I’ve always hated the smell of gun oil. It clings to everything it touches, soaking deep into the fibers of my clothes, the lining of my backpack, the coarse hair on the back of my hands. Yet here I am, kneeling on the cracked linoleum of our mudroom, a Remington .308 laid across my thighs, and the stench of gun oil sharp in my nostrils. The early morning light barely scratches at the edges of the blinds, dim and gray like the belly of a dead fish.
My dad Frank is in the kitchen, clattering around with the coffeepot and mumbling under his breath. Today we’re heading up to the woods of Northern Michigan, same as we did every year before Leah… before we lost her.
I can’t help but feel the old scars throbbing as I load bullets into the magazine. It’s been ten years since that hunting trip, the one that tore my family into before and after. Before, when Leah's laughter was a constant soundtrack to our lives; after, when every silence was filled with her absence.
We were just kids back then. I was ten, Leah was eight. It was supposed to be a typical hunting trip, one of those bonding experiences Dad was always talking about. But things went wrong. We got separated from Dad somehow. One minute we were following him, the next we were lost, the dense woods closing in around us.
Dad says when he found me, I was huddled under a fallen tree, my eyes wide, my body frozen. All I could mutter through chattering teeth was "Dogman."
It was only later, after the search parties had combed through every thicket and hollow, that they found her. What remained of Leah was barely recognizable, the evidence of a brutal mauling undeniable. The authorities concluded it was likely a bear attack, but Dad... he never accepted that explanation. He had seen the tracks, too large and oddly shaped for any bear.
As I load another round, the memory flashes, unbidden and unwelcome. Large, hairy clawed hands reaching out towards us, impossibly big, grotesque in their form. Yet, the rest of the creature eludes me, a shadow just beyond the edge of my recall, leaving me with nothing but fragmented terrors and Leah’s haunting, echoing screams. My mind blocked most of it out, a self-defense mechanism, I guess.
For years after that day, sleep was a battleground. I'd wake up in strange places—kitchen floor, backyard, even at the edge of the nearby creek. My therapist said it was my mind's way of trying to resolve the unresolved, to wander back through the woods searching for Leah. But all I found in those sleepless nights was a deeper sense of loss.
It took time, a lot of therapy, and patience I didn't know I had, but the sleepwalking did eventually stop. I guess I started to find some semblance of peace.
I have mostly moved on with my life. The fragmentary memories of that day are still there, lurking in the corners of my mind, but they don’t dominate my thoughts like they used to. I just finished my sophomore year at Michigan State, majoring in Environmental Science.
As for Dad, the loss of Leah broke him. He became a shell of himself. It destroyed his marriage with Mom. He blamed himself for letting us out of his sight, for not protecting Leah. His life took on a single, consuming focus: finding the creature that killed her. He read every book, every article on cryptids and unexplained phenomena. He mapped sightings, connected dots across blurry photos and shaky testimonies of the Dogman.
But as the tenth anniversary of Leah’s death approaches, Dad's obsession has grown more intense. He’s started staying up late, poring over his maps and notes, muttering to himself about patterns and cycles. He’s convinced that the dogman reappears every ten years, and this is our window of opportunity to finally hunt it down.
I’m not nearly as convinced. The whole dogman thing seems like a coping mechanism, a way for Dad to channel his guilt and grief into something tangible, something he can fight against. But I decided to tag along on this trip, partly to keep an eye on him, partly because a small part of me hopes that maybe, just maybe, we’ll find some kind of closure out there in the woods.
I finish loading the rifle and set it aside, standing up to stretch my legs. I wipe my greasy hands on an old rag, trying to get rid of the smell. The early morning light is starting to seep into the room, casting long shadows across the floor.
Dad comes out of the kitchen with two thermoses of coffee in hand. His eyes are bleary and tired.
“You ready, Ryan?” he asks, handing me a thermos, his voice rough from too many sleepless nights.
“Yeah, I’m ready,” I reply, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
We load our gear into the truck, the weight of our supplies and weapons a physical reminder of the burden we carry. The drive from Lansing across the Lower Peninsula is long and quiet, the silence between us filled with unspoken memories and unresolved grief.
—
The drive north is a blur of highway lines and the dull hum of the engine. I drift off, the landscape outside blending into a haze. In my sleep, fragments of that day with Leah replay like scattered pieces of a puzzle. I see her smile, the way she tugged at my sleeve, eager to explore. The sunlight filters through the trees in sharp, jagged streaks.
Then, the memory shifts—darker, disjointed. Leah's voice echoes, a playful laugh turning into a scream that pierces the air. The crunch of leaves underfoot as something heavy moves through the underbrush. I see a shadow, large and looming, not quite fitting the shapes of any creature I know.
Then, something darker creeps into the dream, something I’ve never allowed myself to remember clearly.
Before I can see what it is I wake up with a start as the truck jerks slightly on a rough patch of road. Dad glances over. "Bad dream?" he asks. I nod, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, the remnants of the dream clinging to me like the cold.
"Yeah, just... thinking about Leah," I manage to say.
As we drive, Dad attempts to bridge the silence with small talk. He asks about my finals, my plans for the summer, anything to keep the conversation going. His voice carries a forced cheerfulness, but it’s clear his heart isn’t in it. I respond when necessary, my answers brief, my gaze fixed on the passing scenery.
The landscape changes as we head further north, from flat expanses to rolling hills dotted with dense patches of forest. It's beautiful country, the kind that reminds you how vast and wild Michigan can be, but today it just feels oppressive, like it’s closing in on us.
—
We finally arrive at the cabin, nestled deep in the woods, its weathered wood blending seamlessly with the surrounding trees. The place hasn't changed much since the last time I was here—a relic from another time, filled with the echoes of our past. I can still see Leah running around the porch, her laughter ringing out into the forest.
Dad parks the truck, and we step out into the crisp air. The smell of pine and damp earth fills my nostrils. We start unloading our gear, the tension between us palpable.
“Let’s get this inside,” Dad says, his voice gruff as he hefts a duffel bag onto his shoulder.
I nod, grabbing my own bag and following him to the cabin. Inside, it’s a mix of old and new—the same rustic furniture, but with new hunting gear and maps strewn across the table. Dad’s obsession is evident in every corner of the room, a constant reminder of why we’re here.
As we unpack, we exchange strained attempts at normalcy. He talks about the latest cryptid sightings he’s read about, his eyes lighting up with a fervor that both worries and saddens me.
“Did you hear about the sighting up near Alpena?” he asks, laying out his maps on the table.
“Yeah, you mentioned it,” I reply, trying to muster some enthusiasm. “Do you really think there’s something to it?”
Dad’s eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I see a flicker of doubt. But it’s quickly replaced by grim determination. “I have to believe it, Ryan. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
We finish unpacking, the silence between us growing heavier with each passing minute. I step outside to clear my head, the cool air a welcome relief. The sun is starting to set, casting long shadows across the clearing. I can’t shake the feeling of unease.
"You can take the upstairs room," Dad mutters. His voice is strained, trying to sound normal, but it's clear the weight of the past is heavy on him. I nod, hauling my backpack up the creaking stairs to the small bedroom that I used to share with Leah. The room feels smaller now, or maybe I've just grown too much since those innocent days.
I unpack silently, setting my things aside. The bed is stiff and cold under my touch. As I settle in, I can't help but glance at the corner where Leah and I would huddle together, whispering secrets and making plans for adventures that would never happen. I push the thoughts away, focusing on the practicalities of unpacking.
After settling in, I go back downstairs to find Dad loading up a backpack with supplies for our hunt. The intensity in his eyes is palpable, his hands moving with practiced precision. I know this routine; it's one he's perfected over countless solo trips since that fateful day.
"We'll head out early," he says, not looking up from his task. "Gotta make the most of the daylight."
I nod, though unease curls in my stomach. I'm not just worried about what we might find—or not find—out there. I'm worried about him. Each year, the obsession seems to carve him out a bit more, leaving less of the Dad I knew.
—
The morning air is sharp with the scent of pine and wet earth as Dad and I head into the deeper parts of the forest. The terrain is rugged, familiar in its untamed beauty, but there’s a tension between us that makes the landscape feel alien. Dad moves with a purposeful stride, his eyes scanning the woods around us. Every snap of a twig, every rustle in the underbrush seems to draw his attention. He’s on edge, and it puts me on edge too.
As we walk, my mind drifts back to that day ten years ago. I can almost hear Leah’s voice echoing through the trees, her high-pitched call as she darted ahead, "Catch me, Ryan!" I remember how the sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dancing shadows on the ground. Those memories are so vivid, so tangible, it feels like I could just turn a corner and see her there, waiting for us.
Dad suddenly stops and kneels, examining the ground. He points out a set of tracks that are too large for a deer, with an unusual gait pattern. "It’s been here, Ry. I’m telling you, it’s close," he whispers, a mixture of excitement and something darker in his voice. I nod, though I’m not sure what to believe. Part of me wants to dismiss it all as grief-fueled obsession, but another part, the part that heard Leah's scream and saw something monstrous in the woods that day, isn’t so sure.
As we continue, Dad's comments become increasingly cryptic. "You know, they say the dogman moves in cycles, drawn to certain places, certain times. Like it’s tied to the land itself," he muses, more to himself than to me. His fixation on the creature has always been intense, but now it borders on mania.
We set up a makeshift blind near a clearing where Dad insists the creature will pass. Hours drag by with little to see but the occasional bird or distant deer.
The sun rises higher in the sky, casting long, slender shadows through the dense canopy. I shift uncomfortably in my spot, the forest floor hard and unyielding beneath me. My eyes dart between the trees, hoping to catch a glimpse of something, anything, to break the monotony. Dad, on the other hand, remains steadfast, his gaze fixed on the treeline as if he can will the dogman into existence by sheer force of will.
A bird chirps nearby, startling me. I sigh and adjust my grip on the rifle. I glance over at Dad.
“Anything?” I ask, more out of boredom than genuine curiosity.
“Not yet,” he replies, his voice tight. “But it’s out there. I know it.”
I nod, even though I’m not sure I believe him. The forest seems too quiet, too still. Maybe we’re chasing ghosts.
As the sun begins its descent, the forest is bathed in a warm, golden light. The air cools, and a breeze rustles the leaves. I shiver, more from anticipation than the cold. The long hours of sitting and waiting are starting to wear on me.
“Let’s call it a day for now,” Dad says finally, his voice heavy with disappointment. “We’ll head back to the cabin, get some rest, and try again tomorrow.”
I stand and stretch, feeling the stiffness in my muscles. We pack up our gear in silence and start the trek back to the cabin. The walk is long and quiet, the only sounds are the crunch of leaves underfoot and the distant calls of birds settling in for the night.
—
Dinner is a quiet affair, both of us lost in our thoughts. I try to make small talk, asking Dad about his plans for tomorrow, but it feels forced. We clean up in silence.
After dinner, I retreat to the small bedroom. The fatigue from the day's hike has settled into my bones, but sleep still feels like a distant hope. I lie down, staring at the ceiling, the room cloaked in darkness save for the sliver of moonlight creeping through the window. Downstairs, I hear the faint sound of Dad moving around, likely unable to sleep himself.
I drift into sleep, but it's not restful. My dreams pull me back to that fateful day in the woods. Leah's voice is clear and vibrant, her laughter echoing through the trees. She looks just as she did then—bright-eyed and full of life, her blonde hair catching the sunlight as she runs ahead of me.
"Come on, Ry! You can't catch me!" she taunts, her voice playful and teasing.
I chase after her, but the scene shifts abruptly. The sky darkens, the woods around us growing dense and foreboding. Leah's laughter fades, replaced by a chilling silence. I see her ahead, standing still, her back to me.
"Leah?" I call out, my voice trembling. She turns slowly, her eyes wide and filled with fear. "Ryan, you have to remember," she says, her voice barely a whisper. "It wasn't what you think. You need to know the truth."
Leah’s words hang in the air, cryptic and unsettling. Before I can respond, she turns and starts running again, her figure becoming a blur among the trees. Panic rises in my chest as I sprint after her, my feet pounding against the forest floor.
“Leah, wait!” I shout, desperation lacing my voice. The forest around me seems to close in, the trees towering and twisted, shadows dancing menacingly in the dim light. I push forward, trying to keep her in sight, but she’s too fast, slipping away like a wisp of smoke.
Suddenly, there’s a rustle, a flash of movement in the corner of my vision. Leah screams, a sound that pierces through the heavy silence. It happens too quickly—I can’t see what it is, only a dark blur that snatches her up.
“Leah!” I scream, my voice breaking. I stumble, falling to my knees as the forest spins around me. My heart races, and the terror is so real, so visceral, that it pulls me back to that awful day, the one that changed everything.
I jolt awake, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
I sit up, wiping the cold sweat from my forehead as I try to steady my breathing. The room is still dark, the shadows cast by the moonlight seem to flicker and dance on the walls. My heart is still racing from the nightmare, the echo of Leah's scream lingering in my ears.
As I struggle to calm down, the floorboards outside my room creak. The door opens slowly, and I see the silhouette of my dad in the doorway, a Bowie knife in his hand, his posture tense.
“Dad, what the hell are you doing?” I whisper, my voice shaking.
“Shh,” he hisses, holding up a hand to silence me. “I heard something. Something moving around in the cabin. Stay quiet.”
I swallow hard, my mouth dry. I glance at the clock on the nightstand—it’s just past three in the morning. The cabin is silent, the kind of deep, oppressive silence that makes every small sound seem louder. I can’t hear anything out of the ordinary, but Dad’s expression is deadly serious.
He motions for me to get up, and I do, moving as quietly as I can. My heart is racing, a mix of lingering fear from the dream and the sudden, sharp anxiety of the present moment. Dad leads the way, stepping cautiously out of the bedroom and into the hallway, the knife held ready in front of him.
We move through the cabin, checking each room in turn. The living room is empty, the furniture casting long shadows in the dim moonlight. The kitchen is just as we left it, the plates from dinner still drying on the counter. Everything seems normal, untouched.
We finish our sweep of the cabin without finding anything amiss. The silence is heavy, punctuated only by our soft footfalls. I can see the tension in Dad’s frame, his grip on the knife unwavering. After checking the last room, we pause in the dimly lit hallway, the air thick with unspoken questions.
“There’s nothing here,” I say, my voice low. “Are you sure you heard something?”
He looks at me, his eyes searching for something in my face. “I heard growling. Deep and close. It was right outside the window.”
“Maybe it was just an animal outside, a raccoon or something?” I suggest, although the certainty in his voice makes me doubt my own reassurance.
“No, it wasn’t like that. It was different,” he insists, his voice tense.
I nod, not wanting to argue, but the seeds of worry are planted deep.
The look in his eyes sends a chill down my spine. It’s not just fear—it’s desperation. The kind of desperation that comes from years of chasing shadows and finding nothing. I can see the toll this hunt has taken on him, the way it’s worn him down, turned him into a man I barely recognize.
We head back to our rooms. As I lie down, my mind races with thoughts of my dad. I can’t help but wonder if he’s losing it, if the years of grief and guilt have finally pushed him over the edge.
Dad wasn’t always like this. Before Leah’s death, he was the kind of father who took us fishing, helped with homework, and told terrible jokes that made us groan and laugh at the same time. He was solid, dependable. But losing Leah changed him. The guilt twisted him into someone I barely recognize, someone driven by a need for answers, for closure, that may never come.
