This narrative has been shared in confidence. The identity of the author has been withheld at the request of the author. The validity of the story can not be verified by Connect Paranormal.
Part One
The divorce had hollowed me out, leaving an echo where my life used to be. Sarah and Emily… gone. The accident… I should have been gone too. Instead, I was adrift, a ghost in my own life. That’s why I came to the redwoods. I needed to be swallowed by something bigger than myself, something indifferent to my pain. The towering trees, I hoped, would offer a kind of solace, a brutal, silent therapy.
The drive up was a blur of asphalt and regret. As I turned off the highway onto the smaller, winding road that led to the Redwood National Park trailhead, the air changed. It became cooler, damper, thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. Sunlight struggled to penetrate the dense canopy, casting long, distorted shadows that danced across the road. Even in the daylight, there was an oppressive feeling, a sense of being watched. I tried to shake it off, chalking it up to nerves, but a seed of unease had already been planted.
I parked at the trailhead, a small, gravel clearing that felt impossibly remote. The sheer scale of the redwoods was immediately overwhelming. They weren’t just tall; they were ancient, their massive trunks scarred and gnarled by centuries of storms and secrets. Looking up at their towering heights induced a strange vertigo, a feeling of insignificance that both terrified and comforted me.
I hoisted my backpack, the weight a familiar anchor in this alien landscape. It contained the bare necessities: a tent, sleeping bag, cooking stove, some basic food supplies, and a first-aid kit. I also carried a hunting knife, more for peace of mind than any real expectation of needing it. The forest felt… primal, and I was acutely aware of my vulnerability.
The trailhead marker indicated several different trails, ranging in difficulty and length. I chose a less-traveled path that promised to lead deeper into the heart of the forest, away from the casual tourists and closer to… what? I wasn’t sure. Solitude, perhaps. Or maybe I was subconsciously seeking something else, something I couldn’t articulate.
As I hiked, the silence of the forest was profound, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves and the distant call of a bird. But then, I heard it. A howl. It started low, a guttural rumble that seemed to vibrate in the ground beneath my feet. Then it rose in pitch, becoming a long, mournful cry that echoed through the trees.
Coyote, I told myself. It had to be. Coyotes were common in the area. But the sound… it was different. Deeper, more resonant, with a chilling quality that sent a shiver down my spine. It wasn’t the yipping, playful howl I associated with coyotes; this was something else, something darker. It resonated in my bones with an unsettling familiarity, as if I were hearing a forgotten language spoken in my blood.
I quickened my pace, trying to put distance between myself and the sound. But the howl seemed to follow me, echoing through the trees, always just out of sight. The feeling of being watched intensified, prickling my skin. I scanned the surrounding forest, but saw nothing. Only the endless rows of towering trees, their shadows lengthening as the afternoon wore on.
I found a suitable campsite near a small, babbling creek. The trees here were particularly dense, creating a claustrophobic atmosphere despite their towering size. It was as if the forest was closing in on me, suffocating me with its silence and its secrets. I set up my tent quickly, my hands clumsy with anxiety. The simple act of pitching the tent became a monumental task, each rustle of the fabric amplified in the oppressive silence.
As I worked, I noticed something peculiar. Stacks of rocks, carefully arranged in small piles, stood near the base of several trees. They weren’t natural formations; someone had deliberately placed them there. I frowned, wondering who would bother stacking rocks in the middle of the wilderness. It felt… intentional, like markers of some kind.
Then I saw the carvings. On the bark of several trees, I noticed strange, primitive symbols etched into the wood. They were unlike anything I’d ever seen before – a series of lines and circles, arranged in patterns that seemed both random and deliberate. They were crude, almost childlike in their execution, but they radiated an unsettling energy. I ran my fingers over one of the carvings, feeling the rough texture of the bark beneath my fingertips. A wave of unease washed over me. What were these symbols? And who had created them?
The sun began to set, casting long, eerie shadows that danced through the forest. The air grew colder, and the howls intensified, now closer and more guttural. The rational part of my brain still clung to the idea of coyotes, but the primal fear that had taken root in my gut refused to be silenced. I built a small fire, the flickering flames offering a small measure of comfort in the gathering darkness.
