FBI Sent Two Agents to Investigate Dogman Reports in Michigan — One Never Came Back — Dogman Stories
Discover more
headband
Headband
headbands
Headbands
Football kits
Arrowhead Stadium
Sports
AT&T Stadium
Portable speakers
Video
THE DOGMAN OF NORTHERN MICHIGAN: A WARNING FROM THE WOODS
What we saw in those northern Michigan forests in the fall of 1996 cost my partner his life and left me unable to speak for 72 hours.
Discover more
headbands
headband
Headbands
Headband
sports
Sports
Arrowhead Stadium
AT&T Stadium
Portable speakers
Video
They told us it was just locals making up stories to scare tourists—standard rural folklore. My partner and I flew into Michigan thinking we’d be done in three days. I’m the surviving agent. My partner never came back from those woods.
The official report says he drowned in a swamp. That’s what his wife was told. That’s what his two kids grew up believing. But I know what really took him. I saw it.
So before we continue, make sure you subscribe and let us know where you’re watching from. Thanks.
Discover more
headband
Headband
headbands
Headbands
Video
Portable speakers
GEHA Field at Arrowhead Stadium
Music
sports
music
1. A Routine Assignment That Wouldn’t Be Routine
It was early fall in 1996. My partner and I were both junior agents at the time, only a couple of years out of the academy. We were young, ambitious, and thought we knew everything. We had handled a few routine cases before this—nothing exciting. White-collar crime, some fraud investigations, background checks—the kind of work that’s necessary, but doesn’t exactly get your blood pumping.
Then we got called into our supervisor’s office and handed a file that seemed completely out of left field for the FBI.
Multiple reports had come in from the Traverse City area in northern Michigan. Hunters and campers were reporting attacks by something they couldn’t explain. The descriptions were all over the place, but certain details kept repeating: A creature that walked upright like a person but had the head and features of a wolf. Seven to eight feet tall. A powerful build. Eyes that reflected light at night. Intelligent behavior that didn’t match any known animal.
At first, the local authorities figured it was either a case of mistaken identity or someone in a costume trying to scare people. Maybe a disturbed individual living in the woods. But then the third attack happened, and this one left someone hospitalized with injuries that couldn’t be explained away. Deep claw marks that went through heavy winter clothing. Bite marks from something with a jaw far larger than any wolf or dog. The victim was an experienced hunter who’d been in these woods his whole life. And he swore up and down that what attacked him was no bear, no wolf, nothing he’d ever seen before.
That’s when the local sheriff’s department requested federal assistance. They were out of their depth and they knew it. My partner and I drew the assignment. I remember him joking about it as we reviewed the file, saying we were going to solve the mystery of the werewolf attacks. We both figured it was going to be pretty straightforward. Either a bear that people were misidentifying in the moment of panic, or some nut job in a costume. We’d investigate, file a report, and be home in a few days. We were so wrong.
2. First Impressions: The Local Sheriff’s Office
We drove up to northern Michigan from our field office. It took most of the day to get there. The landscape changed as we went north. Cities gave way to small towns. Small towns gave way to scattered houses. Eventually, we were driving through nothing but dense forest on both sides of the highway. Mile after mile of thick woods, pine trees and hardwoods all tangled together. The kind of wilderness where you could walk for days and never see another person.
The sheriff met us at his office, a weathered guy in his late 50s who’d clearly spent his whole career in these parts. He laid out photos of the attack scenes on his desk, and I’ve got to admit, even though I was skeptical, something about those photos made me uneasy. The claw marks were deep, way deeper than what a bear should be able to do, and the spacing was wrong. The stride length between tracks suggested something with much longer legs than a bear walking on all fours.
The sheriff told us he’d been working in these woods for 30 years and he’d never seen anything like it. He said the old-timers in the area had stories going back generations about something they called the Dogman, but he’d always written it off as folklore. Now? Now he wasn’t so sure.
He gave us maps marking where each attack had occurred, showing us the areas where most of the sightings had been reported. All of it was concentrated in one region—maybe a 15-square-mile area of particularly dense forest northeast of Traverse City.
