A DOGMAN Started Sitting With My Grandpa Every Evening. After He Died, Everything Went Wrong…
In the shadowy depths of northern Wisconsin, where the wilderness breathes secrets and the night is alive with whispers, a story unfolds—one that defies belief and challenges the very fabric of reality. My name is Michael Brennan, and for 41 years, I’ve carried a burden that most would dismiss as mere folklore. But I have the journals, the photographs, and the scars to prove that what lurks in the dark is all too real. This is the story of my grandfather, a creature known as Silas, and the legacy that binds us together.
The Beginning
Growing up just outside Hayward, Wisconsin, my childhood was steeped in the wonders of the natural world. My grandfather, Thomas Brennan, owned 80 acres of dense forest bordering the Shikwamagan National Forest. He lived in a cabin he built himself, a rugged man who thrived in solitude, far from the noise of civilization. For over three decades, he had cultivated a relationship with something extraordinary—something that would forever alter the course of my life.
From the moment I came to live with him after my parents’ tragic accident, I sensed an unspoken bond between him and the wilderness. Every evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, my grandfather would sit on the porch, glass of whiskey in hand, waiting for his enigmatic visitor to arrive. It was a ritual I watched with a mixture of curiosity and unease, unaware of the truth that lay hidden in the shadows.
The First Encounter
It was late September 1984 when I first laid eyes on the creature that would haunt my dreams for years to come. I had been checking rabbit traps in the northern section of our property when I noticed my grandfather sitting on the porch, a bucket of raw meat beside him. As I approached, I felt a tingling sensation at the back of my neck, an instinctual warning that something was amiss.
When I reached the clearing, I froze. There, just beyond the porch, was a figure unlike anything I had ever seen. It was massive, standing over seven feet tall, with the head of a wolf and a body built like a human. My mind struggled to comprehend the sight before me. This was no ordinary animal; this was something otherworldly.
My grandfather spoke to it as if it were an old friend, tossing a piece of meat toward the creature, which caught it mid-air with astonishing speed. I stood there, paralyzed by fear and disbelief, as the creature savored its meal, its amber eyes glinting in the fading light. I wanted to run, to escape the reality of what I was witnessing, but my feet felt rooted to the ground.
The Truth Revealed
That night, I lay in bed, my heart racing as I replayed the encounter in my mind. When dawn broke, I knew I had to confront my grandfather. I needed answers. Over breakfast, I mustered the courage to ask him about the creature. He looked at me with a mixture of understanding and resignation, as if he had been waiting for this moment.
“His name is Silas,” my grandfather said quietly. “He’s not just an animal; he’s something more. Something between animal and human. We’ve had an understanding for years.”
I struggled to process his words. “You’ve been feeding him? Talking to him? For how long?” I demanded, my voice trembling.
“For five years,” he replied. “Since your grandmother passed. Silas has kept me company, and in return, I’ve respected his territory and provided food.”
The weight of his confession settled heavily in the air. I felt a mix of disbelief and fear. “What if someone finds out? What if he’s dangerous?”
“Silas won’t harm us as long as we respect him,” my grandfather assured me. “But you must understand, there are things in these woods far more dangerous than him. Silas keeps those things at bay.”
The Bond Deepens
As the weeks turned into months, I reluctantly accepted the reality of Silas’s existence. My grandfather taught me how to interact with him, how to prepare the meat, and the importance of maintaining the balance between our worlds. I learned to recognize Silas’s moods, his body language, and the sounds he made. It became a strange but comforting routine.
Every evening, I would sit on the porch with my grandfather, waiting for Silas to emerge from the forest. The bond between them was palpable, built on years of trust and respect. I watched as they shared stories in their own way, communicating through gestures and sounds that defied explanation.
But as I grew closer to Silas, I couldn’t shake the feeling of isolation. My friends from town were unaware of my secret life, and I found it increasingly difficult to maintain relationships outside the confines of our strange agreement. I was bound to this land, to this creature, and to the legacy of my family.
The Inevitable Change
In February 1989, my grandfather’s health began to decline. He had suffered a heart attack, and the doctor warned me that he didn’t have much time left. As his condition worsened, I felt the weight of responsibility pressing down on me. I knew that when he passed, I would inherit not just the property but the burden of maintaining the agreement with Silas.
One cold morning, I found my grandfather sitting on the porch, his frail body wrapped in blankets. He looked older, more fragile than I had ever seen him. “It’s time, Michael,” he said softly. “You’ll need to take my place with Silas. He will expect it.”
Tears filled my eyes as I realized the gravity of his words. “I don’t know if I can do it, Grandpa. What if he doesn’t accept me?”