I try to sleep, but my thoughts keep me awake. I can hear Dad moving around downstairs, probably pacing or double-checking the locks. His paranoia has become a constant presence, and I don’t know how to help him. I don’t even know if I can help him.
—
The next morning, the sunlight filters weakly through the cabin windows, casting a pale light that does little to lift the heavy mood. I drag myself out of bed, feeling the exhaustion of another restless night. Dad is already up, hunched over his maps at the kitchen table, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep.
“Morning,” I mumble, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I pour myself a cup of coffee. “Did you sleep at all?”
He shakes his head, not looking up from his notes. “Not much. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I heard last night.”
I sip my coffee, trying to shake off the remnants of my nightmare. “Maybe it was just an animal, Dad. We’re deep in the woods, after all.”
He finally looks up, his eyes intense. “Ryan, I know what I heard. It wasn’t just an animal. It was something else.”
I sigh, not wanting to argue. “Okay, fine, Dad. What’s the plan for today?”
“We’re going back out. I found some tracks yesterday, and I want to follow them. See where they lead.”
I nod, feeling a mix of apprehension and resignation. I can see how much this means to him, how desperate he is for any kind of lead. “Alright. Let’s get packed and head out.”
We spend the morning preparing, loading up our gear and double-checking our supplies. Dad is meticulous, going over everything with a fine-toothed comb. I try to match his focus, but my mind keeps drifting back to Leah and the dream I had. Her words echo in my head, cryptic and unsettling: “You need to know the truth.”
We set off into the woods, the air crisp and cool. The forest is alive with the sounds of birds and rustling leaves, but it all feels distant, like background noise to the tension between us. Dad leads the way, his eyes scanning the ground for any sign of the tracks he found yesterday.
As we walk, I can’t help but notice how erratically he’s acting. He mutters to himself, his eyes darting around as if expecting something to jump out at us. His grip on his rifle is tight, his knuckles white.
“Dad, are you okay?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
He glances at me, his expression unreadable. “I’m fine. Just focused.”
He stops frequently to examine the ground or the bark of trees, pointing out marks and signs that seem meaningless to me.
“Look at this,” he says, crouching down to examine a broken branch. “See how it’s snapped? That’s not a deer or a bear. That’s something bigger. Stronger.”
I crouch next to Dad, squinting at the broken branch. To me, it just looks like a regular broken branch, the kind you see all over the forest. "I don't know, Dad. It just looks like a branch to me," I say, trying to keep my voice neutral.
Dad's eyes flicker with frustration. "You're not looking close enough. It's the way it's snapped—too clean, too deliberate. Something did this."
I nod, not wanting to argue. "Okay, sure. But even if you're right, it could be anything. A storm, another hunter..."
His expression hardens. "I know what I'm looking for. This is different."
I sigh, feeling the weight of the past and the tension between us pressing down on me. "Dad, I had a dream last night. About Leah." The words hang in the air between us, heavy and fraught with unspoken emotions.
Dad's eyes widen, and he straightens up, his entire demeanor shifting. "What kind of dream? What did you see?" His voice is urgent, almost desperate.
"It was... strange. We were in the woods, like we are now, but everything felt different. Leah was there, running ahead of me, laughing. Then she stopped and told me I needed to know the truth, that it wasn't what I thought."
Dad grabs my shoulders, his grip tight. "What else did she say? Did she tell you anything specific? Anything about the creature?"
I shake my head, feeling a chill run down my spine. "No, that was it. She just said I needed to know the truth, and then she was gone."
Dad’s grip on my shoulders tightens, and his eyes bore into mine with a mixture of desperation and hope. “Ryan, you have to try to remember. Think hard. What did the creature look like? Did you see anything else?”
I pull back slightly, uneasy with his intensity. “Dad, I told you. I don’t remember. It was just a dream. A nightmare, really. My mind’s probably just mixing things up.”
He lets go of me and runs a hand through his hair, looking frustrated and lost. “Dreams can be important. They can hold memories we’ve buried deep. Please, try to remember. This could be a sign, a clue.”
I rub my temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache. “I’ve tried, okay? I’ve tried for years to piece together what happened that day. But it’s all just fragments, like pieces of a puzzle that don’t fit. The dream… it felt real, but I don’t think it’s telling me anything new.”
Dad’s face falls, and he looks older than I’ve ever seen him. He turns away, staring into the forest as if it holds all the answers.
—
As we make our way back to the cabin, the sun begins to set, casting long shadows through the trees. The air grows colder, and I shiver, pulling my jacket tighter around me. Dad is silent, lost in his thoughts, his face drawn and haggard.
Back at the cabin, we unload our gear once again in silence. Dad disappears into his room, muttering something about going over his notes. I decide to explore the cabin, hoping to find something that might help me understand what’s going on with him.
In the attic, I find a box of old family photos and documents. As I sift through the contents, I come across a worn journal with Dad’s handwriting on the cover. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I open it, flipping through the pages.
The journal is filled with notes and sketches, detailing his obsession with the dogman. But there’s something else—entries that talk about Leah, about that day in the woods. His handwriting becomes more erratic, the words harder to read. One entry stands out, dated just a few days after Leah’s death:
“June 15, 2013 – It was supposed to be a normal trip. Keep them close, Frank, I kept telling myself. But I failed. Leah is gone, and it’s my fault. I heard her scream, saw the shadows. I tried to get to her, but… the thing, it was there. Too fast. Too strong. My hands… blood everywhere. No one will believe me. I can’t even believe myself. I have to find it. I have to protect Ryan. I have to make it right. God, what have I done?”
Before I can read further, the attic door creaks open, and Dad’s voice slices through the stillness.
“What are you doing up here?” His tone is sharp, almost panicked.
I turn to see him standing in the doorway, his face pale and his eyes wide with something between anger and fear. I clutch the journal to my chest, my mind racing. “I found this… I was just trying to understand…”
In an instant, he crosses the room and snatches the journal from my hands. His grip is tight, his knuckles white. “You had no right,” he growls, his voice trembling.
“Dad, I just wanted to know the truth!” I shout, frustration boiling over. “What really happened to Leah.”
His eyes flash with a mix of rage and anguish, and before I can react, he slaps me across the face. The force of it knocks me off balance, and I stumble backward, my cheek stinging.
For a moment, there’s a stunned silence. We both stand there, breathing hard, the air thick with tension.
“I’m sorry,” Dad says finally, his voice barely a whisper. “I didn’t mean to… I just…” He trails off, clutching the journal to his chest like a lifeline.
I touch my cheek, feeling the heat from the slap, and take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “Dad, what aren’t you telling me? What really happened that day?”
“Stay out of it, Ryan,” Dad growls, his eyes dark with anger. “You don’t know what you’re messing with.”
He turns and storms out of the attic. I’m left standing there, my cheek throbbing, my mind racing. What the fuck is going on? What really happened to Leah? And what is Dad so afraid of?
—
That night, I sleep with my rifle within arm's reach, more afraid of my dad than any dogman. The slap still burns on my cheek, and the look in his eyes—rage, fear, something darker—haunts me. I lie awake, listening to the creaks and groans of the old cabin, every sound amplified in the stillness. Eventually, exhaustion pulls me under, and I fall into a restless sleep.
The dream returns, vivid and unsettling. I'm back in the woods, chasing after Leah. Her laughter echoes through the trees, a haunting reminder of happier times. This time, though, I push myself harder, refusing to let her slip away.
"Ryan, catch me!" she calls, her voice playful.
"I'm coming, Leah!" I shout, my legs pumping, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
The forest around us is a twisted, shadowy maze, the trees seeming to close in on us. Leah's figure becomes clearer, her blonde hair catching the dim light filtering through the canopy. She stops suddenly, turning to face me, her eyes wide with fear.
"Leah, what is it?" I ask, my voice trembling.
"Look behind you," she whispers, her voice barely audible.
I turn slowly, dread creeping up my spine. In the shadows, I see a figure, its form indistinct and shifting. It’s not quite animal, not quite human—something in between. The sight of it sends a jolt of terror through me, and I wake up with a start, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
I’m not in my bed. The ground beneath me is cold and hard, the smell of damp earth filling my nostrils. Panic rises as I realize I’ve sleepwalked into the woods. I scramble to my feet, my eyes adjusting to the dim light. The moon casts a pale glow over the surroundings, revealing what looks like a long-abandoned animal lair.
The walls are covered in giant claw marks, deep gouges in the wood and earth. The air is heavy with the scent of decay, and a chill runs through me. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched.
Carefully, I start to move, my eyes scanning the ground, desperate for a familiar landmark. That's when I see them—faded scraps of fabric caught on the jagged edges of the underbrush. My steps falter, a sense of dread washing over me as I bend down to examine them. The fabric is torn, weathered by time and the elements, but unmistakably familiar. It's part of Leah's jacket—the bright pink one she wore on the day she disappeared.
As I strain to make sense of it all, a rustling sound behind me snaps my focus. My heart leaps into my throat. I spin around, my hand instinctively reaching for the rifle I don't have—because, of course, I didn't bring it in my unconscious state.
The shadowy figure that emerges from the trees is unsettlingly familiar, mirroring the menacing forms of my nightmares. But as it steps into the moonlight, I recognize the worn jacket, the weary posture. It's Dad.
"Ryan!" he calls out, his voice a mix of relief and stern concern. "I've been looking everywhere for you. What the hell are you doing out here?"
I exhale slowly, the terror ebbing away as reality sets back in. "I—I don't know, Dad. I must've sleepwalked again." My voice is shaky, my earlier dream still clinging to the edges of my consciousness.
Dad stares at me in disbelief. "You haven't sleepwalked since you were a kid, Ry. This... this isn't just a coincidence." His eyes dart around, taking in the surroundings—the eerie, claw-marked den, the unsettling quiet of the woods. "How did you even find this place?"
I shake my head, struggling to find an answer. "I don't know, Dad. I just... I woke up here." The uncertainty in my voice does nothing to ease the tension.
His eyes lock onto the tattered remains of Leah's jacket in my hands, and something inside him snaps. The color drains from his face as he stumbles a few steps backward. "This... this is where it happened," he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper. “This is where we found Leah."
“I thought you said you don’t remember anything from that night,” he says accusingly.
"I swear, Dad, I don't know anything about this place," I insist, my own heart pounding.
“It was you, wasn’t it? You’ve been hiding this from me.” His voice is frantic. “You... last night, the growling, it was you.” His voice rises, tinged with hysteria.
I step back, my pulse racing, feeling the chill of the night and the weight of his accusation. "Dad, I don't know what you're talking ab—”
"No!" he interrupts, his voice breaking as he points a trembling finger at me. "You knew, you always knew. It was you, Ryan. All these years, the evidence was right there, but I refused to see it. You were the dogman. You killed Leah!"
His words hit me like a physical blow, absurd and horrifying in their implications. "Dad, you're not making any sense. You're talking crazy! I was just a little kid! How could I–" I protest, my voice shaky.
He steps closer, his presence looming over me, the outline of his figure distorted by the shadows of the trees. "Think about it! It all makes sense now. You led us here, to this place, because you remember. Because you did it."
"Dad, stop it!" I shout, my heart pounding in my chest. "You're scaring me. You need help, professional help. This isn't you."
But he's beyond reason, his eyes wild with a haunted grief. "I have to end this," he mutters, more to himself than to me, his hand tightening around his rifle.
His finger hovers dangerously over the trigger of his rifle. My instincts kick in, and I know I have to act fast.
I lunge toward him, trying to knock the weapon away, but he's quicker than I expected. We struggle, our breaths heavy in the cold night air, the sounds of our scuffle the only noise in the otherwise silent woods. His strength surprises me, fueled by his frantic emotions. He shoves me back, and I stumble over a root, my balance lost for a crucial second. That's all he needs. He raises his rifle, his intentions clear in his wild, pained eyes.
I dive to the ground just as the shot rings out, a deafening blast that echoes ominously through the trees. The bullet whizzes past, narrowly missing me, embedding itself in the bark of an old pine. I scramble to my feet, my heart pounding in my ears, and I start running. The underbrush claws at my clothes and skin, but I push through, driven by a primal urge to survive.
"Dad, stop! It's me, Ryan!" I shout back as I dodge between the trees. Another shot breaks the silence, closer this time, sending splinters of wood flying from a nearby tree trunk. It's surreal, being hunted by my own father, a man tormented by grief and lost in his delusions.
I don't stop to look back. I can hear him crashing through the forest behind me, his heavy breaths and muttered curses carried on the wind. The terrain is rough, and I'm fueled by adrenaline, but exhaustion is setting in. I need a plan.
Ahead, I see a rocky outcrop and make a split-second decision to head for it. It offers a chance to hide, to catch my breath and maybe reason with him if he catches up. As I reach the rocks, I slip behind the largest one, my body pressed tight against the cold, damp surface. I hear his footsteps approaching, slow and cautious now.
As I press against the rock, trying to calm my racing heart, I can hear Dad's footsteps drawing closer, each step crunching ominously on the forest floor. He's methodical, deliberate, like a hunter stalking his prey.
“Come out, Ryan!” Dad’s voice is ragged, filled with a blend of fury and pain.
My heart pounds against my chest, the cold sweat on my back making me shiver against the rough surface of the rock. I know I can't just sit here; it's only a matter of time before he finds me.
Taking a deep breath, I peek around the edge of the rock, trying to gauge his position. I see him, rifle raised, scanning the area slowly. This might be my only chance to end this madness without further violence. I need to disarm him, to talk some sense into him if I can.
As quietly as I can, I move out from behind the rock, my steps careful to avoid any twigs or leaves that might betray my position. I'm almost upon him when a branch snaps under my foot—a sound so trivial yet so alarmingly loud in the quiet of the woods.
Dad whirls around, looking completely unhinged. "Ryan!" he exclaims, his rifle swinging in my direction. Panic overtakes me, and I lunge forward, my hands reaching for the gun.
We struggle, the rifle between us, our breaths heavy and erratic. "Dad, please, stop!" I plead, trying to wrestle the gun away. But he's strong, stronger than I expected.
In the chaos, the rifle goes off. The sound is deafening, a sharp echo that seems to reverberate off every tree around us. Pain explodes in my abdomen, sharp and burning, like nothing I've ever felt before. I stagger back, my hands instinctively going to the wound. The warmth of my own blood coats my fingers, stark and terrifying.
Dad drops the rifle, his eyes wide with horror. "Oh my God! What have I done?" he gasps, rushing to my side as I collapse onto the forest floor.
As the pain sears through me, a strange, overpowering energy surges within. It's wild, primal, unlike anything I've ever experienced. Looking down in horror, my hands are no longer hands but large, hairy, clawed appendages. The transformation is rapid, consuming—my vision blurs, senses heighten, and a raw, guttural growl builds in my throat.
In that moment, a flood of understanding washes over me, mingling with the horror of realization. These are the hands of the creature from my nightmares, the creature whose face I can never fully recall because, as I now understand, it is me.
What happens next feels detached, as if I'm no longer in control of my own actions, watching from a distance as my body moves on its own. I turn towards my dad, his face a mask of terror. He stumbles back, his eyes wide with the dawning realization of what his son has become.
The forest around us seems to fall silent, holding its breath as the nightmarish scene unfolds. I can hear my own growls, guttural and deep, filling the air with a sound that's both foreign and intimately familiar. The pain in my abdomen fuels a dark, violent urge, an urge that's too strong to resist.
With a ferocity that feels both alien and intrinsic, I move towards him. My dad, paralyzed by fear and shock, doesn't run. Maybe he can't. Maybe he doesn't want to.