As night fell, the forest came alive with sounds. The rustling of leaves, the snapping of twigs, the hooting of owls – all amplified by the darkness, creating a symphony of unsettling noises. I sat by the fire, clutching my knife, my senses on high alert. Every shadow seemed to move, every sound seemed to carry a hidden threat.
Then, I saw it. A fleeting glimpse of movement in the periphery, a dark shape moving between the trees. It was gone in an instant, swallowed by the shadows. But I knew what I had seen. It wasn’t a deer, or a bear, or any other animal I could readily identify. It was something else. Something… unnatural.
My heart pounded in my chest. The howls grew louder, closer, circling my campsite. I felt like a cornered animal, trapped in a cage of trees. I threw more wood on the fire, desperately trying to ward off the darkness, the fear, the encroaching sense of dread.
I wasn’t alone. I knew it, deep in my bones. Something was out there, watching me, waiting. And the howls… they were a promise. A promise of something terrible to come. The redwoods, meant to be my sanctuary, had become a prison. And I had a growing certainty that I had stumbled into something ancient, something malevolent, something that had been waiting in the shadows for a very long time.
Part Two
A branch cracked outside my tent, the sound amplified by the oppressive silence of the surrounding woods. It was a sound distinct from the normal creaks and groans of the ancient redwoods; a sharp, deliberate snap, like something heavy had stepped upon it. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the stillness.
Then came the breathing. Heavy, ragged gasps, close enough that I could almost feel the warm, fetid air against the thin nylon of my tent. It wasn’t the steady rhythm of a sleeping animal, but the panting of something agitated, something hunting.
Frozen with fear, I fumbled for the knife I’d placed beside my sleeping bag. Its cold steel was a small comfort against the rising tide of terror. I held my breath, listening, every nerve ending screaming with impending danger.
Rip.
The sound tore through the silence like a lightning strike. A long, jagged tear appeared in the tent fabric near my head. My breath hitched in my throat. Whatever was out there was testing the barrier between us, probing for weakness.
I squeezed my eyes shut, willing myself to remain calm, but my mind raced, replaying the fleeting glimpse I’d caught the previous night. The hulking figure, the wolfish head, the eyes that burned with unnatural intelligence. It couldn’t be real. It just couldn’t. But the torn fabric above me was a stark reminder that reality had taken a nightmarish turn.
The breathing intensified, accompanied by a low growl that vibrated through the ground. Panic threatened to overwhelm me, but I fought it back, clinging to the primal instinct to survive. I had to get out of here.
Morning arrived as a hesitant grey dawn, seeping through the canopy of redwoods like a reluctant promise. The breathing and growls had ceased sometime before dawn, leaving behind an eerie silence more terrifying than the sounds themselves. I lay motionless, listening, until the first rays of sunlight pierced the gloom.
Slowly, cautiously, I unzipped the tent and peered out. The campsite was undisturbed, at first glance. But then I saw them.
Footprints.
Massive, canine-like prints, unlike anything I had ever seen. They were embedded deep in the soft earth, each print easily twice the size of my own boot. The claw marks were long and sharp, tearing into the soil. These weren’t the tracks of a bear, or a mountain lion, or any animal I could readily identify. These were the prints of something else entirely.
I stepped out of the tent, my knife clutched tightly in my hand, and followed the tracks. They led away from the campsite, deeper into the woods, a clear trail of disturbed earth and broken foliage. The sheer size of the prints was unsettling, but it was their shape that truly chilled me. They were undeniably canine, but the length of the stride, the depth of the impression, suggested a creature of immense size and power.
As I ventured further, I noticed other signs. Broken branches, snapped saplings, forming trails that seemed deliberately made. It was as if something massive and powerful had moved through the forest with little regard for the obstacles in its path. I ran my hand over a broken branch, the wood still fresh and splintered. Whatever had done this was here recently.
