Michigan Dogman attacks Freight Train

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The Night I Encountered the Michigan Dogman: A Freight Train Operator’s Tale

My name is Dave Halpern, and I’m a 42-year-old freight train operator in Michigan. For most of my life, I’ve dedicated myself to moving freight from one place to another, and I pride myself on being a reliable railroad guy. I’m not a writer, nor do I fancy myself a storyteller. I go to work, come home tired, and that’s about the size of it. However, I find myself compelled to share an experience that defies normalcy—an encounter that challenges everything I thought I knew about the world.

This incident occurred during a night run in the fall of 2023, somewhere deep in the wilderness of Michigan. I won’t disclose the exact location, partly because I still work for the railroad and partly because I don’t want thrill-seekers trespassing on the tracks trying to catch a glimpse of what I saw. If you’ve ever been out on a lonely stretch of railroad tracks at night, surrounded by swamp, trees, and the low rumble of a freight engine, you can imagine the atmosphere.

A Routine Night Run

Most nights on the job are uneventful. You check your signals, monitor your radios, and watch the mileposts as they pass by. You feel the weight of the train behind you and focus on your speed and gauges. If you’re lucky, nothing happens at all—no hot boxes, no broken knuckles, no idiots on the crossings. Just another routine trip.

But this night was different. I signed on, did my checks, and talked to the dispatcher. The weather was decent—cool and clear with a little wind. It was the kind of night where the air feels thin, and the sound of the engine carries far. I rolled out with green signals and quiet radios, feeling confident as I settled into my routine.

As I drove down the tracks, I watched the reflection off the rails and the occasional farmhouse light in the distance. Everything else was a suggestion—a tunnel of headlight on the tracks and a whole lot of black surrounding me. I was making good time when the wayside signal at the next control point dropped to red. Another train was ahead, occupying the block, and with the positive train control system in the cab, I had no choice but to start setting the air and bring my train down slowly.

The Unexpected Stop

I eased off the throttle, letting the train settle to a stop like I’d done a thousand times before. The signal ahead stayed red, and the dispatcher instructed me to hold tight and wait for the train in front to clear. Routine.

Once I was sitting there, I realized how quiet it was outside the cab. The engine idled, but beyond that, there was nothing—no traffic noise, no yard sounds, and no town glow on the horizon. Just darkness and the faint outline of trees against a low empty sky. I cracked the side window to cool off the cab and leaned out for some fresh air.

That’s when I noticed the concrete mouth of a culvert about 20 feet behind the cab. It was just a dark hole under the tracks, surrounded by brush. Nothing special, really. I’ve passed a thousand just like it. But for some reason, I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Maybe it was the way the shadows sat around the opening or the fact that there was nothing else to look at.

The Shape in the Shadows

I was still halfway in that bored, half-asleep headspace when I saw something move in that black patch. At first, I thought it was a dog or a coyote taking shelter. We see plenty of those along the right of way. But as I watched, whatever it was came closer to the edge and started to climb out of the culvert.

The shape didn’t look right. It didn’t move like a dog—belly low and tail behind. This thing unfolded itself onto the rock, rising up as if it had more height to work with than it should have. The longer I watched, the more obvious it became that the size was off—way too big for any dog I’d ever seen, more in the range of a good-sized black bear, thick through the shoulders and back.

But even then, the way it carried itself didn’t match that either. I wasn’t bored anymore. I watched it in the spill of light from the headlight and cab lights, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. From my vantage point, it was mostly a moving shadow against a darker shadow. I could see bulk and the way it shifted its weight on the rock, but not enough detail to calm myself down with a label.

Finally, I flipped on the step lights and the walkway lights along my side of the locomotive. Those lights are just there so you can see where you’re putting your feet when you climb up and down. But when they came on, the whole side of the engine lit up in a hard white wash, spilling down onto the ballast and the mouth of the culvert.

The Dogman Revealed

That was when my stomach went cold. The thing I’d been watching was now turned partially toward the tracks, like it was listening to the engine or feeling the vibrations under its feet. In that light, I could see it clearly. It had come all the way out of the culvert and was standing on the rock, about 10 to 12 feet off the rail, even with the rear of the locomotive cab.

It was up on its back legs, not awkward like a dog standing for a treat, but as if that was its normal way of being. The body was long and heavy through the chest, shoulders thick, waist pulled in. The fur was patchy in spots—longer along the shoulders and back, thinner down the sides, and the color was a dark gray-brown that would disappear in the woods.