The encounter was brutal and swift, a blur of motion and violence. My dad barely puts up a struggle, as though resigned to his fate.
Not that there is anything he can do. The creature that I’ve become is too powerful, too consumed by the wild instincts surging through me. I tear him apart, limb from bloody limb, my hands—no, my claws—rending through fabric and flesh with disgusting ease.
The sound of my dad’s screams, of tearing fabric and flesh is drowned out by the animalistic growls that echo through the trees.
When it’s all over, the red mist that had clouded my vision begins to fade, and the fierce, uncontrollable rage that drove my actions subsides. I'm left standing, my breaths heavy and erratic, in the eerie stillness of the forest. The transformation reverses as quickly as it came on, and I find myself back in my human form. My clothes are ripped to shreds, hanging off my frame in tattered remnants. At my feet lies what’s left of my dad, his body torn and unrecognizable.
I glance down at my abdomen, expecting agony, but instead find my wound miraculously healed. No sign of the gunshot remains, just a faint scar where I expected a bloody mess.
Shock sets in, a numbing disbelief mixed with a gut-wrenching realization of what I've become and what I've done. My hands, now human again, tremble as I look at them, half-expecting to see the claws that had so effortlessly ripped through flesh and bone. But there's only blood, my father's blood against my skin.
I stand there for what feels like an eternity, trapped in a nightmare of my own making.
Eventually, the shock wears thin, and a cold practicality takes hold. I need to get out of here. I need to cover my tracks, to disappear. Because who would believe this? Who would understand that I didn't choose this, that I'm not a monster by choice?
With trembling hands, I do what’s necessary. I bury my dad in a shallow grave, the physical act of digging strangely grounding. I cover him with leaves and branches, a pitiful attempt to hide the brutality of his end. I take a moment, whispering apologies into the wind, knowing full well that nothing I say can change what happened.
I leave the forest behind, my mind a whirl of dark thoughts. As I walk, the first hints of dawn brush against the horizon, the sky bleeding a soft pink. It’s hauntingly beautiful.

I’ve always hated the smell of gun oil. It clings to everything it touches, soaking deep into the fibers of my clothes, the lining of my backpack, the coarse hair on the back of my hands. Yet here I am, kneeling on the cracked linoleum of our mudroom, a Remington .308 laid across my thighs, and the stench of gun oil sharp in my nostrils. The early morning light barely scratches at the edges of the blinds, dim and gray like the belly of a dead fish.
My dad Frank is in the kitchen, clattering around with the coffeepot and mumbling under his breath. Today we’re heading up to the woods of Northern Michigan, same as we did every year before Leah… before we lost her.
I can’t help but feel the old scars throbbing as I load bullets into the magazine. It’s been ten years since that hunting trip, the one that tore my family into before and after. Before, when Leah's laughter was a constant soundtrack to our lives; after, when every silence was filled with her absence.
We were just kids back then. I was ten, Leah was eight. It was supposed to be a typical hunting trip, one of those bonding experiences Dad was always talking about. But things went wrong. We got separated from Dad somehow. One minute we were following him, the next we were lost, the dense woods closing in around us.
Dad says when he found me, I was huddled under a fallen tree, my eyes wide, my body frozen. All I could mutter through chattering teeth was "Dogman."
It was only later, after the search parties had combed through every thicket and hollow, that they found her. What remained of Leah was barely recognizable, the evidence of a brutal mauling undeniable. The authorities concluded it was likely a bear attack, but Dad... he never accepted that explanation. He had seen the tracks, too large and oddly shaped for any bear.
As I load another round, the memory flashes, unbidden and unwelcome. Large, hairy clawed hands reaching out towards us, impossibly big, grotesque in their form. Yet, the rest of the creature eludes me, a shadow just beyond the edge of my recall, leaving me with nothing but fragmented terrors and Leah’s haunting, echoing screams. My mind blocked most of it out, a self-defense mechanism, I guess.
For years after that day, sleep was a battleground. I'd wake up in strange places—kitchen floor, backyard, even at the edge of the nearby creek. My therapist said it was my mind's way of trying to resolve the unresolved, to wander back through the woods searching for Leah. But all I found in those sleepless nights was a deeper sense of loss.
It took time, a lot of therapy, and patience I didn't know I had, but the sleepwalking did eventually stop. I guess I started to find some semblance of peace.
I have mostly moved on with my life. The fragmentary memories of that day are still there, lurking in the corners of my mind, but they don’t dominate my thoughts like they used to. I just finished my sophomore year at Michigan State, majoring in Environmental Science.
As for Dad, the loss of Leah broke him. He became a shell of himself. It destroyed his marriage with Mom. He blamed himself for letting us out of his sight, for not protecting Leah. His life took on a single, consuming focus: finding the creature that killed her. He read every book, every article on cryptids and unexplained phenomena. He mapped sightings, connected dots across blurry photos and shaky testimonies of the Dogman.
But as the tenth anniversary of Leah’s death approaches, Dad's obsession has grown more intense. He’s started staying up late, poring over his maps and notes, muttering to himself about patterns and cycles. He’s convinced that the dogman reappears every ten years, and this is our window of opportunity to finally hunt it down.
I’m not nearly as convinced. The whole dogman thing seems like a coping mechanism, a way for Dad to channel his guilt and grief into something tangible, something he can fight against. But I decided to tag along on this trip, partly to keep an eye on him, partly because a small part of me hopes that maybe, just maybe, we’ll find some kind of closure out there in the woods.
I finish loading the rifle and set it aside, standing up to stretch my legs. I wipe my greasy hands on an old rag, trying to get rid of the smell. The early morning light is starting to seep into the room, casting long shadows across the floor.
Dad comes out of the kitchen with two thermoses of coffee in hand. His eyes are bleary and tired.
“You ready, Ryan?” he asks, handing me a thermos, his voice rough from too many sleepless nights.
“Yeah, I’m ready,” I reply, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
We load our gear into the truck, the weight of our supplies and weapons a physical reminder of the burden we carry. The drive from Lansing across the Lower Peninsula is long and quiet, the silence between us filled with unspoken memories and unresolved grief.
—
The drive north is a blur of highway lines and the dull hum of the engine. I drift off, the landscape outside blending into a haze. In my sleep, fragments of that day with Leah replay like scattered pieces of a puzzle. I see her smile, the way she tugged at my sleeve, eager to explore. The sunlight filters through the trees in sharp, jagged streaks.
Then, the memory shifts—darker, disjointed. Leah's voice echoes, a playful laugh turning into a scream that pierces the air. The crunch of leaves underfoot as something heavy moves through the underbrush. I see a shadow, large and looming, not quite fitting the shapes of any creature I know.
Then, something darker creeps into the dream, something I’ve never allowed myself to remember clearly.
Before I can see what it is I wake up with a start as the truck jerks slightly on a rough patch of road. Dad glances over. "Bad dream?" he asks. I nod, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, the remnants of the dream clinging to me like the cold.
"Yeah, just... thinking about Leah," I manage to say.
As we drive, Dad attempts to bridge the silence with small talk. He asks about my finals, my plans for the summer, anything to keep the conversation going. His voice carries a forced cheerfulness, but it’s clear his heart isn’t in it. I respond when necessary, my answers brief, my gaze fixed on the passing scenery.
The landscape changes as we head further north, from flat expanses to rolling hills dotted with dense patches of forest. It's beautiful country, the kind that reminds you how vast and wild Michigan can be, but today it just feels oppressive, like it’s closing in on us.
—
We finally arrive at the cabin, nestled deep in the woods, its weathered wood blending seamlessly with the surrounding trees. The place hasn't changed much since the last time I was here—a relic from another time, filled with the echoes of our past. I can still see Leah running around the porch, her laughter ringing out into the forest.
Dad parks the truck, and we step out into the crisp air. The smell of pine and damp earth fills my nostrils. We start unloading our gear, the tension between us palpable.
“Let’s get this inside,” Dad says, his voice gruff as he hefts a duffel bag onto his shoulder.
I nod, grabbing my own bag and following him to the cabin. Inside, it’s a mix of old and new—the same rustic furniture, but with new hunting gear and maps strewn across the table. Dad’s obsession is evident in every corner of the room, a constant reminder of why we’re here.
As we unpack, we exchange strained attempts at normalcy. He talks about the latest cryptid sightings he’s read about, his eyes lighting up with a fervor that both worries and saddens me.
“Did you hear about the sighting up near Alpena?” he asks, laying out his maps on the table.
“Yeah, you mentioned it,” I reply, trying to muster some enthusiasm. “Do you really think there’s something to it?”
Dad’s eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I see a flicker of doubt. But it’s quickly replaced by grim determination. “I have to believe it, Ryan. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
We finish unpacking, the silence between us growing heavier with each passing minute. I step outside to clear my head, the cool air a welcome relief. The sun is starting to set, casting long shadows across the clearing. I can’t shake the feeling of unease.
"You can take the upstairs room," Dad mutters. His voice is strained, trying to sound normal, but it's clear the weight of the past is heavy on him. I nod, hauling my backpack up the creaking stairs to the small bedroom that I used to share with Leah. The room feels smaller now, or maybe I've just grown too much since those innocent days.
I unpack silently, setting my things aside. The bed is stiff and cold under my touch. As I settle in, I can't help but glance at the corner where Leah and I would huddle together, whispering secrets and making plans for adventures that would never happen. I push the thoughts away, focusing on the practicalities of unpacking.
After settling in, I go back downstairs to find Dad loading up a backpack with supplies for our hunt. The intensity in his eyes is palpable, his hands moving with practiced precision. I know this routine; it's one he's perfected over countless solo trips since that fateful day.
"We'll head out early," he says, not looking up from his task. "Gotta make the most of the daylight."
I nod, though unease curls in my stomach. I'm not just worried about what we might find—or not find—out there. I'm worried about him. Each year, the obsession seems to carve him out a bit more, leaving less of the Dad I knew.
—
The morning air is sharp with the scent of pine and wet earth as Dad and I head into the deeper parts of the forest. The terrain is rugged, familiar in its untamed beauty, but there’s a tension between us that makes the landscape feel alien. Dad moves with a purposeful stride, his eyes scanning the woods around us. Every snap of a twig, every rustle in the underbrush seems to draw his attention. He’s on edge, and it puts me on edge too.
As we walk, my mind drifts back to that day ten years ago. I can almost hear Leah’s voice echoing through the trees, her high-pitched call as she darted ahead, "Catch me, Ryan!" I remember how the sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dancing shadows on the ground. Those memories are so vivid, so tangible, it feels like I could just turn a corner and see her there, waiting for us.
Dad suddenly stops and kneels, examining the ground. He points out a set of tracks that are too large for a deer, with an unusual gait pattern. "It’s been here, Ry. I’m telling you, it’s close," he whispers, a mixture of excitement and something darker in his voice. I nod, though I’m not sure what to believe. Part of me wants to dismiss it all as grief-fueled obsession, but another part, the part that heard Leah's scream and saw something monstrous in the woods that day, isn’t so sure.
As we continue, Dad's comments become increasingly cryptic. "You know, they say the dogman moves in cycles, drawn to certain places, certain times. Like it’s tied to the land itself," he muses, more to himself than to me. His fixation on the creature has always been intense, but now it borders on mania.
We set up a makeshift blind near a clearing where Dad insists the creature will pass. Hours drag by with little to see but the occasional bird or distant deer.
The sun rises higher in the sky, casting long, slender shadows through the dense canopy. I shift uncomfortably in my spot, the forest floor hard and unyielding beneath me. My eyes dart between the trees, hoping to catch a glimpse of something, anything, to break the monotony. Dad, on the other hand, remains steadfast, his gaze fixed on the treeline as if he can will the dogman into existence by sheer force of will.
A bird chirps nearby, startling me. I sigh and adjust my grip on the rifle. I glance over at Dad.
“Anything?” I ask, more out of boredom than genuine curiosity.
“Not yet,” he replies, his voice tight. “But it’s out there. I know it.”
I nod, even though I’m not sure I believe him. The forest seems too quiet, too still. Maybe we’re chasing ghosts.
As the sun begins its descent, the forest is bathed in a warm, golden light. The air cools, and a breeze rustles the leaves. I shiver, more from anticipation than the cold. The long hours of sitting and waiting are starting to wear on me.
“Let’s call it a day for now,” Dad says finally, his voice heavy with disappointment. “We’ll head back to the cabin, get some rest, and try again tomorrow.”
I stand and stretch, feeling the stiffness in my muscles. We pack up our gear in silence and start the trek back to the cabin. The walk is long and quiet, the only sounds are the crunch of leaves underfoot and the distant calls of birds settling in for the night.
—
Dinner is a quiet affair, both of us lost in our thoughts. I try to make small talk, asking Dad about his plans for tomorrow, but it feels forced. We clean up in silence.
After dinner, I retreat to the small bedroom. The fatigue from the day's hike has settled into my bones, but sleep still feels like a distant hope. I lie down, staring at the ceiling, the room cloaked in darkness save for the sliver of moonlight creeping through the window. Downstairs, I hear the faint sound of Dad moving around, likely unable to sleep himself.
I drift into sleep, but it's not restful. My dreams pull me back to that fateful day in the woods. Leah's voice is clear and vibrant, her laughter echoing through the trees. She looks just as she did then—bright-eyed and full of life, her blonde hair catching the sunlight as she runs ahead of me.
"Come on, Ry! You can't catch me!" she taunts, her voice playful and teasing.
I chase after her, but the scene shifts abruptly. The sky darkens, the woods around us growing dense and foreboding. Leah's laughter fades, replaced by a chilling silence. I see her ahead, standing still, her back to me.
"Leah?" I call out, my voice trembling. She turns slowly, her eyes wide and filled with fear. "Ryan, you have to remember," she says, her voice barely a whisper. "It wasn't what you think. You need to know the truth."
Leah’s words hang in the air, cryptic and unsettling. Before I can respond, she turns and starts running again, her figure becoming a blur among the trees. Panic rises in my chest as I sprint after her, my feet pounding against the forest floor.
“Leah, wait!” I shout, desperation lacing my voice. The forest around me seems to close in, the trees towering and twisted, shadows dancing menacingly in the dim light. I push forward, trying to keep her in sight, but she’s too fast, slipping away like a wisp of smoke.
Suddenly, there’s a rustle, a flash of movement in the corner of my vision. Leah screams, a sound that pierces through the heavy silence. It happens too quickly—I can’t see what it is, only a dark blur that snatches her up.
“Leah!” I scream, my voice breaking. I stumble, falling to my knees as the forest spins around me. My heart races, and the terror is so real, so visceral, that it pulls me back to that awful day, the one that changed everything.
I jolt awake, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
I sit up, wiping the cold sweat from my forehead as I try to steady my breathing. The room is still dark, the shadows cast by the moonlight seem to flicker and dance on the walls. My heart is still racing from the nightmare, the echo of Leah's scream lingering in my ears.
As I struggle to calm down, the floorboards outside my room creak. The door opens slowly, and I see the silhouette of my dad in the doorway, a Bowie knife in his hand, his posture tense.
“Dad, what the hell are you doing?” I whisper, my voice shaking.
“Shh,” he hisses, holding up a hand to silence me. “I heard something. Something moving around in the cabin. Stay quiet.”
I swallow hard, my mouth dry. I glance at the clock on the nightstand—it’s just past three in the morning. The cabin is silent, the kind of deep, oppressive silence that makes every small sound seem louder. I can’t hear anything out of the ordinary, but Dad’s expression is deadly serious.