The forest seemed to hold its breath, the silence broken only by the frantic pounding of my heart. The feeling of being watched intensified, a palpable weight on my shoulders. Every shadow seemed to conceal a potential threat, every rustle of leaves sent a jolt of fear through my body.
Then I saw it.
A fleeting glimpse of movement through the trees. A large, bipedal creature, covered in dark fur, disappearing behind a thicket of ferns. It was only a glimpse, a fleeting impression, but it was enough to confirm my worst fears. The creature from the night before, the thing I had tried to dismiss as a hallucination, was real.
It was canine, undeniably so, but it walked upright, like a man. Its shoulders were broad, its limbs thick and powerful. It was a grotesque parody of both man and beast, a creature ripped from the pages of a horror novel. The Dogman. Or a werewolf?
Terror lent speed to my feet. I turned and ran, back towards my campsite, back towards some semblance of safety. My breath burned in my lungs, my muscles screamed in protest, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. The image of the creature burned in my mind, fueling my desperate flight.
I burst back into the campsite, heart pounding, adrenaline coursing through my veins. I scrambled into the tent, frantically zipping it closed, as if the thin nylon could offer any real protection. But I needed to do something, anything, to create a barrier between myself and the creature lurking in the woods.
I grabbed fallen branches and piled them against the tent walls, creating a makeshift barricade. It was a futile gesture, I knew, but it gave me something to do, a way to channel my fear into action.
As darkness descended, the howls began again. Closer this time, more insistent, laced with a predatory hunger that sent shivers down my spine. I huddled in the center of the tent, clutching my knife, listening to the sounds of the forest closing in around me.
Then I heard it. The unmistakable sound of something heavy moving through the undergrowth, approaching the campsite. The branches I had piled against the tent rustled and shifted.
Scratch.
A sharp, grating sound against the tent fabric. The creature was outside, testing the barrier, probing for weakness. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing it to go away, but the scratching continued, growing more insistent, more aggressive.
Rip.
Another tear in the fabric, larger than the first. A cold draft of air swept through the tent. I peered through the hole, my heart leaping into my throat.
Two eyes.
Glowing, malevolent eyes, staring back at me through the darkness. They were the eyes of a predator, intelligent and merciless, burning with an unholy light. I could see the outline of the creature’s head, the wolfish snout, the pointed ears, the thick fur. It was real. It was here. And it wanted me.
I screamed, a primal cry of terror that was swallowed by the vastness of the forest. The creature snarled, a guttural sound that vibrated in my chest. It reached a clawed hand through the tear in the tent and swiped at me.
I flinched back, narrowly avoiding the sharp claws. The tent fabric tore further, exposing more of the creature’s face. Its jaws were open, revealing rows of sharp, pointed teeth. The stench of wet fur and decaying flesh filled the air.
I knew I was trapped. The tent was no longer a sanctuary, but a cage. The creature outside was patient, relentless. It would not leave until it had what it wanted.
My mind began to unravel. The trauma of losing my family, the grief and guilt that had driven me to seek solace in the redwoods, all came crashing down on me. Was this my punishment? Had I somehow drawn this creature to me? Was I destined to become another victim of the forest?
As my sanity frayed, I realized that I had a choice. I could succumb to the fear, allow the creature to tear me apart, or I could fight. I might not win, but I would not go down without a fight.
I gripped my knife tighter, my knuckles white. I took a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart. I stared into the glowing eyes of the creature outside my tent, and I snarled back.
Part 3
Driven by a cocktail of terror and a sliver of morbid curiosity, I found myself the next morning following the Dogman (or werewolf?) tracks deeper into the forest. Sleep had been impossible. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig, sent jolts of adrenaline through me. But beneath the fear, a strange compulsion had taken root. I needed answers, or at least, some semblance of understanding, even if it led me further into the heart of madness. The desire to survive had taken a backseat to the need to know.
The tracks were clearer now, the earth softened by the morning dew. They led me away from the relative openness of the trail, into a section of the forest that felt ancient and untouched. The trees grew closer together here, their branches intertwined, blotting out the sunlight. The air hung heavy and still, thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. It was as if the forest itself was holding its breath.