My partner and I checked into a motel that evening, went over the case files, and made our plan for the next day. We were going to interview the victims, examine the attack sites, look for tracks or other physical evidence. Standard investigative procedure.
I remember my partner saying that by tomorrow night, we’d probably have this whole thing figured out. God, we were naive.
3. Interviews and Claw Marks: A Growing Unease
The first two days followed the plan we’d laid out. We drove to the hospital and interviewed the attack victim who was still recovering. He was a guy in his 40s, been hunting these woods since he was a kid. The doctors had stitched up the claw marks on his shoulder and back, gave him antibiotics, treated him for shock. When we talked to him, he was calm and coherent—no hysteria. He told us he’d been setting up a tree stand before dawn, getting ready for the day’s hunt. He heard something moving through the brush nearby and figured it was a deer, but the sounds were heavier than a deer, more deliberate.
He stayed quiet in his stand, watching. That’s when it stepped into the small clearing below him. He described a creature walking on two legs, covered in dark fur with a head that was distinctly canine. A wolf-like snout. Pointed ears. But the body structure was all wrong for any wolf. Too tall. Too muscular. Arms that were too long. It moved with purpose, he said, not like an animal wandering through the forest, but like something that knew exactly where it was going.
The eyes were what got him most. When it looked up and spotted him in the tree, he said the eyes showed intelligence, understanding. It knew what he was, knew he was a threat, and made a decision about what to do. It climbed the tree—not scrambled up clumsily like a bear would, but climbed with clear intent and remarkable agility for something that size. He barely had time to react. He tried to get his rifle up, but it knocked the weapon out of his hands, sent it tumbling to the ground below. Then it grabbed him, pulled him out of the stand. He fell about 15 feet, hit the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of him.
The creature was on him immediately. Claws tore through his jacket, through his shirt, raked across his back and shoulder. He thought he was going to die right there, but then it stopped. He said it was the strangest thing. It had him pinned. Could have killed him easily, but it just stopped, looked at him for a long moment with those intelligent eyes, then backed off, released him, and disappeared into the forest, leaving him bleeding on the ground but alive.
My partner and I left that interview with our skepticism shaken. This wasn’t some random person making up a story. This was an experienced woodsman giving us specific details with complete certainty.
We drove out to the attack site, found the tree stand still there, and found claw marks on the tree trunk exactly where he said they’d be. Deep gouges in the bark, going up at an angle that matched something climbing. Then we found the tracks. The ground was soft from recent rain, and the tracks were clear as day. Canine-like prints, but they showed a bipedal gait. Front paws, hind paws, whatever you want to call them, they alternated like a person walking. Not the pattern you’d see from a four-legged animal. Each print was huge—easily 14 inches long, showing clear claw marks at the tips of what looked like toes. The stride between prints was over four feet.
No bear walks like that. No wolf. No dog. Nothing I’d ever seen before.
4. Getting Too Close: The Trap
We took photos, made measurements, documented everything. Then we followed the tracks as far as we could. They led deeper into the forest, into an area so dense with undergrowth that we eventually lost the trail. My partner wanted to keep going, but it was getting late, and we didn’t have proper equipment for an extended trek into the woods. We marked the location on our GPS and headed back to the vehicle.
That evening, we met with the sheriff again, showed him our findings. He helped us get trail cameras—professional-grade equipment with infrared capabilities for night recording. He also gave us detailed topographic maps of the area, showed us where the game trails typically ran, pointed out areas where water sources drew animals together. We went back out the next morning and set up cameras in the areas where attacks had occurred, where we’d found tracks, anywhere that seemed like a likely route for whatever this thing was. We positioned them carefully, made sure they had clear views of game trails and natural corridors through the forest.
Best video game consoles
We spent the rest of the day setting up, testing each camera to make sure it was recording properly. By the time we finished, the sun was starting to drop toward the western horizon. We hiked back to our vehicle, discussing whether we should camp out in the woods or head back to the motel. My partner wanted to stay out, said we’d get better documentation if we were present overnight. I was less enthusiastic but agreed. We had camping gear, we had weapons, and we were trained FBI agents. What could go wrong?