He motions for me to get up, and I do, moving as quietly as I can. My heart is racing, a mix of lingering fear from the dream and the sudden, sharp anxiety of the present moment. Dad leads the way, stepping cautiously out of the bedroom and into the hallway, the knife held ready in front of him.
We move through the cabin, checking each room in turn. The living room is empty, the furniture casting long shadows in the dim moonlight. The kitchen is just as we left it, the plates from dinner still drying on the counter. Everything seems normal, untouched.
We finish our sweep of the cabin without finding anything amiss. The silence is heavy, punctuated only by our soft footfalls. I can see the tension in Dad’s frame, his grip on the knife unwavering. After checking the last room, we pause in the dimly lit hallway, the air thick with unspoken questions.
“There’s nothing here,” I say, my voice low. “Are you sure you heard something?”
He looks at me, his eyes searching for something in my face. “I heard growling. Deep and close. It was right outside the window.”
“Maybe it was just an animal outside, a raccoon or something?” I suggest, although the certainty in his voice makes me doubt my own reassurance.
“No, it wasn’t like that. It was different,” he insists, his voice tense.
I nod, not wanting to argue, but the seeds of worry are planted deep.
The look in his eyes sends a chill down my spine. It’s not just fear—it’s desperation. The kind of desperation that comes from years of chasing shadows and finding nothing. I can see the toll this hunt has taken on him, the way it’s worn him down, turned him into a man I barely recognize.
We head back to our rooms. As I lie down, my mind races with thoughts of my dad. I can’t help but wonder if he’s losing it, if the years of grief and guilt have finally pushed him over the edge.
Dad wasn’t always like this. Before Leah’s death, he was the kind of father who took us fishing, helped with homework, and told terrible jokes that made us groan and laugh at the same time. He was solid, dependable. But losing Leah changed him. The guilt twisted him into someone I barely recognize, someone driven by a need for answers, for closure, that may never come.
I try to sleep, but my thoughts keep me awake. I can hear Dad moving around downstairs, probably pacing or double-checking the locks. His paranoia has become a constant presence, and I don’t know how to help him. I don’t even know if I can help him.
—
The next morning, the sunlight filters weakly through the cabin windows, casting a pale light that does little to lift the heavy mood. I drag myself out of bed, feeling the exhaustion of another restless night. Dad is already up, hunched over his maps at the kitchen table, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep.
“Morning,” I mumble, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I pour myself a cup of coffee. “Did you sleep at all?”
He shakes his head, not looking up from his notes. “Not much. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I heard last night.”
I sip my coffee, trying to shake off the remnants of my nightmare. “Maybe it was just an animal, Dad. We’re deep in the woods, after all.”
He finally looks up, his eyes intense. “Ryan, I know what I heard. It wasn’t just an animal. It was something else.”
I sigh, not wanting to argue. “Okay, fine, Dad. What’s the plan for today?”
“We’re going back out. I found some tracks yesterday, and I want to follow them. See where they lead.”
I nod, feeling a mix of apprehension and resignation. I can see how much this means to him, how desperate he is for any kind of lead. “Alright. Let’s get packed and head out.”
We spend the morning preparing, loading up our gear and double-checking our supplies. Dad is meticulous, going over everything with a fine-toothed comb. I try to match his focus, but my mind keeps drifting back to Leah and the dream I had. Her words echo in my head, cryptic and unsettling: “You need to know the truth.”
We set off into the woods, the air crisp and cool. The forest is alive with the sounds of birds and rustling leaves, but it all feels distant, like background noise to the tension between us. Dad leads the way, his eyes scanning the ground for any sign of the tracks he found yesterday.
As we walk, I can’t help but notice how erratically he’s acting. He mutters to himself, his eyes darting around as if expecting something to jump out at us. His grip on his rifle is tight, his knuckles white.
“Dad, are you okay?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
He glances at me, his expression unreadable. “I’m fine. Just focused.”
He stops frequently to examine the ground or the bark of trees, pointing out marks and signs that seem meaningless to me.
“Look at this,” he says, crouching down to examine a broken branch. “See how it’s snapped? That’s not a deer or a bear. That’s something bigger. Stronger.”
I crouch next to Dad, squinting at the broken branch. To me, it just looks like a regular broken branch, the kind you see all over the forest. "I don't know, Dad. It just looks like a branch to me," I say, trying to keep my voice neutral.
Dad's eyes flicker with frustration. "You're not looking close enough. It's the way it's snapped—too clean, too deliberate. Something did this."
I nod, not wanting to argue. "Okay, sure. But even if you're right, it could be anything. A storm, another hunter..."
His expression hardens. "I know what I'm looking for. This is different."
I sigh, feeling the weight of the past and the tension between us pressing down on me. "Dad, I had a dream last night. About Leah." The words hang in the air between us, heavy and fraught with unspoken emotions.
Dad's eyes widen, and he straightens up, his entire demeanor shifting. "What kind of dream? What did you see?" His voice is urgent, almost desperate.
"It was... strange. We were in the woods, like we are now, but everything felt different. Leah was there, running ahead of me, laughing. Then she stopped and told me I needed to know the truth, that it wasn't what I thought."
Dad grabs my shoulders, his grip tight. "What else did she say? Did she tell you anything specific? Anything about the creature?"
I shake my head, feeling a chill run down my spine. "No, that was it. She just said I needed to know the truth, and then she was gone."
Dad’s grip on my shoulders tightens, and his eyes bore into mine with a mixture of desperation and hope. “Ryan, you have to try to remember. Think hard. What did the creature look like? Did you see anything else?”
I pull back slightly, uneasy with his intensity. “Dad, I told you. I don’t remember. It was just a dream. A nightmare, really. My mind’s probably just mixing things up.”
He lets go of me and runs a hand through his hair, looking frustrated and lost. “Dreams can be important. They can hold memories we’ve buried deep. Please, try to remember. This could be a sign, a clue.”
I rub my temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache. “I’ve tried, okay? I’ve tried for years to piece together what happened that day. But it’s all just fragments, like pieces of a puzzle that don’t fit. The dream… it felt real, but I don’t think it’s telling me anything new.”
Dad’s face falls, and he looks older than I’ve ever seen him. He turns away, staring into the forest as if it holds all the answers.
—
As we make our way back to the cabin, the sun begins to set, casting long shadows through the trees. The air grows colder, and I shiver, pulling my jacket tighter around me. Dad is silent, lost in his thoughts, his face drawn and haggard.
Back at the cabin, we unload our gear once again in silence. Dad disappears into his room, muttering something about going over his notes. I decide to explore the cabin, hoping to find something that might help me understand what’s going on with him.
In the attic, I find a box of old family photos and documents. As I sift through the contents, I come across a worn journal with Dad’s handwriting on the cover. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I open it, flipping through the pages.
The journal is filled with notes and sketches, detailing his obsession with the dogman. But there’s something else—entries that talk about Leah, about that day in the woods. His handwriting becomes more erratic, the words harder to read. One entry stands out, dated just a few days after Leah’s death:
“June 15, 2013 – It was supposed to be a normal trip. Keep them close, Frank, I kept telling myself. But I failed. Leah is gone, and it’s my fault. I heard her scream, saw the shadows. I tried to get to her, but… the thing, it was there. Too fast. Too strong. My hands… blood everywhere. No one will believe me. I can’t even believe myself. I have to find it. I have to protect Ryan. I have to make it right. God, what have I done?”
Before I can read further, the attic door creaks open, and Dad’s voice slices through the stillness.
“What are you doing up here?” His tone is sharp, almost panicked.
I turn to see him standing in the doorway, his face pale and his eyes wide with something between anger and fear. I clutch the journal to my chest, my mind racing. “I found this… I was just trying to understand…”
In an instant, he crosses the room and snatches the journal from my hands. His grip is tight, his knuckles white. “You had no right,” he growls, his voice trembling.
“Dad, I just wanted to know the truth!” I shout, frustration boiling over. “What really happened to Leah.”
His eyes flash with a mix of rage and anguish, and before I can react, he slaps me across the face. The force of it knocks me off balance, and I stumble backward, my cheek stinging.
For a moment, there’s a stunned silence. We both stand there, breathing hard, the air thick with tension.
“I’m sorry,” Dad says finally, his voice barely a whisper. “I didn’t mean to… I just…” He trails off, clutching the journal to his chest like a lifeline.
I touch my cheek, feeling the heat from the slap, and take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “Dad, what aren’t you telling me? What really happened that day?”
“Stay out of it, Ryan,” Dad growls, his eyes dark with anger. “You don’t know what you’re messing with.”
He turns and storms out of the attic. I’m left standing there, my cheek throbbing, my mind racing. What the fuck is going on? What really happened to Leah? And what is Dad so afraid of?
—
That night, I sleep with my rifle within arm's reach, more afraid of my dad than any dogman. The slap still burns on my cheek, and the look in his eyes—rage, fear, something darker—haunts me. I lie awake, listening to the creaks and groans of the old cabin, every sound amplified in the stillness. Eventually, exhaustion pulls me under, and I fall into a restless sleep.
The dream returns, vivid and unsettling. I'm back in the woods, chasing after Leah. Her laughter echoes through the trees, a haunting reminder of happier times. This time, though, I push myself harder, refusing to let her slip away.
"Ryan, catch me!" she calls, her voice playful.
"I'm coming, Leah!" I shout, my legs pumping, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
The forest around us is a twisted, shadowy maze, the trees seeming to close in on us. Leah's figure becomes clearer, her blonde hair catching the dim light filtering through the canopy. She stops suddenly, turning to face me, her eyes wide with fear.
"Leah, what is it?" I ask, my voice trembling.
"Look behind you," she whispers, her voice barely audible.
I turn slowly, dread creeping up my spine. In the shadows, I see a figure, its form indistinct and shifting. It’s not quite animal, not quite human—something in between. The sight of it sends a jolt of terror through me, and I wake up with a start, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
I’m not in my bed. The ground beneath me is cold and hard, the smell of damp earth filling my nostrils. Panic rises as I realize I’ve sleepwalked into the woods. I scramble to my feet, my eyes adjusting to the dim light. The moon casts a pale glow over the surroundings, revealing what looks like a long-abandoned animal lair.
The walls are covered in giant claw marks, deep gouges in the wood and earth. The air is heavy with the scent of decay, and a chill runs through me. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched.
Carefully, I start to move, my eyes scanning the ground, desperate for a familiar landmark. That's when I see them—faded scraps of fabric caught on the jagged edges of the underbrush. My steps falter, a sense of dread washing over me as I bend down to examine them. The fabric is torn, weathered by time and the elements, but unmistakably familiar. It's part of Leah's jacket—the bright pink one she wore on the day she disappeared.
As I strain to make sense of it all, a rustling sound behind me snaps my focus. My heart leaps into my throat. I spin around, my hand instinctively reaching for the rifle I don't have—because, of course, I didn't bring it in my unconscious state.
The shadowy figure that emerges from the trees is unsettlingly familiar, mirroring the menacing forms of my nightmares. But as it steps into the moonlight, I recognize the worn jacket, the weary posture. It's Dad.
"Ryan!" he calls out, his voice a mix of relief and stern concern. "I've been looking everywhere for you. What the hell are you doing out here?"
I exhale slowly, the terror ebbing away as reality sets back in. "I—I don't know, Dad. I must've sleepwalked again." My voice is shaky, my earlier dream still clinging to the edges of my consciousness.
Dad stares at me in disbelief. "You haven't sleepwalked since you were a kid, Ry. This... this isn't just a coincidence." His eyes dart around, taking in the surroundings—the eerie, claw-marked den, the unsettling quiet of the woods. "How did you even find this place?"
I shake my head, struggling to find an answer. "I don't know, Dad. I just... I woke up here." The uncertainty in my voice does nothing to ease the tension.
His eyes lock onto the tattered remains of Leah's jacket in my hands, and something inside him snaps. The color drains from his face as he stumbles a few steps backward. "This... this is where it happened," he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper. “This is where we found Leah."
“I thought you said you don’t remember anything from that night,” he says accusingly.
"I swear, Dad, I don't know anything about this place," I insist, my own heart pounding.
“It was you, wasn’t it? You’ve been hiding this from me.” His voice is frantic. “You... last night, the growling, it was you.” His voice rises, tinged with hysteria.
I step back, my pulse racing, feeling the chill of the night and the weight of his accusation. "Dad, I don't know what you're talking ab—”
"No!" he interrupts, his voice breaking as he points a trembling finger at me. "You knew, you always knew. It was you, Ryan. All these years, the evidence was right there, but I refused to see it. You were the dogman. You killed Leah!"
His words hit me like a physical blow, absurd and horrifying in their implications. "Dad, you're not making any sense. You're talking crazy! I was just a little kid! How could I–" I protest, my voice shaky.
He steps closer, his presence looming over me, the outline of his figure distorted by the shadows of the trees. "Think about it! It all makes sense now. You led us here, to this place, because you remember. Because you did it."
"Dad, stop it!" I shout, my heart pounding in my chest. "You're scaring me. You need help, professional help. This isn't you."
But he's beyond reason, his eyes wild with a haunted grief. "I have to end this," he mutters, more to himself than to me, his hand tightening around his rifle.
His finger hovers dangerously over the trigger of his rifle. My instincts kick in, and I know I have to act fast.
I lunge toward him, trying to knock the weapon away, but he's quicker than I expected. We struggle, our breaths heavy in the cold night air, the sounds of our scuffle the only noise in the otherwise silent woods. His strength surprises me, fueled by his frantic emotions. He shoves me back, and I stumble over a root, my balance lost for a crucial second. That's all he needs. He raises his rifle, his intentions clear in his wild, pained eyes.
I dive to the ground just as the shot rings out, a deafening blast that echoes ominously through the trees. The bullet whizzes past, narrowly missing me, embedding itself in the bark of an old pine. I scramble to my feet, my heart pounding in my ears, and I start running. The underbrush claws at my clothes and skin, but I push through, driven by a primal urge to survive.
"Dad, stop! It's me, Ryan!" I shout back as I dodge between the trees. Another shot breaks the silence, closer this time, sending splinters of wood flying from a nearby tree trunk. It's surreal, being hunted by my own father, a man tormented by grief and lost in his delusions.
I don't stop to look back. I can hear him crashing through the forest behind me, his heavy breaths and muttered curses carried on the wind. The terrain is rough, and I'm fueled by adrenaline, but exhaustion is setting in. I need a plan.
Ahead, I see a rocky outcrop and make a split-second decision to head for it. It offers a chance to hide, to catch my breath and maybe reason with him if he catches up. As I reach the rocks, I slip behind the largest one, my body pressed tight against the cold, damp surface. I hear his footsteps approaching, slow and cautious now.
As I press against the rock, trying to calm my racing heart, I can hear Dad's footsteps drawing closer, each step crunching ominously on the forest floor. He's methodical, deliberate, like a hunter stalking his prey.
“Come out, Ryan!” Dad’s voice is ragged, filled with a blend of fury and pain.
My heart pounds against my chest, the cold sweat on my back making me shiver against the rough surface of the rock. I know I can't just sit here; it's only a matter of time before he finds me.
Taking a deep breath, I peek around the edge of the rock, trying to gauge his position. I see him, rifle raised, scanning the area slowly. This might be my only chance to end this madness without further violence. I need to disarm him, to talk some sense into him if I can.