After what felt like hours, the trees began to thin, and I caught a glimpse of something unnatural through the gaps in the foliage. A clearing. But not just any clearing. As I crept closer, pushing aside branches, the scene that unfolded before me stole the air from my lungs.
It was a village.
Crude, yes, and undeniably primitive, but a village nonetheless. Structures built from roughly hewn logs and lashed together with vines stood scattered around the perimeter of the clearing. Some were little more than lean-tos, while others were more substantial, resembling small huts. And adorning almost every surface were those symbols. The same unsettling carvings I had seen on the trees near the trail, the ones that had sparked my initial unease. They were etched into the wood, painted onto stones, woven into crude tapestries that hung from the structures.
But the most disturbing thing was the inhabitants. Dogmen. Dozens of them. Moving, interacting, living. They weren’t mindless beasts. They were… organized. Some walked upright, carrying objects that resembled tools or weapons. Others moved on all fours, their powerful limbs propelling them with surprising speed. They communicated in a series of guttural growls and snarls, a language I couldn’t understand, but whose intent was clear.
I watched them from the edge of the forest, hidden in the shadows, my mind reeling. The reality of what I was seeing was almost too much to comprehend. These weren’t just creatures. They were a society. A community of Dogmen, existing in the heart of the Redwood National Park, hidden from the world.
My initial terror was quickly replaced by a chilling sense of fascination. I wanted to understand them, to know their purpose, their history. But I knew that getting closer would be suicide. I had to get out of there. I had to find a way to escape this nightmare.
But it was too late.
A twig snapped behind me. I whirled around, but before I could react, I was tackled to the ground. Rough hands, or rather, paws, pinned me down. I struggled, kicking and screaming, but it was no use. They were too strong, too many.
I was dragged, unceremoniously, into the village. The other Dogmen stopped what they were doing and turned to watch, their eyes burning into me. I was hauled to the center of the clearing, where a large, flat stone served as some kind of communal area.
As I was forced to my knees, I finally had a chance to observe them up close. Their features were even more grotesque than I had imagined. Their snouts were elongated, filled with rows of sharp teeth. Their eyes glowed with an eerie intelligence. Their fur was thick and matted, ranging in color from dark brown to almost black.
And then I saw him.
He was larger than the others, towering over them with an imposing presence. His fur was a darker shade, almost black, and adorned with what appeared to be ritualistic markings – intricate patterns shaved into the fur around his face and neck. He stood upright, his posture regal, radiating an aura of authority. This was their leader.
His eyes met mine, and I felt a chill run down my spine. There was a dark intelligence in those eyes, a cunning that belied their animalistic appearance. He studied me for a long moment, his gaze piercing, as if he was trying to see into my very soul.
The other Dogmen growled and snarled, eager to tear me apart, but the leader raised a hand, silencing them. He let out a low, guttural growl, a command that seemed to convey both curiosity and warning.
I remained kneeling, frozen in fear, unsure of what to expect. The leader circled me slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. He reached out a hand, his claws long and sharp, and trailed them down my cheek. I flinched, but he didn’t press. He simply continued to study me, as if I were some strange, exotic specimen.
I was imprisoned in one of the larger huts. The walls were made of rough-hewn logs, and the roof was a thatch of woven branches. There was no door, only a narrow opening that was constantly guarded by two Dogmen. The stench inside was overwhelming – a mixture of animal musk, decaying meat, and something else, something acrid and unsettling that I couldn’t quite identify.
Days blurred into nights. I had no idea how long I had been held captive. They brought me food – raw meat, mostly – which I refused to eat. I spent my time observing them, trying to understand their behavior, their routines. I noticed that they were most active during the night, venturing out into the forest on what appeared to be hunting expeditions. During the day, they mostly slept or tended to the village.
And then I saw it.
One day, while the Dogmen were away from the village, I noticed a specific symbol carved into a piece of bark that was used to reinforce the wall of my hut. It was the same symbol I had seen near my camp, the one that had initially caught my attention. The one I remembered seeing the Dogman stop at.