5. The Night It All Changed
We camped near the forest edge that first night. The clearing was maybe 40 feet across, ringed by pine trees that blocked most of the wind. We gathered dead wood from the surrounding area, built a fire in the center, and kept it contained in a ring of stones. We kept our service weapons close, checked them multiple times to make sure they were ready if needed. My partner had his Glock 22 in a holster on his belt, and I carried the same model—standard FBI issue at the time, reliable and powerful enough to stop most threats. We also had bear spray, though I wasn’t sure how effective that would be if we were dealing with something unusual.
We took turns on watch, two-hour shifts. My partner took the first watch while I tried to sleep. I lay in my sleeping bag, listening to the sounds of the forest, the crackling of the fire, my partner moving around outside the tent. Sleep came eventually, but it was fitful and interrupted by strange dreams. I couldn’t quite remember when I woke up.
Nothing happened that first night. The night was quiet except for normal forest sounds. Owls calling to each other across the darkness. The occasional rustle of small animals in the brush—probably mice or rabbits moving through the undergrowth. Wind in the pine trees making that soft sighing sound. In the distance, a few times, I thought I heard larger animals moving, but nothing came close to our camp.
We woke up the next morning feeling a bit foolish for being so on edge. The sun rose clear and bright, burning off the morning mist that had settled in the low areas. Birds were singing their dawn chorus. Everything felt peaceful and normal. My partner made coffee on our camp stove while I struck the tents and packed up our gear. We ate a quick breakfast of energy bars and instant oatmeal. Nothing fancy, but enough to fuel us for the day ahead.
Maybe this was going to be routine after all. Maybe we’d spend a few more days documenting normal wildlife activity, write up a report about misidentified bears, and head home with a boring but complete investigation.
6. The Encounter
Day three changed everything.
We decided to go deeper into the forest, following the pattern of tracks we’d been mapping over the previous days. The terrain got rougher the farther we went. The established trails petered out, replaced by nothing but raw wilderness. Thick stands of pine blocked out most of the sunlight even at midday, creating a perpetual twilight under the canopy. Fallen logs covered in thick moss created obstacles every few yards. Roots snaked across the forest floor, covered by layers of pine needles and dead leaves that concealed them until you stepped wrong.
The air smelled different here, deeper in the woods. Less of the fresh pine scent you get near the edges and more of the rich, dark smell of decomposition and ancient earth.
We had been hiking for about three hours, moving slowly and methodically, when my partner stopped suddenly and held up his hand. I froze, listening. At first, I didn’t hear anything unusual. Then I caught it—a smell on the wind, strong, musky, nothing like the deer or bear scent you normally encounter. This was heavier, more pungent, almost overwhelming when the breeze shifted in our direction.
Around noon, we found the deer carcass.
We smelled it before we saw it. That distinctive odor of fresh death and torn flesh. Fresh kill. The thing had been torn apart with tremendous force. It went beyond normal predation. This wasn’t a clean kill from a wolf pack or a bear taking down prey. This was violence, destruction, systematic dismemberment.
The ribs had been cracked open and spread apart. The chest cavity was completely empty. The internal organs were gone—consumed or scattered.
But what really caught my attention were the long bones—femurs, tibias, bones that normally require significant force to break. They’d been snapped like twigs, the marrow inside scraped clean.
Whatever killed this deer had the jaw strength and intelligence to crack open bones, specifically to get at the marrow. That level of purposeful behavior suggested more than instinct.
Bears do crack bones for marrow, but the pattern was wrong for a bear kill. Too methodical. Too thorough. A bear will tear into a carcass and feed messily, scattering remains over a wide area. This kill was concentrated, organized in a way that suggested the predator had taken its time, worked systematically through the carcass.
7. The Scream
Then we heard it.