As quietly as I can, I move out from behind the rock, my steps careful to avoid any twigs or leaves that might betray my position. I'm almost upon him when a branch snaps under my foot—a sound so trivial yet so alarmingly loud in the quiet of the woods.
Dad whirls around, looking completely unhinged. "Ryan!" he exclaims, his rifle swinging in my direction. Panic overtakes me, and I lunge forward, my hands reaching for the gun.
We struggle, the rifle between us, our breaths heavy and erratic. "Dad, please, stop!" I plead, trying to wrestle the gun away. But he's strong, stronger than I expected.
In the chaos, the rifle goes off. The sound is deafening, a sharp echo that seems to reverberate off every tree around us. Pain explodes in my abdomen, sharp and burning, like nothing I've ever felt before. I stagger back, my hands instinctively going to the wound. The warmth of my own blood coats my fingers, stark and terrifying.
Dad drops the rifle, his eyes wide with horror. "Oh my God! What have I done?" he gasps, rushing to my side as I collapse onto the forest floor.
As the pain sears through me, a strange, overpowering energy surges within. It's wild, primal, unlike anything I've ever experienced. Looking down in horror, my hands are no longer hands but large, hairy, clawed appendages. The transformation is rapid, consuming—my vision blurs, senses heighten, and a raw, guttural growl builds in my throat.
In that moment, a flood of understanding washes over me, mingling with the horror of realization. These are the hands of the creature from my nightmares, the creature whose face I can never fully recall because, as I now understand, it is me.
What happens next feels detached, as if I'm no longer in control of my own actions, watching from a distance as my body moves on its own. I turn towards my dad, his face a mask of terror. He stumbles back, his eyes wide with the dawning realization of what his son has become.
The forest around us seems to fall silent, holding its breath as the nightmarish scene unfolds. I can hear my own growls, guttural and deep, filling the air with a sound that's both foreign and intimately familiar. The pain in my abdomen fuels a dark, violent urge, an urge that's too strong to resist.
With a ferocity that feels both alien and intrinsic, I move towards him. My dad, paralyzed by fear and shock, doesn't run. Maybe he can't. Maybe he doesn't want to.
The encounter was brutal and swift, a blur of motion and violence. My dad barely puts up a struggle, as though resigned to his fate.
Not that there is anything he can do. The creature that I’ve become is too powerful, too consumed by the wild instincts surging through me. I tear him apart, limb from bloody limb, my hands—no, my claws—rending through fabric and flesh with disgusting ease.
The sound of my dad’s screams, of tearing fabric and flesh is drowned out by the animalistic growls that echo through the trees.
When it’s all over, the red mist that had clouded my vision begins to fade, and the fierce, uncontrollable rage that drove my actions subsides. I'm left standing, my breaths heavy and erratic, in the eerie stillness of the forest. The transformation reverses as quickly as it came on, and I find myself back in my human form. My clothes are ripped to shreds, hanging off my frame in tattered remnants. At my feet lies what’s left of my dad, his body torn and unrecognizable.
I glance down at my abdomen, expecting agony, but instead find my wound miraculously healed. No sign of the gunshot remains, just a faint scar where I expected a bloody mess.
Shock sets in, a numbing disbelief mixed with a gut-wrenching realization of what I've become and what I've done. My hands, now human again, tremble as I look at them, half-expecting to see the claws that had so effortlessly ripped through flesh and bone. But there's only blood, my father's blood against my skin.
I stand there for what feels like an eternity, trapped in a nightmare of my own making.
Eventually, the shock wears thin, and a cold practicality takes hold. I need to get out of here. I need to cover my tracks, to disappear. Because who would believe this? Who would understand that I didn't choose this, that I'm not a monster by choice?
With trembling hands, I do what’s necessary. I bury my dad in a shallow grave, the physical act of digging strangely grounding. I cover him with leaves and branches, a pitiful attempt to hide the brutality of his end. I take a moment, whispering apologies into the wind, knowing full well that nothing I say can change what happened.
I leave the forest behind, my mind a whirl of dark thoughts. As I walk, the first hints of dawn brush against the horizon, the sky bleeding a soft pink. It’s hauntingly beautiful.

I’ve always hated the smell of gun oil. It clings to everything it touches, soaking deep into the fibers of my clothes, the lining of my backpack, the coarse hair on the back of my hands. Yet here I am, kneeling on the cracked linoleum of our mudroom, a Remington .308 laid across my thighs, and the stench of gun oil sharp in my nostrils. The early morning light barely scratches at the edges of the blinds, dim and gray like the belly of a dead fish.
My dad Frank is in the kitchen, clattering around with the coffeepot and mumbling under his breath. Today we’re heading up to the woods of Northern Michigan, same as we did every year before Leah… before we lost her.
I can’t help but feel the old scars throbbing as I load bullets into the magazine. It’s been ten years since that hunting trip, the one that tore my family into before and after. Before, when Leah's laughter was a constant soundtrack to our lives; after, when every silence was filled with her absence.
We were just kids back then. I was ten, Leah was eight. It was supposed to be a typical hunting trip, one of those bonding experiences Dad was always talking about. But things went wrong. We got separated from Dad somehow. One minute we were following him, the next we were lost, the dense woods closing in around us.
Dad says when he found me, I was huddled under a fallen tree, my eyes wide, my body frozen. All I could mutter through chattering teeth was "Dogman."
It was only later, after the search parties had combed through every thicket and hollow, that they found her. What remained of Leah was barely recognizable, the evidence of a brutal mauling undeniable. The authorities concluded it was likely a bear attack, but Dad... he never accepted that explanation. He had seen the tracks, too large and oddly shaped for any bear.
As I load another round, the memory flashes, unbidden and unwelcome. Large, hairy clawed hands reaching out towards us, impossibly big, grotesque in their form. Yet, the rest of the creature eludes me, a shadow just beyond the edge of my recall, leaving me with nothing but fragmented terrors and Leah’s haunting, echoing screams. My mind blocked most of it out, a self-defense mechanism, I guess.
For years after that day, sleep was a battleground. I'd wake up in strange places—kitchen floor, backyard, even at the edge of the nearby creek. My therapist said it was my mind's way of trying to resolve the unresolved, to wander back through the woods searching for Leah. But all I found in those sleepless nights was a deeper sense of loss.
It took time, a lot of therapy, and patience I didn't know I had, but the sleepwalking did eventually stop. I guess I started to find some semblance of peace.
I have mostly moved on with my life. The fragmentary memories of that day are still there, lurking in the corners of my mind, but they don’t dominate my thoughts like they used to. I just finished my sophomore year at Michigan State, majoring in Environmental Science.
As for Dad, the loss of Leah broke him. He became a shell of himself. It destroyed his marriage with Mom. He blamed himself for letting us out of his sight, for not protecting Leah. His life took on a single, consuming focus: finding the creature that killed her. He read every book, every article on cryptids and unexplained phenomena. He mapped sightings, connected dots across blurry photos and shaky testimonies of the Dogman.
But as the tenth anniversary of Leah’s death approaches, Dad's obsession has grown more intense. He’s started staying up late, poring over his maps and notes, muttering to himself about patterns and cycles. He’s convinced that the dogman reappears every ten years, and this is our window of opportunity to finally hunt it down.
I’m not nearly as convinced. The whole dogman thing seems like a coping mechanism, a way for Dad to channel his guilt and grief into something tangible, something he can fight against. But I decided to tag along on this trip, partly to keep an eye on him, partly because a small part of me hopes that maybe, just maybe, we’ll find some kind of closure out there in the woods.
I finish loading the rifle and set it aside, standing up to stretch my legs. I wipe my greasy hands on an old rag, trying to get rid of the smell. The early morning light is starting to seep into the room, casting long shadows across the floor.
Dad comes out of the kitchen with two thermoses of coffee in hand. His eyes are bleary and tired.
“You ready, Ryan?” he asks, handing me a thermos, his voice rough from too many sleepless nights.
“Yeah, I’m ready,” I reply, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
We load our gear into the truck, the weight of our supplies and weapons a physical reminder of the burden we carry. The drive from Lansing across the Lower Peninsula is long and quiet, the silence between us filled with unspoken memories and unresolved grief.
—
The drive north is a blur of highway lines and the dull hum of the engine. I drift off, the landscape outside blending into a haze. In my sleep, fragments of that day with Leah replay like scattered pieces of a puzzle. I see her smile, the way she tugged at my sleeve, eager to explore. The sunlight filters through the trees in sharp, jagged streaks.
Then, the memory shifts—darker, disjointed. Leah's voice echoes, a playful laugh turning into a scream that pierces the air. The crunch of leaves underfoot as something heavy moves through the underbrush. I see a shadow, large and looming, not quite fitting the shapes of any creature I know.
Then, something darker creeps into the dream, something I’ve never allowed myself to remember clearly.
Before I can see what it is I wake up with a start as the truck jerks slightly on a rough patch of road. Dad glances over. "Bad dream?" he asks. I nod, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, the remnants of the dream clinging to me like the cold.
"Yeah, just... thinking about Leah," I manage to say.
As we drive, Dad attempts to bridge the silence with small talk. He asks about my finals, my plans for the summer, anything to keep the conversation going. His voice carries a forced cheerfulness, but it’s clear his heart isn’t in it. I respond when necessary, my answers brief, my gaze fixed on the passing scenery.
The landscape changes as we head further north, from flat expanses to rolling hills dotted with dense patches of forest. It's beautiful country, the kind that reminds you how vast and wild Michigan can be, but today it just feels oppressive, like it’s closing in on us.
—
We finally arrive at the cabin, nestled deep in the woods, its weathered wood blending seamlessly with the surrounding trees. The place hasn't changed much since the last time I was here—a relic from another time, filled with the echoes of our past. I can still see Leah running around the porch, her laughter ringing out into the forest.
Dad parks the truck, and we step out into the crisp air. The smell of pine and damp earth fills my nostrils. We start unloading our gear, the tension between us palpable.
“Let’s get this inside,” Dad says, his voice gruff as he hefts a duffel bag onto his shoulder.
I nod, grabbing my own bag and following him to the cabin. Inside, it’s a mix of old and new—the same rustic furniture, but with new hunting gear and maps strewn across the table. Dad’s obsession is evident in every corner of the room, a constant reminder of why we’re here.
As we unpack, we exchange strained attempts at normalcy. He talks about the latest cryptid sightings he’s read about, his eyes lighting up with a fervor that both worries and saddens me.
“Did you hear about the sighting up near Alpena?” he asks, laying out his maps on the table.
“Yeah, you mentioned it,” I reply, trying to muster some enthusiasm. “Do you really think there’s something to it?”
Dad’s eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I see a flicker of doubt. But it’s quickly replaced by grim determination. “I have to believe it, Ryan. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
We finish unpacking, the silence between us growing heavier with each passing minute. I step outside to clear my head, the cool air a welcome relief. The sun is starting to set, casting long shadows across the clearing. I can’t shake the feeling of unease.
"You can take the upstairs room," Dad mutters. His voice is strained, trying to sound normal, but it's clear the weight of the past is heavy on him. I nod, hauling my backpack up the creaking stairs to the small bedroom that I used to share with Leah. The room feels smaller now, or maybe I've just grown too much since those innocent days.
I unpack silently, setting my things aside. The bed is stiff and cold under my touch. As I settle in, I can't help but glance at the corner where Leah and I would huddle together, whispering secrets and making plans for adventures that would never happen. I push the thoughts away, focusing on the practicalities of unpacking.
After settling in, I go back downstairs to find Dad loading up a backpack with supplies for our hunt. The intensity in his eyes is palpable, his hands moving with practiced precision. I know this routine; it's one he's perfected over countless solo trips since that fateful day.
"We'll head out early," he says, not looking up from his task. "Gotta make the most of the daylight."
I nod, though unease curls in my stomach. I'm not just worried about what we might find—or not find—out there. I'm worried about him. Each year, the obsession seems to carve him out a bit more, leaving less of the Dad I knew.
—
The morning air is sharp with the scent of pine and wet earth as Dad and I head into the deeper parts of the forest. The terrain is rugged, familiar in its untamed beauty, but there’s a tension between us that makes the landscape feel alien. Dad moves with a purposeful stride, his eyes scanning the woods around us. Every snap of a twig, every rustle in the underbrush seems to draw his attention. He’s on edge, and it puts me on edge too.
As we walk, my mind drifts back to that day ten years ago. I can almost hear Leah’s voice echoing through the trees, her high-pitched call as she darted ahead, "Catch me, Ryan!" I remember how the sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dancing shadows on the ground. Those memories are so vivid, so tangible, it feels like I could just turn a corner and see her there, waiting for us.
Dad suddenly stops and kneels, examining the ground. He points out a set of tracks that are too large for a deer, with an unusual gait pattern. "It’s been here, Ry. I’m telling you, it’s close," he whispers, a mixture of excitement and something darker in his voice. I nod, though I’m not sure what to believe. Part of me wants to dismiss it all as grief-fueled obsession, but another part, the part that heard Leah's scream and saw something monstrous in the woods that day, isn’t so sure.
As we continue, Dad's comments become increasingly cryptic. "You know, they say the dogman moves in cycles, drawn to certain places, certain times. Like it’s tied to the land itself," he muses, more to himself than to me. His fixation on the creature has always been intense, but now it borders on mania.
We set up a makeshift blind near a clearing where Dad insists the creature will pass. Hours drag by with little to see but the occasional bird or distant deer.
The sun rises higher in the sky, casting long, slender shadows through the dense canopy. I shift uncomfortably in my spot, the forest floor hard and unyielding beneath me. My eyes dart between the trees, hoping to catch a glimpse of something, anything, to break the monotony. Dad, on the other hand, remains steadfast, his gaze fixed on the treeline as if he can will the dogman into existence by sheer force of will.
A bird chirps nearby, startling me. I sigh and adjust my grip on the rifle. I glance over at Dad.
“Anything?” I ask, more out of boredom than genuine curiosity.
“Not yet,” he replies, his voice tight. “But it’s out there. I know it.”
I nod, even though I’m not sure I believe him. The forest seems too quiet, too still. Maybe we’re chasing ghosts.
As the sun begins its descent, the forest is bathed in a warm, golden light. The air cools, and a breeze rustles the leaves. I shiver, more from anticipation than the cold. The long hours of sitting and waiting are starting to wear on me.
“Let’s call it a day for now,” Dad says finally, his voice heavy with disappointment. “We’ll head back to the cabin, get some rest, and try again tomorrow.”
I stand and stretch, feeling the stiffness in my muscles. We pack up our gear in silence and start the trek back to the cabin. The walk is long and quiet, the only sounds are the crunch of leaves underfoot and the distant calls of birds settling in for the night.
—
Dinner is a quiet affair, both of us lost in our thoughts. I try to make small talk, asking Dad about his plans for tomorrow, but it feels forced. We clean up in silence.
After dinner, I retreat to the small bedroom. The fatigue from the day's hike has settled into my bones, but sleep still feels like a distant hope. I lie down, staring at the ceiling, the room cloaked in darkness save for the sliver of moonlight creeping through the window. Downstairs, I hear the faint sound of Dad moving around, likely unable to sleep himself.
I drift into sleep, but it's not restful. My dreams pull me back to that fateful day in the woods. Leah's voice is clear and vibrant, her laughter echoing through the trees. She looks just as she did then—bright-eyed and full of life, her blonde hair catching the sunlight as she runs ahead of me.
"Come on, Ry! You can't catch me!" she taunts, her voice playful and teasing.
