from the direction of Paulding. Those nights, I lock the doors, close the curtains, and try to convince myself that what I saw was just a trick of light and shadow. But deep down, I know better.
“The Defiance Connection” (2008) – Mike Sullivan
I’ve served with the Defiance County Sheriff’s Department since ’98. Name’s Mike Sullivan, started as a reserve deputy, worked my way up. Born and raised here, third generation law enforcement – my grandfather was chief of police back in the ’60s. Got my own family now, two boys and a daughter. Wife Teresa works at the hospital.
When I first joined the force, the old-timers would talk about the ’72 incidents – what they called the “Defiance Werewolf” cases. Chief Morris had a whole file on it. Multiple sightings, livestock killings, weird tracks. Back then, I thought it was just local legend, something to scare rookies with.
July 16, 2008. That night changed everything.
I was working third shift, which I usually did back then. Teresa hated it, but with three kids in school, we needed the shift differential. Around 2 AM, got a call about suspicious activity near the old Miller farmhouse off County Road 424. The place had been abandoned since the ’90s, but we’d get calls about teens partying there sometimes.
The Miller place has history. During the ’72 incidents, there were multiple sightings around that property. Old man Miller claimed something killed his cattle, left weird tracks. The papers blamed it on a bear, but my grandfather told me different. Said he’d seen something out there that didn’t have a name.
I pulled up with my lights off, using just the spotlight to check the perimeter. The farmhouse was falling apart – broken windows, collapsing roof, nature taking it back. My flashlight beam caught movement through one of the broken windows. Then I heard it – this deep, rumbling sound, like a growl but bigger somehow.
Protocol says wait for backup on suspicious calls, but something pulled me toward that house. The old wooden porch creaked under my feet. That’s when I saw it through the doorway – this massive shape, hunched over what I later confirmed was a fresh deer carcass.
The thing must’ve been seven, maybe eight feet tall. Built like a linebacker but covered in dark fur. When my light hit it, it turned and looked right at me. Those eyes… they weren’t animal eyes. They had intelligence, awareness. The snout was wolf-like but bigger, with teeth that would put a timber wolf to shame.
It stood up straight – God, it was huge – and just… stared at me. I had my hand on my Glock, but something told me it wouldn’t have helped. We stayed like that for maybe thirty seconds, though it felt like hours. Then it moved.
The speed was impossible. One second it was there, the next it was crashing through the back wall of the house like it was made of paper. I pursued on foot – stupid, looking back – and got to see it running on all fours across the field. It had to be hitting 40 mph easy. The way it moved… nothing that big should be able to move that fast.
I called it in, of course. Captain Phillips was on duty that night. When I mentioned the Miller place and what I saw, he got real quiet. Told me to head back to the station. Found him in his office with my grandfather’s old case files spread out on his desk.
The photos from ’72 matched what I saw. Same description, same location. The old-timers weren’t crazy. The thing had been here all along.
Next day, went to see my grandfather in the nursing home. First time I’d seen him truly scared. He told me things – about what really happened in ’72, about tracks and cattle mutilations that never made the papers. About officers who quit rather than work nights. About the howls they’d hear, too deep and loud to be normal wolves.
Started carrying silver bullets after that. Not department issue, of course. Had them custom made. Other officers joke about it, but a few of the veterans quietly asked where I got them. We don’t talk about it officially, but we know. Something’s out there.
The Miller place burned down in 2010. Official report says vandals, but I was first on scene. Found tracks leading away from the fire – huge canine prints, but the stride length was all wrong, too long. Like something that normally walked on two legs had dropped to all fours.
I’m a sergeant now, mostly work days. Still patrol that area sometimes, usually around sunset. The younger officers don’t understand why I insist on checking the Miller property, even though there’s nothing left but foundation stones. Sometimes I hear howls out there, during the full moon. Not normal wolf howls – we don’t even have wolves in Ohio anymore. These are different. Deeper. Wrong.
My oldest boy’s joining the force next year. I haven’t told him everything, but I’ve made sure he knows which areas to avoid at night. Some nights, sitting on my porch, I swear I see eyes reflecting in the tree line behind our house. I keep my service weapon close and my silver bullets closer.
Because the thing about the Defiance Werewolf? It never really left. We just stopped looking for it.