A howl. Not like any wolf or coyote I’d ever heard in my life or in any nature documentary. This was deeper, more resonant, with a quality that I still can’t quite describe even after all these years. It had variance to it—ups and downs in pitch that almost seemed like syllables. Like something trying to form words but not quite managing it. Or maybe words in a language we couldn’t understand.
The sound echoed through the forest in a way that made it impossible to pinpoint the source. It seemed to come from everywhere at once, bouncing off the trees, reverberating through the dense woods.
My partner and I locked eyes. I could see the same mix of excitement and fear in his expression that I was feeling. This was it. This was what we’d come looking for.
And now that we’d found it, every instinct I had was screaming at me to run.
My partner tried to make a joke about wolves. Something about us needing silver bullets, but his voice was shaky, and the laugh died before it really started. Neither of us was finding any humor in the situation anymore. This was real.
This wasn’t some case of misidentification or local superstition. Something was out here, and it was big enough and bold enough to announce its presence in broad daylight.
8. The Chase
We followed the tracks deeper into the woods, heading toward the sound. The creatures were clearly aware of us, testing us, studying us. They were close, but they never showed themselves.
We didn’t know how close until it was too late.
What happened next would change my life forever.
9. The First Encounter
We pushed deeper into the dense forest, following the tracks with growing apprehension. Every step felt heavier, like the air itself was pressing down on us. The branches overhead blocked most of the sunlight, casting a perpetual twilight over the trail. The only sounds were the occasional snap of twigs beneath our boots and the distant rustling of leaves in the wind.
We moved quietly, the forest feeling more like an intruder’s house than a natural habitat. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled, and every now and then, I would catch a glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye, but nothing was ever there when I turned to look. My partner’s face mirrored my unease, but he pressed on, determined.
Then, we reached a small clearing, maybe 30 feet across. The air was thick with tension, and the moment we stepped into the open, I felt a wave of dread wash over me. I didn’t know why—nothing had changed, but it felt like we had crossed a line.
We stopped.
There, just beyond the clearing, I saw it.
A massive shape, almost camouflaged in the shadow of the trees. It stood perfectly still, observing us. My partner and I locked eyes. My heart started to race, my breath catching in my throat. It was larger than anything I had ever imagined. The creature stood at least 8 feet tall, covered in dark, matted fur that almost blended into the surrounding woods. The head was unmistakably canine, but the eyes, those eyes, were what froze me in place.
They were watching us—calculating, intelligent, aware.
I could feel it, deep in my bones, the undeniable awareness that we were no longer just investigating a mystery—we had become part of the forest’s secret, an intruder in its domain.
It didn’t move at first. It just stood there, watching us. My partner had already reached for his sidearm, his fingers trembling as he gripped the cold metal. But I was rooted to the spot, unable to draw my own weapon.
Then, the creature tilted its head, almost as if it were studying us the same way we had been studying it. It wasn’t moving forward, but it wasn’t backing off either. It was just there, staring at us with those haunting amber eyes, its posture unwavering. It was aware of us in a way that no animal ever could be.
Seconds stretched into what felt like hours. Neither of us spoke. The world around us seemed to freeze, the only sound coming from the creature’s low, steady breathing.
And then, without warning, it moved.
It wasn’t a rush, a lunge, or even an attack. It simply took a step back into the shadows, disappearing into the dense underbrush with a speed and grace that belied its massive size. One second it was there, and the next, it was gone, like a shadow retreating into the dark heart of the forest.
We stood in stunned silence. My partner didn’t move. I could feel the adrenaline pumping through my veins, but I couldn’t speak. My mouth felt dry, my legs like stone beneath me.
Finally, my partner broke the silence, his voice a hoarse whisper. “What the hell was that?”
I had no answer. I couldn’t even begin to form the words. What I had just seen didn’t belong in the world I knew. It was impossible, and yet, it had happened. There was no denying it.
We stayed there for a few more minutes, scanning the shadows, but nothing moved. No more sounds. No more eyes reflecting back at us. It was as if the forest had closed itself off again, hiding the creature from view.
“We need to go,” I said, finally finding my voice. “We need to get out of here, now.”