I chase after her, but the scene shifts abruptly. The sky darkens, the woods around us growing dense and foreboding. Leah's laughter fades, replaced by a chilling silence. I see her ahead, standing still, her back to me.
"Leah?" I call out, my voice trembling. She turns slowly, her eyes wide and filled with fear. "Ryan, you have to remember," she says, her voice barely a whisper. "It wasn't what you think. You need to know the truth."
Leah’s words hang in the air, cryptic and unsettling. Before I can respond, she turns and starts running again, her figure becoming a blur among the trees. Panic rises in my chest as I sprint after her, my feet pounding against the forest floor.
“Leah, wait!” I shout, desperation lacing my voice. The forest around me seems to close in, the trees towering and twisted, shadows dancing menacingly in the dim light. I push forward, trying to keep her in sight, but she’s too fast, slipping away like a wisp of smoke.
Suddenly, there’s a rustle, a flash of movement in the corner of my vision. Leah screams, a sound that pierces through the heavy silence. It happens too quickly—I can’t see what it is, only a dark blur that snatches her up.
“Leah!” I scream, my voice breaking. I stumble, falling to my knees as the forest spins around me. My heart races, and the terror is so real, so visceral, that it pulls me back to that awful day, the one that changed everything.
I jolt awake, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
I sit up, wiping the cold sweat from my forehead as I try to steady my breathing. The room is still dark, the shadows cast by the moonlight seem to flicker and dance on the walls. My heart is still racing from the nightmare, the echo of Leah's scream lingering in my ears.
As I struggle to calm down, the floorboards outside my room creak. The door opens slowly, and I see the silhouette of my dad in the doorway, a Bowie knife in his hand, his posture tense.
“Dad, what the hell are you doing?” I whisper, my voice shaking.
“Shh,” he hisses, holding up a hand to silence me. “I heard something. Something moving around in the cabin. Stay quiet.”
I swallow hard, my mouth dry. I glance at the clock on the nightstand—it’s just past three in the morning. The cabin is silent, the kind of deep, oppressive silence that makes every small sound seem louder. I can’t hear anything out of the ordinary, but Dad’s expression is deadly serious.
He motions for me to get up, and I do, moving as quietly as I can. My heart is racing, a mix of lingering fear from the dream and the sudden, sharp anxiety of the present moment. Dad leads the way, stepping cautiously out of the bedroom and into the hallway, the knife held ready in front of him.
We move through the cabin, checking each room in turn. The living room is empty, the furniture casting long shadows in the dim moonlight. The kitchen is just as we left it, the plates from dinner still drying on the counter. Everything seems normal, untouched.
We finish our sweep of the cabin without finding anything amiss. The silence is heavy, punctuated only by our soft footfalls. I can see the tension in Dad’s frame, his grip on the knife unwavering. After checking the last room, we pause in the dimly lit hallway, the air thick with unspoken questions.
“There’s nothing here,” I say, my voice low. “Are you sure you heard something?”
He looks at me, his eyes searching for something in my face. “I heard growling. Deep and close. It was right outside the window.”
“Maybe it was just an animal outside, a raccoon or something?” I suggest, although the certainty in his voice makes me doubt my own reassurance.
“No, it wasn’t like that. It was different,” he insists, his voice tense.
I nod, not wanting to argue, but the seeds of worry are planted deep.
The look in his eyes sends a chill down my spine. It’s not just fear—it’s desperation. The kind of desperation that comes from years of chasing shadows and finding nothing. I can see the toll this hunt has taken on him, the way it’s worn him down, turned him into a man I barely recognize.
We head back to our rooms. As I lie down, my mind races with thoughts of my dad. I can’t help but wonder if he’s losing it, if the years of grief and guilt have finally pushed him over the edge.
Dad wasn’t always like this. Before Leah’s death, he was the kind of father who took us fishing, helped with homework, and told terrible jokes that made us groan and laugh at the same time. He was solid, dependable. But losing Leah changed him. The guilt twisted him into someone I barely recognize, someone driven by a need for answers, for closure, that may never come.
I try to sleep, but my thoughts keep me awake. I can hear Dad moving around downstairs, probably pacing or double-checking the locks. His paranoia has become a constant presence, and I don’t know how to help him. I don’t even know if I can help him.
—
The next morning, the sunlight filters weakly through the cabin windows, casting a pale light that does little to lift the heavy mood. I drag myself out of bed, feeling the exhaustion of another restless night. Dad is already up, hunched over his maps at the kitchen table, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep.
“Morning,” I mumble, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I pour myself a cup of coffee. “Did you sleep at all?”
He shakes his head, not looking up from his notes. “Not much. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I heard last night.”
I sip my coffee, trying to shake off the remnants of my nightmare. “Maybe it was just an animal, Dad. We’re deep in the woods, after all.”
He finally looks up, his eyes intense. “Ryan, I know what I heard. It wasn’t just an animal. It was something else.”
I sigh, not wanting to argue. “Okay, fine, Dad. What’s the plan for today?”
“We’re going back out. I found some tracks yesterday, and I want to follow them. See where they lead.”
I nod, feeling a mix of apprehension and resignation. I can see how much this means to him, how desperate he is for any kind of lead. “Alright. Let’s get packed and head out.”
We spend the morning preparing, loading up our gear and double-checking our supplies. Dad is meticulous, going over everything with a fine-toothed comb. I try to match his focus, but my mind keeps drifting back to Leah and the dream I had. Her words echo in my head, cryptic and unsettling: “You need to know the truth.”
We set off into the woods, the air crisp and cool. The forest is alive with the sounds of birds and rustling leaves, but it all feels distant, like background noise to the tension between us. Dad leads the way, his eyes scanning the ground for any sign of the tracks he found yesterday.
As we walk, I can’t help but notice how erratically he’s acting. He mutters to himself, his eyes darting around as if expecting something to jump out at us. His grip on his rifle is tight, his knuckles white.
“Dad, are you okay?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
He glances at me, his expression unreadable. “I’m fine. Just focused.”
He stops frequently to examine the ground or the bark of trees, pointing out marks and signs that seem meaningless to me.
“Look at this,” he says, crouching down to examine a broken branch. “See how it’s snapped? That’s not a deer or a bear. That’s something bigger. Stronger.”
I crouch next to Dad, squinting at the broken branch. To me, it just looks like a regular broken branch, the kind you see all over the forest. "I don't know, Dad. It just looks like a branch to me," I say, trying to keep my voice neutral.
Dad's eyes flicker with frustration. "You're not looking close enough. It's the way it's snapped—too clean, too deliberate. Something did this."
I nod, not wanting to argue. "Okay, sure. But even if you're right, it could be anything. A storm, another hunter..."
His expression hardens. "I know what I'm looking for. This is different."
I sigh, feeling the weight of the past and the tension between us pressing down on me. "Dad, I had a dream last night. About Leah." The words hang in the air between us, heavy and fraught with unspoken emotions.
Dad's eyes widen, and he straightens up, his entire demeanor shifting. "What kind of dream? What did you see?" His voice is urgent, almost desperate.
"It was... strange. We were in the woods, like we are now, but everything felt different. Leah was there, running ahead of me, laughing. Then she stopped and told me I needed to know the truth, that it wasn't what I thought."
Dad grabs my shoulders, his grip tight. "What else did she say? Did she tell you anything specific? Anything about the creature?"
I shake my head, feeling a chill run down my spine. "No, that was it. She just said I needed to know the truth, and then she was gone."
Dad’s grip on my shoulders tightens, and his eyes bore into mine with a mixture of desperation and hope. “Ryan, you have to try to remember. Think hard. What did the creature look like? Did you see anything else?”
I pull back slightly, uneasy with his intensity. “Dad, I told you. I don’t remember. It was just a dream. A nightmare, really. My mind’s probably just mixing things up.”
He lets go of me and runs a hand through his hair, looking frustrated and lost. “Dreams can be important. They can hold memories we’ve buried deep. Please, try to remember. This could be a sign, a clue.”
I rub my temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache. “I’ve tried, okay? I’ve tried for years to piece together what happened that day. But it’s all just fragments, like pieces of a puzzle that don’t fit. The dream… it felt real, but I don’t think it’s telling me anything new.”
Dad’s face falls, and he looks older than I’ve ever seen him. He turns away, staring into the forest as if it holds all the answers.
—
As we make our way back to the cabin, the sun begins to set, casting long shadows through the trees. The air grows colder, and I shiver, pulling my jacket tighter around me. Dad is silent, lost in his thoughts, his face drawn and haggard.
Back at the cabin, we unload our gear once again in silence. Dad disappears into his room, muttering something about going over his notes. I decide to explore the cabin, hoping to find something that might help me understand what’s going on with him.
In the attic, I find a box of old family photos and documents. As I sift through the contents, I come across a worn journal with Dad’s handwriting on the cover. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I open it, flipping through the pages.
The journal is filled with notes and sketches, detailing his obsession with the dogman. But there’s something else—entries that talk about Leah, about that day in the woods. His handwriting becomes more erratic, the words harder to read. One entry stands out, dated just a few days after Leah’s death:
“June 15, 2013 – It was supposed to be a normal trip. Keep them close, Frank, I kept telling myself. But I failed. Leah is gone, and it’s my fault. I heard her scream, saw the shadows. I tried to get to her, but… the thing, it was there. Too fast. Too strong. My hands… blood everywhere. No one will believe me. I can’t even believe myself. I have to find it. I have to protect Ryan. I have to make it right. God, what have I done?”
Before I can read further, the attic door creaks open, and Dad’s voice slices through the stillness.
“What are you doing up here?” His tone is sharp, almost panicked.
I turn to see him standing in the doorway, his face pale and his eyes wide with something between anger and fear. I clutch the journal to my chest, my mind racing. “I found this… I was just trying to understand…”
In an instant, he crosses the room and snatches the journal from my hands. His grip is tight, his knuckles white. “You had no right,” he growls, his voice trembling.
“Dad, I just wanted to know the truth!” I shout, frustration boiling over. “What really happened to Leah.”
His eyes flash with a mix of rage and anguish, and before I can react, he slaps me across the face. The force of it knocks me off balance, and I stumble backward, my cheek stinging.
For a moment, there’s a stunned silence. We both stand there, breathing hard, the air thick with tension.
“I’m sorry,” Dad says finally, his voice barely a whisper. “I didn’t mean to… I just…” He trails off, clutching the journal to his chest like a lifeline.
I touch my cheek, feeling the heat from the slap, and take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “Dad, what aren’t you telling me? What really happened that day?”
“Stay out of it, Ryan,” Dad growls, his eyes dark with anger. “You don’t know what you’re messing with.”
He turns and storms out of the attic. I’m left standing there, my cheek throbbing, my mind racing. What the fuck is going on? What really happened to Leah? And what is Dad so afraid of?
—
That night, I sleep with my rifle within arm's reach, more afraid of my dad than any dogman. The slap still burns on my cheek, and the look in his eyes—rage, fear, something darker—haunts me. I lie awake, listening to the creaks and groans of the old cabin, every sound amplified in the stillness. Eventually, exhaustion pulls me under, and I fall into a restless sleep.
The dream returns, vivid and unsettling. I'm back in the woods, chasing after Leah. Her laughter echoes through the trees, a haunting reminder of happier times. This time, though, I push myself harder, refusing to let her slip away.
"Ryan, catch me!" she calls, her voice playful.
"I'm coming, Leah!" I shout, my legs pumping, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
The forest around us is a twisted, shadowy maze, the trees seeming to close in on us. Leah's figure becomes clearer, her blonde hair catching the dim light filtering through the canopy. She stops suddenly, turning to face me, her eyes wide with fear.
"Leah, what is it?" I ask, my voice trembling.
"Look behind you," she whispers, her voice barely audible.
I turn slowly, dread creeping up my spine. In the shadows, I see a figure, its form indistinct and shifting. It’s not quite animal, not quite human—something in between. The sight of it sends a jolt of terror through me, and I wake up with a start, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
I’m not in my bed. The ground beneath me is cold and hard, the smell of damp earth filling my nostrils. Panic rises as I realize I’ve sleepwalked into the woods. I scramble to my feet, my eyes adjusting to the dim light. The moon casts a pale glow over the surroundings, revealing what looks like a long-abandoned animal lair.
The walls are covered in giant claw marks, deep gouges in the wood and earth. The air is heavy with the scent of decay, and a chill runs through me. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched.
Carefully, I start to move, my eyes scanning the ground, desperate for a familiar landmark. That's when I see them—faded scraps of fabric caught on the jagged edges of the underbrush. My steps falter, a sense of dread washing over me as I bend down to examine them. The fabric is torn, weathered by time and the elements, but unmistakably familiar. It's part of Leah's jacket—the bright pink one she wore on the day she disappeared.
As I strain to make sense of it all, a rustling sound behind me snaps my focus. My heart leaps into my throat. I spin around, my hand instinctively reaching for the rifle I don't have—because, of course, I didn't bring it in my unconscious state.
The shadowy figure that emerges from the trees is unsettlingly familiar, mirroring the menacing forms of my nightmares. But as it steps into the moonlight, I recognize the worn jacket, the weary posture. It's Dad.
"Ryan!" he calls out, his voice a mix of relief and stern concern. "I've been looking everywhere for you. What the hell are you doing out here?"
I exhale slowly, the terror ebbing away as reality sets back in. "I—I don't know, Dad. I must've sleepwalked again." My voice is shaky, my earlier dream still clinging to the edges of my consciousness.
Dad stares at me in disbelief. "You haven't sleepwalked since you were a kid, Ry. This... this isn't just a coincidence." His eyes dart around, taking in the surroundings—the eerie, claw-marked den, the unsettling quiet of the woods. "How did you even find this place?"
I shake my head, struggling to find an answer. "I don't know, Dad. I just... I woke up here." The uncertainty in my voice does nothing to ease the tension.
His eyes lock onto the tattered remains of Leah's jacket in my hands, and something inside him snaps. The color drains from his face as he stumbles a few steps backward. "This... this is where it happened," he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper. “This is where we found Leah."
“I thought you said you don’t remember anything from that night,” he says accusingly.
"I swear, Dad, I don't know anything about this place," I insist, my own heart pounding.
“It was you, wasn’t it? You’ve been hiding this from me.” His voice is frantic. “You... last night, the growling, it was you.” His voice rises, tinged with hysteria.
I step back, my pulse racing, feeling the chill of the night and the weight of his accusation. "Dad, I don't know what you're talking ab—”
"No!" he interrupts, his voice breaking as he points a trembling finger at me. "You knew, you always knew. It was you, Ryan. All these years, the evidence was right there, but I refused to see it. You were the dogman. You killed Leah!"
His words hit me like a physical blow, absurd and horrifying in their implications. "Dad, you're not making any sense. You're talking crazy! I was just a little kid! How could I–" I protest, my voice shaky.
He steps closer, his presence looming over me, the outline of his figure distorted by the shadows of the trees. "Think about it! It all makes sense now. You led us here, to this place, because you remember. Because you did it."
"Dad, stop it!" I shout, my heart pounding in my chest. "You're scaring me. You need help, professional help. This isn't you."
But he's beyond reason, his eyes wild with a haunted grief. "I have to end this," he mutters, more to himself than to me, his hand tightening around his rifle.
His finger hovers dangerously over the trigger of his rifle. My instincts kick in, and I know I have to act fast.
I lunge toward him, trying to knock the weapon away, but he's quicker than I expected. We struggle, our breaths heavy in the cold night air, the sounds of our scuffle the only noise in the otherwise silent woods. His strength surprises me, fueled by his frantic emotions. He shoves me back, and I stumble over a root, my balance lost for a crucial second. That's all he needs. He raises his rifle, his intentions clear in his wild, pained eyes.