“He will,” my grandfather reassured me. “You’ve earned his trust. Just remember to honor the agreement. Respect him, and he’ll protect you.”
Three days later, my grandfather passed away peacefully in his sleep. I held his hand until the very end, promising him I would honor his legacy. After the funeral, I sat alone on the porch, the weight of my new reality settling heavily on my shoulders.
The First Night Alone
That first night without my grandfather was the hardest. As the sun dipped below the horizon, I prepared the bucket of meat, my hands trembling. I felt the absence of my grandfather keenly, the silence of the porch deafening. Would Silas still come? Would he accept me as his new companion?
As darkness fell, I waited, my heart racing with anticipation and fear. The forest was quiet, too quiet. Minutes turned into hours, and just as despair began to creep in, I heard it—the sound of something large moving through the underbrush.
Silas emerged from the trees, his massive form silhouetted against the night sky. My breath caught in my throat as he approached the porch, his amber eyes locked onto mine. I felt a wave of relief wash over me. He was here.
“Silas,” I said, my voice shaky. “It’s me, Michael. I’m here. I’ll honor the agreement.”
He studied me for a moment, then made a low sound, almost like a rumble. I took a deep breath and tossed the meat toward him, just as my grandfather had taught me. Silas caught it effortlessly and began to eat, his gaze still fixed on me.
The Burden of Responsibility
As the months passed, I settled into my new role. Silas continued to visit every evening, and I maintained the rituals my grandfather had established. I learned to navigate the complexities of our relationship, understanding the unspoken rules that governed our interactions.
But the burden of secrecy weighed heavily on me. I couldn’t share my life with anyone, couldn’t invite friends over or date without the fear of exposing the truth. I felt isolated, cut off from the world, but Silas’s presence provided a strange comfort.
In the summer of 1992, I encountered a group of hikers who had strayed onto my property. They were loud and careless, trampling through the underbrush and disturbing the peace of the woods. I felt Silas’s agitation from a distance as he watched them with narrowed eyes.
I confronted the hikers, warning them to leave, but they laughed, dismissing my concerns. That night, Silas appeared earlier than usual, his posture tense and alert. He made a sound that conveyed frustration, and I knew he was disturbed by the intrusion.
“Don’t worry, Silas,” I reassured him. “I’ll keep them away. You have my word.”
The Final Farewell
As the years rolled on, I watched Silas age. His movements grew slower, his energy waned, and I knew that our time together was limited. In the winter of 2016, he arrived one evening with a noticeable limp, and my heart sank. I prepared his food, but he barely touched it, instead choosing to rest beside me.
The following week, I found him lying in the clearing, unable to rise. I rushed to his side, panic rising in my chest. “Silas, please,” I begged, kneeling beside him. “You have to stay with me. I can’t lose you.”
He looked at me with those wise amber eyes, and I saw the understanding reflected in them. He was tired, weary from years of existence, and I knew that the end was near. That night, I sat with him, holding his massive head in my lap, whispering promises of loyalty and love.
As dawn broke, Silas took one last breath, his body relaxing as he slipped away. I wept, mourning the loss of my friend, my protector, and the legacy of my family. The bond we shared transcended the boundaries of species, and I felt the weight of the world settle heavily on my shoulders.
The New Beginning
In the days that followed, I buried Silas in a secluded spot deep in the forest, a place where he had always felt at home. I honored his memory with a small ceremony, sharing stories of our time together and the lessons he had taught me. As I stood by his grave, I made a promise to continue the legacy of our agreement, to protect the secrets of the dogmen and honor their existence.
But as I returned to the cabin, I felt a profound emptiness. The porch was silent, the bucket of meat sat untouched, and the reality of my isolation loomed over me. I knew that I had to find a way to carry on, to honor Silas’s memory while navigating the complexities of my new life.
One evening, as I sat on the porch, I heard a rustle in the trees. My heart raced with anticipation. Could it be? I stood up, straining to see into the darkness. And then, from the shadows, emerged a figure—a young dogman, smaller than Silas but unmistakably similar.
He approached cautiously, his eyes reflecting the fading light. I felt a surge of hope. Perhaps this was the beginning of a new chapter, a continuation of the legacy that had been passed down through generations. I reached for the bucket of meat, my heart pounding with anticipation.
“Welcome,” I said softly, tossing a piece of meat toward him. “I’m Michael. I’ll take care of you, just like I did with Silas.”
As the young dogman caught the meat, I felt a flicker of connection, a promise of a bond yet to be formed. It was a new beginning, a chance to honor the past while embracing the future. And in that moment, I knew that the legacy of the dogmen would continue, intertwined with my own story, forever shaping the path ahead.