“The Last Hunt” (2014) – Ray Hutchins
Thirty years I’ve been hunting these woods. Started with my dad when I was twelve, learning to track deer through Wyandot County’s back country. Name’s Ray Hutchins, got my own sporting goods store in Upper Sandusky now. Or I did, until last November. Had to sell it after what happened. Can’t trust my hands anymore.
Been bowhunting exclusively since ’95. There’s something pure about it, having to get close, really understand your prey. My compound bow was like an extension of my arm. Never failed to fill my tags, never lost a wounded animal. Had a reputation as the guy to call when someone needed help tracking. Knew these woods better than I knew my own house.
November 12, 2014. Late archery season. I’d been tracking this monster buck for weeks – had him on my trail cams, easy fourteen-pointer. Weather was perfect: light snow on the ground, temperature around 30 degrees, no wind. Left my stand before sunrise, figured I’d still-hunt along the creek where I’d been seeing sign.
Around noon, found fresh tracks. Not just any tracks – they were his. The spread and depth told me everything I needed to know about his size. Started following, moving slow, reading the story in the snow. He’d been browsing on vegetation, not spooked. Perfect.
That’s when I noticed the other tracks.
At first, I thought wolf, which was impossible – we don’t have wolves in Ohio anymore. But these were wrong. Too big, stride too long. And they were following the same trail I was, tracking my buck.
Should’ve turned back then. Something in my gut said run. But thirty years of hunting makes you cocky. Figured maybe it was a coyote, though I’d never seen prints that big.
Found the first blood sign around 1 PM. Something had taken down my buck – there was a struggle area in the snow, drag marks leading into thicker cover. Following a blood trail was second nature, but this was different. Too much blood, spread too wide. Whatever killed that deer was massive.
The drag trail led to an old drainage culvert, maybe eight feet in diameter. Blood and fur around the entrance. Inside, I could see my buck, or what was left of him. Something had torn him apart.
That’s when I heard it moving behind me.
You spend enough time in the woods, you develop instincts. Mine were screaming. Turned slow, nocking an arrow out of pure muscle memory. What I saw… God help me.
It was standing on two legs, at least eight feet tall. Built like something that bench-pressed trucks for fun, but covered in this thick, dark fur. The head was wolf-like but massive, with teeth that would make a grizzly nervous. But the eyes… the eyes were almost human. Intelligent. Aware.
My bow felt like a toy. The thing just watched me, head tilted like it was curious. Then it smiled. Actually smiled, showing all those teeth. That’s when I noticed it was holding something – my trail camera. Must’ve found it when it was tracking the buck.
It dropped the camera, crushed it under one massive foot. The message was clear: no evidence.
I’d like to say I stood my ground, but that’s not what happened. I ran. Thirty years in these woods, and I ran like a scared kid. Behind me, I heard it moving, keeping pace easily. It was playing with me. Could’ve caught me any time it wanted.
Got lost for the first time in my life. Ended up miles from my truck, stumbling through creek beds and thickets until I found Route 23. Called my wife to pick me up. Couldn’t stop shaking enough to drive.
Went back the next day with three buddies, all armed. Found the culvert, but everything was gone – no deer, no blood, no tracks in the fresh snow. Like it never happened. But my trail camera was there, crushed flat.
Started asking around after that. Found out about the Napoleon incident in ’89, the Paulding sightings in ’95, the Defiance reports. All describing the same thing. All within fifty miles of each other.
Sold my store in January. Couldn’t handle being around hunting gear anymore. My hands shake too bad to draw a bow now anyway. Took a job at my brother’s insurance agency in Columbus. Teresa thinks I had some kind of breakdown, keeps trying to get me to see someone. Maybe she’s right.
But here’s the thing – I’ve spent my life reading sign, understanding predator behavior. What I saw that day wasn’t just some animal. It knew what trail cameras were. It wanted me to know it was hunting me right back. And it’s not just one. The patterns, the sightings over decades… there’s more than one of them out there.
I don’t hunt anymore. Sold all my gear except for one old compound bow I keep by my bed. Got it fitted with special broadheads – silver alloy. Cost me a fortune to have them custom made. My wife thinks I’m crazy.
Sometimes I wake up at night, thinking I hear howls from the direction of those woods. On really bad nights, I swear I can smell wet fur outside our bedroom window. I keep the curtains closed now. Because the worst part isn’t what I saw that day.
The worst part is knowing it saw me too. And remembering that smile, that terrible, knowing smile. Like it was saying, “Welcome to the bottom of the food chain.”
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