What really threw me was the proportions. The legs were bent like a dog’s hocks but had too much length in the thigh and too much muscle in the upper part. The feet looked more like big, ugly human feet that had started to turn into paws than anything you’d see on a normal animal. Up top, the arms hung too long, and what was at the ends of them were not paws at all. I could see hands—big hands with long fingers and claws catching the light when they uncurled.

The head was the part that scrambled my brain. At a glance, it looked like a wolf or a big German Shepherd—long muzzle, heavy jaw, ears up on top. But the longer I looked, the less it fit that box. The skull looked too broad through the temples, almost as if something had widened it sideways. There was a hint of a brow ridge over the eyes that you don’t see on a normal dog. The muzzle wasn’t quite right either. It was a little too short and too deep, like the jaw had been built to take more pressure than it should.

When it shifted its expression, the muscles moved in a way that reminded me more of a person scowling than a dog snarling. There were little creases in the face and around the eyes that didn’t belong on an animal. Nothing cute or rounded about it—nothing that made me think mask or costume. If anything, it looked like someone had taken a big wolf head and forced it onto a frame that wasn’t meant for it.

The Standoff

When it turned a little more toward the lights, I caught its eyes. They didn’t glow on their own; they reflected a flat, glassy sheen from my lamps, just like a dog or coyote does when you hit them with a beam. That was somehow worse because it made it feel real. It didn’t act shocked to see the lights come on. It didn’t rear back or bolt. It just squinted a little, blinked, and angled its head like it was listening harder.

Then it started to move toward the locomotive—not charging, not stalking low like it was about to pounce, just walking. It placed those back feet carefully on the ballast, letting the front ones hang loosely in front, like a person unsure whether they were going to grab something or not.

As it got closer to the side of the engine, it finally noticed me at the window. I saw the head tilt up slightly, ears flicking, nostrils flaring, eyes tracking up to where I was leaning out. For a second or two, we just looked at each other, and it didn’t read like surprise. It read like recognition.

That’s when the layout of the locomotive hit me in a way it never does on a normal night. There’s a sidewalk with handrails running almost the entire length of the engine, and the cab’s rear side door opens right onto that platform. If it climbed the steps in the back and got onto the running board, it could be at my door in seconds.

The Realization

In that moment, I realized something else that made my mouth go dry. The cab isn’t a bunker. It’s sheet metal, glass, and a lock meant to keep honest people honest. I’m used to feeling high up and separated from whatever’s on the ground. But looking at that creature staring back at me, I suddenly pictured those hands on the rail, those fingers on the door handle, and the cab door bending or being ripped out if it decided to try to get to me.

I had been leaning out like I was watching a deer in the beam. I wasn’t. I was a man in a lit box, and whatever was down there had a straight path to me, and more than likely, the strength required to get inside. That’s when the little voice in the back of my head told me I had to do something.

I pulled myself back inside the cab and started looking around for anything within arm’s reach that might make it think twice about making a run at the cab. My hand landed on my flashlight—a high-powered tactical light I keep up there for inspections. It’s about the size of a baton and throws a tight, nasty beam when you crank it up. I grabbed it without taking my eyes off the side window, thumbed it on, and shoved the lens right up to the glass.

When I turned it on at full power and dragged the beam down over the culvert, it nailed the thing right in the face. Up until then, I’d only had the step lights and spillover from the cab and headlight. This was different. The beam punched through all the softer light and lit its eyes and muzzle like I’d shoved a flare in its teeth.

The Reaction

The creature didn’t like that one bit. The reaction was instant. It flinched back a half-step, head snapping to the side, one arm coming up to block the light. I saw the claws curl in toward the palm, like a person making a fist against something bright. It let out a low, rough sound—more like the start of a growl—and turned its head away from the beam, but it didn’t break off. It shifted its weight, moved sideways along the ballast, trying to angle itself so the worst of the light slid off its face.

Every time I tracked it with the beam and caught its eyes, it twitched and squinted, throwing that arm up again, but it kept inching closer to the side of the engine. That was the moment when it really sank in that it wasn’t just curious from a distance. It was working on a plan to get to me.

Light or no light, the flashlight wasn’t going to stop it. All it was doing was annoying it and letting me watch it get more irritated. A second later, it did exactly what I’d been picturing. It took one last step on the rock, put a hand on the side sill like it had done it a hundred times, and hauled itself up onto the walkway in one clean pull. It didn’t even need the steps. No scrabbling, no slipping—just that upper body yanking up its own weight like it was nothing.