A spark of hope ignited within me. Could it be? Was this symbol some kind of ward, a protective sigil that held some kind of power over them?
I remembered the tree. The one with the carvings. The one the Dogman had stopped at. A desperate plan began to form in my mind.
I waited for the right moment. When the Dogmen were distracted, when the village was quiet. I used a sharp piece of stone to carefully pry the bark from the wall. It was a slow, painstaking process, but I couldn’t afford to make any noise.
Finally, the bark came loose. I clutched it tightly in my hand, the rough surface digging into my palm. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what I was about to do.
Then, I made my move.
I charged towards the opening of the hut, brandishing the piece of bark with the symbol facing outwards. The Dogmen guarding the entrance recoiled, hissing and snarling. They seemed confused, hesitant. It was as if the symbol held some kind of power over them, preventing them from attacking.
This was my chance.
I pushed past them, shoving them aside with all my strength. They stumbled backwards, giving me the opportunity to escape. I burst out of the hut and into the village.
Chaos erupted.
The Dogmen, alerted by the commotion, turned to face me. They growled and snarled, their eyes filled with rage. They lunged towards me, their claws outstretched.
I held up the piece of bark, the symbol facing them. Some of them hesitated, momentarily confused. Others were not deterred. They continued to advance, their hunger overriding their fear.
I ran.
I ran blindly through the village, dodging and weaving between the structures. The Dogmen were in hot pursuit, their heavy footsteps pounding the earth behind me. I could hear their growls and snarls, their breath hot on my neck.
I reached the edge of the village and plunged into the forest. The trees closed in around me, offering a small measure of protection. But I knew they wouldn’t give up. They would hunt me down, track me through the woods, until they caught me.
I had to find a way out. I had to find a way to survive.
My heart pounded in my chest, my lungs burned, my legs screamed in protest. But I couldn’t stop. I had to keep running. My life depended on it.
Part Four
My lungs burned, each gasp for air a searing reminder of the terror that propelled me forward. The forest was a blur of green and brown, a chaotic canvas painted with my fear. Behind me, the howls echoed, a chorus of primal rage that spurred me onward, deeper, further, until my legs screamed in protest.
Then, I saw it.
A titan among titans. A redwood so immense, so ancient, it dwarfed everything around it. Its trunk was wider than my car was long, its branches reaching towards the sky like gnarled fingers. It wasn’t just its size that drew my attention, though. Carved deep into its bark, spiraling around its circumference, were the symbols. The same symbols I had seen in the village, the same symbol that had momentarily confused the Dogmen, the same symbol I had clutched on a piece of bark as I fled for my life.
I lurched towards it, drawn by an instinct I didn’t understand. As I approached, I noticed something else. A line, an invisible barrier, seemed to emanate from the tree. The forest floor was clear, almost sterile, for several feet around its base. It was as if the very earth refused to let anything grow too close.
Then, I heard them. The Dogmen. Their howls were closer now, laced with a frustrated snarl. I risked a glance back, and my heart leaped into my throat. They were there, at the edge of the clearing, their hulking forms silhouetted against the fading light. But they didn’t cross the line. They paced, they growled, they clawed at the earth, but they remained on the other side of the invisible barrier.
I stumbled towards the tree, pressing my hand against its rough bark. A strange energy thrummed beneath my fingertips, a vibration that resonated deep within my bones. It was a feeling of… protection? Of ancient power? I didn’t know, but I clung to it, desperate for any semblance of safety.
The Dogmen continued their vigil, their glowing eyes burning into me, but they couldn’t reach me. As the first rays of dawn pierced through the canopy, painting the forest in hues of gold and green, they finally retreated, melting back into the shadows from whence they came.
I didn’t move. I couldn’t move. My body was numb, my mind reeling. I stayed there, pressed against the giant redwood, until the sun was high in the sky, until the forest fell silent save for the chirping of birds and the rustling of leaves.