My partner didn’t argue. He nodded, the same fear etched into his features, and we started back the way we came, moving faster than we had before. The forest seemed to close in around us, the trees taller, the shadows deeper. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig, made us freeze, our heads snapping toward the sound, but nothing was there. Nothing followed us.
10. The Search for Answers
When we made it back to camp, we didn’t speak. We gathered our things quickly, our actions mechanical, driven by instinct. The sun had started to set, and the forest was descending into darkness. I felt the weight of every step, the dread in my gut growing with each passing second. I had seen something in those woods that I couldn’t explain, and I knew that whatever it was, it was not going to let us leave without understanding the consequences of our intrusion.
We checked our radios. No signal. The sheriff wouldn’t be able to reach us until we returned to the vehicle, and even then, the transmission would be spotty at best. We couldn’t afford to stay out there any longer.
The night was quiet at first. Too quiet. There was no animal noise, no wind rustling through the branches. It was as if the entire forest had fallen into a deep, unnatural silence, holding its breath. My partner and I sat by the fire, weapons close, eyes constantly scanning the dark edges of the clearing. The fire crackled and popped, but even its warmth couldn’t shake the cold feeling that had settled over me.
Then we heard it.
A low, distant howl.
Not the same one we had heard earlier, but a deep, mournful sound that echoed through the trees, reverberating off the trunks. This one was different—it was closer.
The creatures had returned.
We jumped to our feet, guns drawn, the firelight casting long shadows across the clearing. Another howl, closer this time. And then, another sound—something that made my blood run cold. It was a series of sharp, rhythmic clicks, like teeth snapping together.
Tick, tick, tick, tick.
It was unmistakable. The creature from earlier, the one we had seen, was not alone.
We moved instinctively, our training kicking in. I pulled my partner toward the truck, moving fast, not daring to look back. We were being hunted. We knew it. We just didn’t know how much time we had left.
We made it to the vehicle in record time, but as we jumped in and slammed the doors shut, I couldn’t shake the feeling that they were still out there, watching us.
The forest seemed to close in behind us as we sped toward town, the trees blurring in the headlights. The road ahead was straight, but the feeling of being followed never left. I didn’t speak. Neither did my partner. We both knew that what we had witnessed couldn’t be explained away. We had seen something that was not supposed to exist.
11. The Aftermath
When we returned to town, we tried to report what had happened. The footage we had from the trail cameras, the photos, the tracks—everything we had gathered—it was all brushed aside. The sheriff didn’t want to hear it. The official story was that we had misidentified the creatures as bears or wolves. Anything to avoid acknowledging the truth.
The footage from the cameras was confiscated, the evidence sealed away. My partner’s enthusiasm for further investigation was met with increasing resistance. The higher-ups didn’t want this to get out. They didn’t want to acknowledge the existence of something that could threaten human safety in such a profound way.
We were told to leave it alone.
But I couldn’t. The truth was too dangerous to ignore. And yet, every attempt I made to push for a public acknowledgment of what we had seen was met with more suppression. The case went cold. My partner was never allowed to share his findings, and he eventually left the bureau, disillusioned and haunted by what we had discovered.
I stayed for a while, but eventually, I had no choice but to leave as well. The government had decided to cover up what we had found, and they had the power to do so.
12. Moving On
Years passed, but I could never shake the memory of those creatures, the intelligence in their eyes, the way they communicated. They weren’t animals. They weren’t simply predators. They were something more.
The nightmares still come. I still hear that howling. I still see the creatures in the shadows of the trees, watching me from the distance. I still feel the weight of that decision to continue investigating. I think about my partner, about how he died, and how I couldn’t save him.
But I can’t stay quiet anymore.
The truth is too important. The Dogman is real. They exist in the forests of northern Michigan. And they are dangerous when provoked.
If you ever find yourself in those woods, remember what I’ve told you. Don’t push too far. Don’t stay too long. And whatever you do, don’t let curiosity get the best of you.
Because sometimes, the things you find in the woods are better left alone.