I dive to the ground just as the shot rings out, a deafening blast that echoes ominously through the trees. The bullet whizzes past, narrowly missing me, embedding itself in the bark of an old pine. I scramble to my feet, my heart pounding in my ears, and I start running. The underbrush claws at my clothes and skin, but I push through, driven by a primal urge to survive.
"Dad, stop! It's me, Ryan!" I shout back as I dodge between the trees. Another shot breaks the silence, closer this time, sending splinters of wood flying from a nearby tree trunk. It's surreal, being hunted by my own father, a man tormented by grief and lost in his delusions.
I don't stop to look back. I can hear him crashing through the forest behind me, his heavy breaths and muttered curses carried on the wind. The terrain is rough, and I'm fueled by adrenaline, but exhaustion is setting in. I need a plan.
Ahead, I see a rocky outcrop and make a split-second decision to head for it. It offers a chance to hide, to catch my breath and maybe reason with him if he catches up. As I reach the rocks, I slip behind the largest one, my body pressed tight against the cold, damp surface. I hear his footsteps approaching, slow and cautious now.
As I press against the rock, trying to calm my racing heart, I can hear Dad's footsteps drawing closer, each step crunching ominously on the forest floor. He's methodical, deliberate, like a hunter stalking his prey.
“Come out, Ryan!” Dad’s voice is ragged, filled with a blend of fury and pain.
My heart pounds against my chest, the cold sweat on my back making me shiver against the rough surface of the rock. I know I can't just sit here; it's only a matter of time before he finds me.
Taking a deep breath, I peek around the edge of the rock, trying to gauge his position. I see him, rifle raised, scanning the area slowly. This might be my only chance to end this madness without further violence. I need to disarm him, to talk some sense into him if I can.
As quietly as I can, I move out from behind the rock, my steps careful to avoid any twigs or leaves that might betray my position. I'm almost upon him when a branch snaps under my foot—a sound so trivial yet so alarmingly loud in the quiet of the woods.
Dad whirls around, looking completely unhinged. "Ryan!" he exclaims, his rifle swinging in my direction. Panic overtakes me, and I lunge forward, my hands reaching for the gun.
We struggle, the rifle between us, our breaths heavy and erratic. "Dad, please, stop!" I plead, trying to wrestle the gun away. But he's strong, stronger than I expected.
In the chaos, the rifle goes off. The sound is deafening, a sharp echo that seems to reverberate off every tree around us. Pain explodes in my abdomen, sharp and burning, like nothing I've ever felt before. I stagger back, my hands instinctively going to the wound. The warmth of my own blood coats my fingers, stark and terrifying.
Dad drops the rifle, his eyes wide with horror. "Oh my God! What have I done?" he gasps, rushing to my side as I collapse onto the forest floor.
As the pain sears through me, a strange, overpowering energy surges within. It's wild, primal, unlike anything I've ever experienced. Looking down in horror, my hands are no longer hands but large, hairy, clawed appendages. The transformation is rapid, consuming—my vision blurs, senses heighten, and a raw, guttural growl builds in my throat.
In that moment, a flood of understanding washes over me, mingling with the horror of realization. These are the hands of the creature from my nightmares, the creature whose face I can never fully recall because, as I now understand, it is me.
What happens next feels detached, as if I'm no longer in control of my own actions, watching from a distance as my body moves on its own. I turn towards my dad, his face a mask of terror. He stumbles back, his eyes wide with the dawning realization of what his son has become.
The forest around us seems to fall silent, holding its breath as the nightmarish scene unfolds. I can hear my own growls, guttural and deep, filling the air with a sound that's both foreign and intimately familiar. The pain in my abdomen fuels a dark, violent urge, an urge that's too strong to resist.
With a ferocity that feels both alien and intrinsic, I move towards him. My dad, paralyzed by fear and shock, doesn't run. Maybe he can't. Maybe he doesn't want to.
The encounter was brutal and swift, a blur of motion and violence. My dad barely puts up a struggle, as though resigned to his fate.
Not that there is anything he can do. The creature that I’ve become is too powerful, too consumed by the wild instincts surging through me. I tear him apart, limb from bloody limb, my hands—no, my claws—rending through fabric and flesh with disgusting ease.
The sound of my dad’s screams, of tearing fabric and flesh is drowned out by the animalistic growls that echo through the trees.
When it’s all over, the red mist that had clouded my vision begins to fade, and the fierce, uncontrollable rage that drove my actions subsides. I'm left standing, my breaths heavy and erratic, in the eerie stillness of the forest. The transformation reverses as quickly as it came on, and I find myself back in my human form. My clothes are ripped to shreds, hanging off my frame in tattered remnants. At my feet lies what’s left of my dad, his body torn and unrecognizable.
I glance down at my abdomen, expecting agony, but instead find my wound miraculously healed. No sign of the gunshot remains, just a faint scar where I expected a bloody mess.
Shock sets in, a numbing disbelief mixed with a gut-wrenching realization of what I've become and what I've done. My hands, now human again, tremble as I look at them, half-expecting to see the claws that had so effortlessly ripped through flesh and bone. But there's only blood, my father's blood against my skin.
I stand there for what feels like an eternity, trapped in a nightmare of my own making.
Eventually, the shock wears thin, and a cold practicality takes hold. I need to get out of here. I need to cover my tracks, to disappear. Because who would believe this? Who would understand that I didn't choose this, that I'm not a monster by choice?
With trembling hands, I do what’s necessary. I bury my dad in a shallow grave, the physical act of digging strangely grounding. I cover him with leaves and branches, a pitiful attempt to hide the brutality of his end. I take a moment, whispering apologies into the wind, knowing full well that nothing I say can change what happened.
I leave the forest behind, my mind a whirl of dark thoughts. As I walk, the first hints of dawn brush against the horizon, the sky bleeding a soft pink. It’s hauntingly beautiful.

I’ve always hated the smell of gun oil. It clings to everything it touches, soaking deep into the fibers of my clothes, the lining of my backpack, the coarse hair on the back of my hands. Yet here I am, kneeling on the cracked linoleum of our mudroom, a Remington .308 laid across my thighs, and the stench of gun oil sharp in my nostrils. The early morning light barely scratches at the edges of the blinds, dim and gray like the belly of a dead fish.
My dad Frank is in the kitchen, clattering around with the coffeepot and mumbling under his breath. Today we’re heading up to the woods of Northern Michigan, same as we did every year before Leah… before we lost her.
I can’t help but feel the old scars throbbing as I load bullets into the magazine. It’s been ten years since that hunting trip, the one that tore my family into before and after. Before, when Leah's laughter was a constant soundtrack to our lives; after, when every silence was filled with her absence.
We were just kids back then. I was ten, Leah was eight. It was supposed to be a typical hunting trip, one of those bonding experiences Dad was always talking about. But things went wrong. We got separated from Dad somehow. One minute we were following him, the next we were lost, the dense woods closing in around us.
Dad says when he found me, I was huddled under a fallen tree, my eyes wide, my body frozen. All I could mutter through chattering teeth was "Dogman."
It was only later, after the search parties had combed through every thicket and hollow, that they found her. What remained of Leah was barely recognizable, the evidence of a brutal mauling undeniable. The authorities concluded it was likely a bear attack, but Dad... he never accepted that explanation. He had seen the tracks, too large and oddly shaped for any bear.
As I load another round, the memory flashes, unbidden and unwelcome. Large, hairy clawed hands reaching out towards us, impossibly big, grotesque in their form. Yet, the rest of the creature eludes me, a shadow just beyond the edge of my recall, leaving me with nothing but fragmented terrors and Leah’s haunting, echoing screams. My mind blocked most of it out, a self-defense mechanism, I guess.
For years after that day, sleep was a battleground. I'd wake up in strange places—kitchen floor, backyard, even at the edge of the nearby creek. My therapist said it was my mind's way of trying to resolve the unresolved, to wander back through the woods searching for Leah. But all I found in those sleepless nights was a deeper sense of loss.
It took time, a lot of therapy, and patience I didn't know I had, but the sleepwalking did eventually stop. I guess I started to find some semblance of peace.
I have mostly moved on with my life. The fragmentary memories of that day are still there, lurking in the corners of my mind, but they don’t dominate my thoughts like they used to. I just finished my sophomore year at Michigan State, majoring in Environmental Science.
As for Dad, the loss of Leah broke him. He became a shell of himself. It destroyed his marriage with Mom. He blamed himself for letting us out of his sight, for not protecting Leah. His life took on a single, consuming focus: finding the creature that killed her. He read every book, every article on cryptids and unexplained phenomena. He mapped sightings, connected dots across blurry photos and shaky testimonies of the Dogman.
But as the tenth anniversary of Leah’s death approaches, Dad's obsession has grown more intense. He’s started staying up late, poring over his maps and notes, muttering to himself about patterns and cycles. He’s convinced that the dogman reappears every ten years, and this is our window of opportunity to finally hunt it down.
I’m not nearly as convinced. The whole dogman thing seems like a coping mechanism, a way for Dad to channel his guilt and grief into something tangible, something he can fight against. But I decided to tag along on this trip, partly to keep an eye on him, partly because a small part of me hopes that maybe, just maybe, we’ll find some kind of closure out there in the woods.
I finish loading the rifle and set it aside, standing up to stretch my legs. I wipe my greasy hands on an old rag, trying to get rid of the smell. The early morning light is starting to seep into the room, casting long shadows across the floor.
Dad comes out of the kitchen with two thermoses of coffee in hand. His eyes are bleary and tired.
“You ready, Ryan?” he asks, handing me a thermos, his voice rough from too many sleepless nights.
“Yeah, I’m ready,” I reply, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
We load our gear into the truck, the weight of our supplies and weapons a physical reminder of the burden we carry. The drive from Lansing across the Lower Peninsula is long and quiet, the silence between us filled with unspoken memories and unresolved grief.
—
The drive north is a blur of highway lines and the dull hum of the engine. I drift off, the landscape outside blending into a haze. In my sleep, fragments of that day with Leah replay like scattered pieces of a puzzle. I see her smile, the way she tugged at my sleeve, eager to explore. The sunlight filters through the trees in sharp, jagged streaks.
Then, the memory shifts—darker, disjointed. Leah's voice echoes, a playful laugh turning into a scream that pierces the air. The crunch of leaves underfoot as something heavy moves through the underbrush. I see a shadow, large and looming, not quite fitting the shapes of any creature I know.
Then, something darker creeps into the dream, something I’ve never allowed myself to remember clearly.
Before I can see what it is I wake up with a start as the truck jerks slightly on a rough patch of road. Dad glances over. "Bad dream?" he asks. I nod, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, the remnants of the dream clinging to me like the cold.
"Yeah, just... thinking about Leah," I manage to say.
As we drive, Dad attempts to bridge the silence with small talk. He asks about my finals, my plans for the summer, anything to keep the conversation going. His voice carries a forced cheerfulness, but it’s clear his heart isn’t in it. I respond when necessary, my answers brief, my gaze fixed on the passing scenery.
The landscape changes as we head further north, from flat expanses to rolling hills dotted with dense patches of forest. It's beautiful country, the kind that reminds you how vast and wild Michigan can be, but today it just feels oppressive, like it’s closing in on us.
—
We finally arrive at the cabin, nestled deep in the woods, its weathered wood blending seamlessly with the surrounding trees. The place hasn't changed much since the last time I was here—a relic from another time, filled with the echoes of our past. I can still see Leah running around the porch, her laughter ringing out into the forest.
Dad parks the truck, and we step out into the crisp air. The smell of pine and damp earth fills my nostrils. We start unloading our gear, the tension between us palpable.
“Let’s get this inside,” Dad says, his voice gruff as he hefts a duffel bag onto his shoulder.
I nod, grabbing my own bag and following him to the cabin. Inside, it’s a mix of old and new—the same rustic furniture, but with new hunting gear and maps strewn across the table. Dad’s obsession is evident in every corner of the room, a constant reminder of why we’re here.
As we unpack, we exchange strained attempts at normalcy. He talks about the latest cryptid sightings he’s read about, his eyes lighting up with a fervor that both worries and saddens me.
“Did you hear about the sighting up near Alpena?” he asks, laying out his maps on the table.
“Yeah, you mentioned it,” I reply, trying to muster some enthusiasm. “Do you really think there’s something to it?”
Dad’s eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I see a flicker of doubt. But it’s quickly replaced by grim determination. “I have to believe it, Ryan. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
We finish unpacking, the silence between us growing heavier with each passing minute. I step outside to clear my head, the cool air a welcome relief. The sun is starting to set, casting long shadows across the clearing. I can’t shake the feeling of unease.
"You can take the upstairs room," Dad mutters. His voice is strained, trying to sound normal, but it's clear the weight of the past is heavy on him. I nod, hauling my backpack up the creaking stairs to the small bedroom that I used to share with Leah. The room feels smaller now, or maybe I've just grown too much since those innocent days.
I unpack silently, setting my things aside. The bed is stiff and cold under my touch. As I settle in, I can't help but glance at the corner where Leah and I would huddle together, whispering secrets and making plans for adventures that would never happen. I push the thoughts away, focusing on the practicalities of unpacking.
After settling in, I go back downstairs to find Dad loading up a backpack with supplies for our hunt. The intensity in his eyes is palpable, his hands moving with practiced precision. I know this routine; it's one he's perfected over countless solo trips since that fateful day.
"We'll head out early," he says, not looking up from his task. "Gotta make the most of the daylight."
I nod, though unease curls in my stomach. I'm not just worried about what we might find—or not find—out there. I'm worried about him. Each year, the obsession seems to carve him out a bit more, leaving less of the Dad I knew.
—
The morning air is sharp with the scent of pine and wet earth as Dad and I head into the deeper parts of the forest. The terrain is rugged, familiar in its untamed beauty, but there’s a tension between us that makes the landscape feel alien. Dad moves with a purposeful stride, his eyes scanning the woods around us. Every snap of a twig, every rustle in the underbrush seems to draw his attention. He’s on edge, and it puts me on edge too.
As we walk, my mind drifts back to that day ten years ago. I can almost hear Leah’s voice echoing through the trees, her high-pitched call as she darted ahead, "Catch me, Ryan!" I remember how the sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dancing shadows on the ground. Those memories are so vivid, so tangible, it feels like I could just turn a corner and see her there, waiting for us.
Dad suddenly stops and kneels, examining the ground. He points out a set of tracks that are too large for a deer, with an unusual gait pattern. "It’s been here, Ry. I’m telling you, it’s close," he whispers, a mixture of excitement and something darker in his voice. I nod, though I’m not sure what to believe. Part of me wants to dismiss it all as grief-fueled obsession, but another part, the part that heard Leah's scream and saw something monstrous in the woods that day, isn’t so sure.
As we continue, Dad's comments become increasingly cryptic. "You know, they say the dogman moves in cycles, drawn to certain places, certain times. Like it’s tied to the land itself," he muses, more to himself than to me. His fixation on the creature has always been intense, but now it borders on mania.
We set up a makeshift blind near a clearing where Dad insists the creature will pass. Hours drag by with little to see but the occasional bird or distant deer.
The sun rises higher in the sky, casting long, slender shadows through the dense canopy. I shift uncomfortably in my spot, the forest floor hard and unyielding beneath me. My eyes dart between the trees, hoping to catch a glimpse of something, anything, to break the monotony. Dad, on the other hand, remains steadfast, his gaze fixed on the treeline as if he can will the dogman into existence by sheer force of will.