With that move, it had closed the gap to about 10 feet. There were no more obstacles between us, other than the thin metal door and the small window. The second it caught its footing again, it turned its face away from the beam, keeping the side of its head toward me, and started moving along the walkway toward the front of the locomotive.

One of its hands gripped the rail just like a man, while the other shielded its eyes from the light. It didn’t rush. I took slow, careful steps back, feeling for each tread like it had all the time in the world. I hit its face with the light as best I could, but the damn thing just kept coming.

The Confrontation

Every few steps, it angled its head just enough to keep the worst of the glare off its eyes, like a person turning away from the sun but refusing to change direction. Seeing it up on my level with only a few feet between us did something to my nerves that the view from the ground hadn’t. It stopped feeling like I was watching something weird by the tracks and started feeling like I was pinned in a box with a big predator seemingly committed to tearing me apart.

Every line of it told me this thing was a killer. Legs, arms, claws, the way it moved its head—nothing nervous or spooked, just steady and methodical. I remember backing off the window without meaning to, my hand locking around the flashlight until my knuckles hurt, breath going short, doing ugly math on how many seconds I had if it started throwing itself against the door.

Then it closed the gap. One moment it was still out on the walkway, keeping its head turned from the beam, and the next it was right there, pressed up near the side window like it had crossed those last few feet on a decision I didn’t get a vote on. It stopped and looked straight in at me through the glass—not glancing, not checking, but staring. Eyes level with mine, face close enough that I could see the wet shine of its nose and the tight pull of muscle along its massive jaws.

My mind went blank. I had no idea what to do. All I felt was raw, stupid panic. The first thought I had wasn’t brave or smart. What if I just find a place to hide? Like if it couldn’t see me, maybe it would lose interest and drop back down to the ground, and I could pretend this never happened. So, I moved fast.

I yanked myself away from the window and half-ran to the other side of the cab, keeping low, flashlight clutched in my fist. I hunkered down by the opposite wall, shoulders tight, trying to make myself small in a place you can’t really be small. For a few moments, nothing happened. The engine idled. I held my breath and listened so hard my ears rang.

The Attack

Then the window burst. It wasn’t a slow crack. It was a sharp, violent pop and a showering rattle, like someone had taken a hammer to it. I flinched hard enough to bang my elbow on the wall. Right after that came the sounds that made my skin crawl—wet sniffing at the broken frame, short and hungry, and a low, steady growl that never rose into a full snarl like it didn’t need to.

For a second, I still had a thread of hope. The window opening was too small. Even with the glass gone, something built like that isn’t squeezing itself through a side cab window. I told myself it was frustrated. I told myself it might back off. That hope lasted until I heard claws working the metal door—not scraping at random, but working it. Nails ticking along the seam, dragging across the latch area, testing for weaknesses.

Then came a massive impact that kicked through the cab like a fist through a drum. The whole door shuttered in its frame. The cab rocked, and I felt it in my teeth. Whatever hesitation I’d had about escalating vanished. If I didn’t come up with something right now, it was going to get in.

My first instinct was to get out of there. I looked across the cab at the other side window and thought about dropping down onto the ballast and running into the dark. But all I saw in my head was swamp and brush and those dead black trees and me trying to splash my way through it with no weapon, no way to call for help, and nowhere to go. Out there, I’d be slow and defenseless. Whatever was on that walkway would be on me in no time.

I spun back, searching the cab for anything that wasn’t just a flashlight and a prayer. That’s when my eyes landed on the fire extinguisher—a red cylinder mounted where it always is. Something you don’t think about unless you’ve got smoke in the cab. I lunged for it, ripped it free, yanked the pin so hard it bit into my palm, and went back to the broken window.

The Use of the Fire Extinguisher

I didn’t aim like a firefighter. I just jammed the nozzle toward the opening and squeezed the handle. A white cloud exploded out and blasted straight into its face. The effect was immediate. The growls cut off into a harsh choking sound, and it snapped its head away. It backed off a step on the walkway, both hands coming up, claws spread, scraping at its muzzle and eyes like the powder was burning.

I kept spraying, sweeping the stream left and right through the broken frame, filling the space between the window and the rail with that thick chemical fog until I could barely see it. It hated it, but it didn’t leave. It retreated just far enough to breathe, pawing and wiping at its face, shaking its head like a dog that’s gotten dust in its nose. I didn’t stop. I held that handle down until my forearm started to shake, desperate to keep it irritated and blinded and off the door.