Finally, when I felt my legs could support me, I began the long trek back to civilization. I followed the creek, using the sun as my guide, pushing through the undergrowth, my senses on high alert. Every snap of a twig, every rustle in the leaves, sent a jolt of fear through me. But I didn’t see them. Not once.
The hike out was a blur of exhaustion and paranoia. When I finally stumbled onto the paved road, the sight of a passing car brought tears to my eyes. I flagged it down, and the bewildered driver, after hearing my frantic tale, reluctantly agreed to take me to the nearest town.
Back in my old life, the redwoods felt like a fever dream, a hallucination born of grief and isolation. I tried to rationalize it, to explain it away as a product of my fractured mind. But I couldn’t. The memory of the Dogmen, their glowing eyes, their guttural howls, was too vivid, too real.
Driven by a need to understand, to make sense of the impossible, I began to research. I scoured libraries, searched online databases, devoured every book and article I could find on folklore, mythology, and cryptozoology. I was looking for something, anything, that could explain what I had seen.
And I found it. Scattered accounts, fragmented legends, whispered tales of creatures that roamed the forests, creatures that were part man, part wolf, creatures that were both feared and revered. The Dogmen.
The stories varied from region to region, but the core elements remained the same: bipedal, canine humanoids with incredible strength and intelligence, often associated with ancient rituals and the protection of sacred places. And then, there were the symbols.
I found references to the symbols in indigenous folklore, described as ancient warding marks used to protect villages and sacred sites from malevolent spirits and primal forces of nature. They were believed to create a barrier, a shield against the supernatural.
The more I researched, the more I realized that what I had experienced in the redwoods wasn’t just a random encounter with a monstrous creature. It was something older, something deeper, something connected to the very fabric of the land.
I even found a few obscure references to the giant redwoods themselves, described as “guardians” or “sentinels,” imbued with a powerful energy that could repel dark forces. The ancient tree I had found sanctuary near wasn’t just a tree; it was a focal point, a nexus of power.
The knowledge didn’t ease my fear, though. It amplified it. I understood now that the Dogmen weren’t just animals; they were guardians, protectors of a territory I had trespassed upon. And they didn’t forget.
One night, months after my return, I was sitting in my apartment, trying to read, but my mind kept drifting back to the redwoods. The city lights offered little comfort, the sounds of traffic a poor substitute for the silence of the forest.
Then, I heard it.
A howl.
Not the howl of a dog, not the howl of a coyote. A deep, guttural howl that resonated in my bones, a howl that I knew intimately. It was distant, muffled by the city noise, but unmistakable.
My blood ran cold. I stood up, walked to the window, and peered out into the darkness. The streets were empty, the buildings casting long, ominous shadows.
I didn’t see anything.
But I knew. They were out there. Somewhere in the darkness, watching, waiting.
I closed the curtains, locked the doors, and turned on every light in the apartment. I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, the prickling sensation on the back of my neck.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Every creak of the building, every siren in the distance, sent a jolt of fear through me. I lay in bed, listening, waiting, my heart pounding in my chest.
The next morning, I went to a tattoo parlor. I showed the artist a picture of the symbol, the one I had seen on the bark, the one carved into the redwood. I told him I wanted it on my back, between my shoulder blades.
He looked at me strangely, but he didn’t ask any questions. As he worked, the needle buzzing against my skin, I closed my eyes and imagined myself back in the redwoods, pressed against the ancient tree, feeling the thrum of its power.
The tattoo was a small act, a symbolic gesture, but it gave me a small measure of comfort. It was a reminder that I had survived, that I had faced the darkness and lived to tell the tale.
But I knew it wasn’t over. The Dogmen were still out there. I could feel them, sense them, lurking in the shadows, their presence a constant, oppressive weight on my soul.
I don’t know what they want. I don’t know why they haven’t attacked again. Maybe they’re just waiting. Maybe they’re playing a game, a game I don’t understand.
All I know is that I’m not safe. Not really. The redwoods are still with me, in my dreams, in my nightmares, in the constant feeling of being watched.
And I know, with a certainty that chills me to the bone, that one day, they will come for me again.
Leave a Reply