Then the extinguisher sputtered. The spray weakened, coughed, and died. The cab filled with that bitter, chalky smell. And for one awful second, there was just silence and my own ragged breathing. Before I even put the extinguisher down, I saw it come forward again—faster now, more eager to get me. It leaned into the broken window, and I realized what it was doing at the last second. If it couldn’t get in, it could still reach in.

Its arms were more than long enough for that. It tried to wedge itself into the opening, pushing its muzzle against the jagged frame, angling one shoulder like it meant to hook an arm through and grab whatever it could. That gave me a split-second opening. I swung the empty extinguisher like a club and caught it in the face. If the cylinder had still been full, maybe it would have meant something. Empty, it was mostly just a hard thump. It jerked its head back, more annoyed than hurt.

I tried to bring the extinguisher around again, and that was my mistake. A hand shot toward me and clamped onto the cylinder. Claws raked the metal inches from my fingers. For a heartbeat, we were both holding it—me inside the cab, it outside on the walkway—and I felt the strength in that grip like a machine closing. It yanked. The extinguisher ripped out of my hands and disappeared through the window so fast it nearly took me with it. I stumbled forward and caught myself on the console.

When I looked back, I saw the claws had come close enough that one more inch would have hooked my sleeve. I was out of ideas and out of tools, and it was still there. I don’t know why it took me that long to think of the horn. Maybe it was shock. Maybe it was because I’d already burned through every normal idea a working man reaches for. Light, hiding, makeshift weapons—like any of that mattered.

I just watched it yank the extinguisher out through the window like it was nothing. And I was standing there empty-handed with the door shuttering under its assault. Then my eyes flicked up almost by accident to the horn handle. It was right there—the one thing on that whole locomotive that isn’t meant to be polite. The one thing designed to make a mile of countryside flinch. And it hit me all at once, hard and clean.

The Horn as a Weapon

I couldn’t outmuscle it, and I couldn’t outrun it, but maybe I could hurt it without ever opening the door. I thought about my own dog at home—how she flinches every time a train goes over the nearby crossing, which is about a hundred yards from the house. She’ll be lying outside half asleep, and if the horn sounds for more than half a second, she’s up with her ears pinned back looking for a place to tuck herself.

So, if this thing hears anything as a dog does—and everything about it said it does—then a full train horn at arm’s length wasn’t a warning. It was a weapon. The thought was so sudden it felt like somebody else put it in my head, like a trap door opening under panic. I retreated as far away from the door as I could while keeping the horn still within reach. Then my right hand went straight for the handle.

I didn’t tap it or give it a little warning blast. I grabbed it and laid on it with everything I had. Inside the cab, the sound hits you in the chest. Outside, at that range, I can only imagine what it felt like. The horn came in full and hard—one long, steady blast that rolled out over the swamp and bounced back off the trees. The whole cab vibrated. I could feel it buzzing in my teeth.

I kept my eyes on the broken rear window while I held it down. On the walkway right behind the door, the Dogman looked like it was losing a fight with the air itself. It spun in a tight, frantic half-circle, shoulders hunched up to its ears. Both hands clamped hard against the sides of its head, like it was trying to crush the sound out of its skull. The muscles along its neck and jaw jumped and twitched with each pulse of the horn, and it kept opening its mouth wide like it was roaring back at me. But all I could see was the strain in its throat and the way spit flicked from its lips.

The Escape

I kept that handle pulled—20 seconds, 30. It wasn’t just loud; it was pain. With that window blown out, there was nothing to muffle it on my side. The horn was screaming straight through the opening and into the cab. My own ears started to hurt badly—a sharp, stabbing ache that made my eyes water. I turned my head sideways and clamped my free hand over one ear, trying to protect it, but the sound still got in through my jaw and my teeth and the bones of my skull. My throat tightened up like I was swallowing against a vacuum.

The creature tried to face the cab twice, like some part of it still wanted to commit, but the instant it turned toward the engine, it recoiled, head snapping away, whole body jerking sideways as if the horn had slammed it in the face. One clawed hand let go of its head long enough to grab the handrail for balance, fingers white-knuckled around the steel. Then it lost its nerve and clamped both hands back over its ears again. It staggered backward a few steps, paws scraping on the tread, and for a second, it looked genuinely panicked.

It tried to back away along the walkway, still clamping its head with both hands, shoulders hunched like it was trying to fold in on itself, but it was moving blind. Head turned away, ears pinned, balance gone. One foot hit the edge wrong, and then it stumbled. The next second, it was off the walkway entirely. It slammed hard into the side of the rail, shoulder first. It hit the ballast, bounced, and rolled down the embankment in a loose, uncontrolled tumble, still clutching its head with both hands like it was afraid to let go.

Dirt and rock kicked up under it as it slid, legs tangling and then catching until it finally caught itself at the bottom. It didn’t stay down. It scrambled up on all fours and lurched for the culvert, back arched, nails tearing through grass and wet dirt, moving like it was trying to outrun the sound that was still ripping through its skull. It dove into that concrete hole like it was getting out of a fire.

I held the horn a few seconds longer just to make sure, then finally let the handle go and sat there in the sudden relative quiet, heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my fingertips. I just stared at the side window and the culvert mouth beyond, waiting to see if it would come back out. It didn’t. The only things moving were the exhaust haze drifting along the top of the engine and the violent tremor in my own hands.

Aftermath

I glanced up at the signal, still red. I caught myself checking it again and again, like staring at it hard enough might make it change. Anything to get me away from that damn culvert. And I know what you’re thinking: why didn’t I just hit the gas and roll through the red signal? Because I couldn’t. Not on a PTC main. If I so much as tried to creep past a red signal, positive train control would lock the train down immediately, and I’d be sitting there dead in the water with a train that wouldn’t move until the whole mess got reset and explained. I’d be stranded out there in the dark, right next to that thing.

Only then it’d be hours, not minutes. And if I survived long enough for a supervisor to show up, I’d be fired. No question. A few minutes doesn’t sound like much when you say it out loud. Sitting there with that hole in the ground right beneath the engine and knowing what had just gone into it felt longer, but it was bearable. I knew how to hurt it, and nothing stopped me from hitting the horn again if necessary.

But that didn’t happen. Nothing else came out. Whatever I had driven back down there was either smart enough or hurt enough to stay put while the echo burned out of its skull. When the signal finally flipped, I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy in my life. I eased the throttle back up, brought the brakes off, and felt that long drag of weight start to move behind me.

Even after the locomotive started to roll, I kept one eye on the culvert in the mirror until it slid out of sight. Nothing showed itself. The engine picked up its usual rhythm, the rail joint noise came back under my feet, and on paper, it was just another routine departure from a stop signal. It didn’t feel routine. The rest of that run, I kept catching myself checking the mirrors and watching the tree line like I was expecting something to be pacing me out there in the dark.

By the time I tied up and drove home, my head was pounding. I almost talked myself into calling it stress—eyes playing tricks, maybe a bear caught in a bad angle of light. Almost. I didn’t sleep right away. Instead, I sat down with a cup of coffee and my phone and did what everybody does when they see something they can’t explain. I started typing things into a search bar.

Searching for Answers

At first, I didn’t even use the word “dogman.” I tried “werewolf Michigan,” “wolf walking on two legs,” “dog man,” stupid stuff like that. It didn’t take long before the same phrase kept popping up in stories and old articles: Michigan Dogman. I’d heard it before, always as a joke—campfire talk, radio shows, that song people play sometimes when they want to make fun of it. But I started reading anyway.

Sightings went back decades, different counties, most of them a lot farther south than where I’d been that night. Hunters, drivers, people walking dogs out on back roads. Some of the details lined up too close for comfort—the height, the way it moved, the hands. Nothing recent in the area I had been running through, but enough overall to make me feel less crazy.

That was one rabbit hole. The other one was train horns. I looked up the decibel levels, how they’re measured at 100 feet, and what that means up close. Everything I found said the same thing I already knew in my gut from being around them this long: they’re loud enough to hurt you if you’re dumb enough to stand too close for too long.

Then I started finding articles and studies about what that kind of sound does to the ears—human and animal hair cells in the inner ear getting cooked, causing temporary and permanent damage. Pain long before you ever go deaf. Add in the part about canines having more sensitive hearing than we do, and it didn’t take a genius to connect the dots. Whatever was living in that culvert had walked up to my train like it owned the place. And the only reason it went back down there was because I put something in its world it didn’t have an answer for.

Conclusion

I don’t know what I encountered that night. I don’t know if it was a creature of myth or a product of my imagination. But I do know that whatever it was, it was real enough to send me into a panic and make me question everything I thought I knew about the world.

As I sit here typing this out, I can’t shake the feeling that there are things lurking in the shadows, things that defy explanation and challenge our understanding of reality. The Michigan Dogman is more than just a legend—it’s a reminder that the wilderness still holds secrets we may never fully comprehend.

If you ever find yourself on a lonely stretch of track, keep your eyes open and your wits about you. You never know what might be lurking just out of sight.