A bird chirps nearby, startling me. I sigh and adjust my grip on the rifle. I glance over at Dad.
“Anything?” I ask, more out of boredom than genuine curiosity.
“Not yet,” he replies, his voice tight. “But it’s out there. I know it.”
I nod, even though I’m not sure I believe him. The forest seems too quiet, too still. Maybe we’re chasing ghosts.
As the sun begins its descent, the forest is bathed in a warm, golden light. The air cools, and a breeze rustles the leaves. I shiver, more from anticipation than the cold. The long hours of sitting and waiting are starting to wear on me.
“Let’s call it a day for now,” Dad says finally, his voice heavy with disappointment. “We’ll head back to the cabin, get some rest, and try again tomorrow.”
I stand and stretch, feeling the stiffness in my muscles. We pack up our gear in silence and start the trek back to the cabin. The walk is long and quiet, the only sounds are the crunch of leaves underfoot and the distant calls of birds settling in for the night.
—
Dinner is a quiet affair, both of us lost in our thoughts. I try to make small talk, asking Dad about his plans for tomorrow, but it feels forced. We clean up in silence.
After dinner, I retreat to the small bedroom. The fatigue from the day's hike has settled into my bones, but sleep still feels like a distant hope. I lie down, staring at the ceiling, the room cloaked in darkness save for the sliver of moonlight creeping through the window. Downstairs, I hear the faint sound of Dad moving around, likely unable to sleep himself.
I drift into sleep, but it's not restful. My dreams pull me back to that fateful day in the woods. Leah's voice is clear and vibrant, her laughter echoing through the trees. She looks just as she did then—bright-eyed and full of life, her blonde hair catching the sunlight as she runs ahead of me.
"Come on, Ry! You can't catch me!" she taunts, her voice playful and teasing.
I chase after her, but the scene shifts abruptly. The sky darkens, the woods around us growing dense and foreboding. Leah's laughter fades, replaced by a chilling silence. I see her ahead, standing still, her back to me.
"Leah?" I call out, my voice trembling. She turns slowly, her eyes wide and filled with fear. "Ryan, you have to remember," she says, her voice barely a whisper. "It wasn't what you think. You need to know the truth."
Leah’s words hang in the air, cryptic and unsettling. Before I can respond, she turns and starts running again, her figure becoming a blur among the trees. Panic rises in my chest as I sprint after her, my feet pounding against the forest floor.
“Leah, wait!” I shout, desperation lacing my voice. The forest around me seems to close in, the trees towering and twisted, shadows dancing menacingly in the dim light. I push forward, trying to keep her in sight, but she’s too fast, slipping away like a wisp of smoke.
Suddenly, there’s a rustle, a flash of movement in the corner of my vision. Leah screams, a sound that pierces through the heavy silence. It happens too quickly—I can’t see what it is, only a dark blur that snatches her up.
“Leah!” I scream, my voice breaking. I stumble, falling to my knees as the forest spins around me. My heart races, and the terror is so real, so visceral, that it pulls me back to that awful day, the one that changed everything.
I jolt awake, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
I sit up, wiping the cold sweat from my forehead as I try to steady my breathing. The room is still dark, the shadows cast by the moonlight seem to flicker and dance on the walls. My heart is still racing from the nightmare, the echo of Leah's scream lingering in my ears.
As I struggle to calm down, the floorboards outside my room creak. The door opens slowly, and I see the silhouette of my dad in the doorway, a Bowie knife in his hand, his posture tense.
“Dad, what the hell are you doing?” I whisper, my voice shaking.
“Shh,” he hisses, holding up a hand to silence me. “I heard something. Something moving around in the cabin. Stay quiet.”
I swallow hard, my mouth dry. I glance at the clock on the nightstand—it’s just past three in the morning. The cabin is silent, the kind of deep, oppressive silence that makes every small sound seem louder. I can’t hear anything out of the ordinary, but Dad’s expression is deadly serious.
He motions for me to get up, and I do, moving as quietly as I can. My heart is racing, a mix of lingering fear from the dream and the sudden, sharp anxiety of the present moment. Dad leads the way, stepping cautiously out of the bedroom and into the hallway, the knife held ready in front of him.
We move through the cabin, checking each room in turn. The living room is empty, the furniture casting long shadows in the dim moonlight. The kitchen is just as we left it, the plates from dinner still drying on the counter. Everything seems normal, untouched.
We finish our sweep of the cabin without finding anything amiss. The silence is heavy, punctuated only by our soft footfalls. I can see the tension in Dad’s frame, his grip on the knife unwavering. After checking the last room, we pause in the dimly lit hallway, the air thick with unspoken questions.
“There’s nothing here,” I say, my voice low. “Are you sure you heard something?”
He looks at me, his eyes searching for something in my face. “I heard growling. Deep and close. It was right outside the window.”
“Maybe it was just an animal outside, a raccoon or something?” I suggest, although the certainty in his voice makes me doubt my own reassurance.
“No, it wasn’t like that. It was different,” he insists, his voice tense.
I nod, not wanting to argue, but the seeds of worry are planted deep.
The look in his eyes sends a chill down my spine. It’s not just fear—it’s desperation. The kind of desperation that comes from years of chasing shadows and finding nothing. I can see the toll this hunt has taken on him, the way it’s worn him down, turned him into a man I barely recognize.
We head back to our rooms. As I lie down, my mind races with thoughts of my dad. I can’t help but wonder if he’s losing it, if the years of grief and guilt have finally pushed him over the edge.
Dad wasn’t always like this. Before Leah’s death, he was the kind of father who took us fishing, helped with homework, and told terrible jokes that made us groan and laugh at the same time. He was solid, dependable. But losing Leah changed him. The guilt twisted him into someone I barely recognize, someone driven by a need for answers, for closure, that may never come.
I try to sleep, but my thoughts keep me awake. I can hear Dad moving around downstairs, probably pacing or double-checking the locks. His paranoia has become a constant presence, and I don’t know how to help him. I don’t even know if I can help him.
—
The next morning, the sunlight filters weakly through the cabin windows, casting a pale light that does little to lift the heavy mood. I drag myself out of bed, feeling the exhaustion of another restless night. Dad is already up, hunched over his maps at the kitchen table, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep.
“Morning,” I mumble, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I pour myself a cup of coffee. “Did you sleep at all?”
He shakes his head, not looking up from his notes. “Not much. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I heard last night.”
I sip my coffee, trying to shake off the remnants of my nightmare. “Maybe it was just an animal, Dad. We’re deep in the woods, after all.”
He finally looks up, his eyes intense. “Ryan, I know what I heard. It wasn’t just an animal. It was something else.”
I sigh, not wanting to argue. “Okay, fine, Dad. What’s the plan for today?”
“We’re going back out. I found some tracks yesterday, and I want to follow them. See where they lead.”
I nod, feeling a mix of apprehension and resignation. I can see how much this means to him, how desperate he is for any kind of lead. “Alright. Let’s get packed and head out.”
We spend the morning preparing, loading up our gear and double-checking our supplies. Dad is meticulous, going over everything with a fine-toothed comb. I try to match his focus, but my mind keeps drifting back to Leah and the dream I had. Her words echo in my head, cryptic and unsettling: “You need to know the truth.”
We set off into the woods, the air crisp and cool. The forest is alive with the sounds of birds and rustling leaves, but it all feels distant, like background noise to the tension between us. Dad leads the way, his eyes scanning the ground for any sign of the tracks he found yesterday.
As we walk, I can’t help but notice how erratically he’s acting. He mutters to himself, his eyes darting around as if expecting something to jump out at us. His grip on his rifle is tight, his knuckles white.
“Dad, are you okay?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
He glances at me, his expression unreadable. “I’m fine. Just focused.”
He stops frequently to examine the ground or the bark of trees, pointing out marks and signs that seem meaningless to me.
“Look at this,” he says, crouching down to examine a broken branch. “See how it’s snapped? That’s not a deer or a bear. That’s something bigger. Stronger.”
I crouch next to Dad, squinting at the broken branch. To me, it just looks like a regular broken branch, the kind you see all over the forest. "I don't know, Dad. It just looks like a branch to me," I say, trying to keep my voice neutral.
Dad's eyes flicker with frustration. "You're not looking close enough. It's the way it's snapped—too clean, too deliberate. Something did this."
I nod, not wanting to argue. "Okay, sure. But even if you're right, it could be anything. A storm, another hunter..."
His expression hardens. "I know what I'm looking for. This is different."
I sigh, feeling the weight of the past and the tension between us pressing down on me. "Dad, I had a dream last night. About Leah." The words hang in the air between us, heavy and fraught with unspoken emotions.
Dad's eyes widen, and he straightens up, his entire demeanor shifting. "What kind of dream? What did you see?" His voice is urgent, almost desperate.
"It was... strange. We were in the woods, like we are now, but everything felt different. Leah was there, running ahead of me, laughing. Then she stopped and told me I needed to know the truth, that it wasn't what I thought."
Dad grabs my shoulders, his grip tight. "What else did she say? Did she tell you anything specific? Anything about the creature?"
I shake my head, feeling a chill run down my spine. "No, that was it. She just said I needed to know the truth, and then she was gone."
Dad’s grip on my shoulders tightens, and his eyes bore into mine with a mixture of desperation and hope. “Ryan, you have to try to remember. Think hard. What did the creature look like? Did you see anything else?”
I pull back slightly, uneasy with his intensity. “Dad, I told you. I don’t remember. It was just a dream. A nightmare, really. My mind’s probably just mixing things up.”
He lets go of me and runs a hand through his hair, looking frustrated and lost. “Dreams can be important. They can hold memories we’ve buried deep. Please, try to remember. This could be a sign, a clue.”
I rub my temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache. “I’ve tried, okay? I’ve tried for years to piece together what happened that day. But it’s all just fragments, like pieces of a puzzle that don’t fit. The dream… it felt real, but I don’t think it’s telling me anything new.”
Dad’s face falls, and he looks older than I’ve ever seen him. He turns away, staring into the forest as if it holds all the answers.
—
As we make our way back to the cabin, the sun begins to set, casting long shadows through the trees. The air grows colder, and I shiver, pulling my jacket tighter around me. Dad is silent, lost in his thoughts, his face drawn and haggard.
Back at the cabin, we unload our gear once again in silence. Dad disappears into his room, muttering something about going over his notes. I decide to explore the cabin, hoping to find something that might help me understand what’s going on with him.
In the attic, I find a box of old family photos and documents. As I sift through the contents, I come across a worn journal with Dad’s handwriting on the cover. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I open it, flipping through the pages.
The journal is filled with notes and sketches, detailing his obsession with the dogman. But there’s something else—entries that talk about Leah, about that day in the woods. His handwriting becomes more erratic, the words harder to read. One entry stands out, dated just a few days after Leah’s death:
“June 15, 2013 – It was supposed to be a normal trip. Keep them close, Frank, I kept telling myself. But I failed. Leah is gone, and it’s my fault. I heard her scream, saw the shadows. I tried to get to her, but… the thing, it was there. Too fast. Too strong. My hands… blood everywhere. No one will believe me. I can’t even believe myself. I have to find it. I have to protect Ryan. I have to make it right. God, what have I done?”
Before I can read further, the attic door creaks open, and Dad’s voice slices through the stillness.
“What are you doing up here?” His tone is sharp, almost panicked.
I turn to see him standing in the doorway, his face pale and his eyes wide with something between anger and fear. I clutch the journal to my chest, my mind racing. “I found this… I was just trying to understand…”
In an instant, he crosses the room and snatches the journal from my hands. His grip is tight, his knuckles white. “You had no right,” he growls, his voice trembling.
“Dad, I just wanted to know the truth!” I shout, frustration boiling over. “What really happened to Leah.”
His eyes flash with a mix of rage and anguish, and before I can react, he slaps me across the face. The force of it knocks me off balance, and I stumble backward, my cheek stinging.
For a moment, there’s a stunned silence. We both stand there, breathing hard, the air thick with tension.
“I’m sorry,” Dad says finally, his voice barely a whisper. “I didn’t mean to… I just…” He trails off, clutching the journal to his chest like a lifeline.
I touch my cheek, feeling the heat from the slap, and take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “Dad, what aren’t you telling me? What really happened that day?”
“Stay out of it, Ryan,” Dad growls, his eyes dark with anger. “You don’t know what you’re messing with.”
He turns and storms out of the attic. I’m left standing there, my cheek throbbing, my mind racing. What the fuck is going on? What really happened to Leah? And what is Dad so afraid of?
—
That night, I sleep with my rifle within arm's reach, more afraid of my dad than any dogman. The slap still burns on my cheek, and the look in his eyes—rage, fear, something darker—haunts me. I lie awake, listening to the creaks and groans of the old cabin, every sound amplified in the stillness. Eventually, exhaustion pulls me under, and I fall into a restless sleep.
The dream returns, vivid and unsettling. I'm back in the woods, chasing after Leah. Her laughter echoes through the trees, a haunting reminder of happier times. This time, though, I push myself harder, refusing to let her slip away.
"Ryan, catch me!" she calls, her voice playful.
"I'm coming, Leah!" I shout, my legs pumping, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
The forest around us is a twisted, shadowy maze, the trees seeming to close in on us. Leah's figure becomes clearer, her blonde hair catching the dim light filtering through the canopy. She stops suddenly, turning to face me, her eyes wide with fear.
"Leah, what is it?" I ask, my voice trembling.
"Look behind you," she whispers, her voice barely audible.
I turn slowly, dread creeping up my spine. In the shadows, I see a figure, its form indistinct and shifting. It’s not quite animal, not quite human—something in between. The sight of it sends a jolt of terror through me, and I wake up with a start, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
I’m not in my bed. The ground beneath me is cold and hard, the smell of damp earth filling my nostrils. Panic rises as I realize I’ve sleepwalked into the woods. I scramble to my feet, my eyes adjusting to the dim light. The moon casts a pale glow over the surroundings, revealing what looks like a long-abandoned animal lair.
The walls are covered in giant claw marks, deep gouges in the wood and earth. The air is heavy with the scent of decay, and a chill runs through me. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched.
Carefully, I start to move, my eyes scanning the ground, desperate for a familiar landmark. That's when I see them—faded scraps of fabric caught on the jagged edges of the underbrush. My steps falter, a sense of dread washing over me as I bend down to examine them. The fabric is torn, weathered by time and the elements, but unmistakably familiar. It's part of Leah's jacket—the bright pink one she wore on the day she disappeared.
As I strain to make sense of it all, a rustling sound behind me snaps my focus. My heart leaps into my throat. I spin around, my hand instinctively reaching for the rifle I don't have—because, of course, I didn't bring it in my unconscious state.
The shadowy figure that emerges from the trees is unsettlingly familiar, mirroring the menacing forms of my nightmares. But as it steps into the moonlight, I recognize the worn jacket, the weary posture. It's Dad.
"Ryan!" he calls out, his voice a mix of relief and stern concern. "I've been looking everywhere for you. What the hell are you doing out here?"
I exhale slowly, the terror ebbing away as reality sets back in. "I—I don't know, Dad. I must've sleepwalked again." My voice is shaky, my earlier dream still clinging to the edges of my consciousness.
Dad stares at me in disbelief. "You haven't sleepwalked since you were a kid, Ry. This... this isn't just a coincidence." His eyes dart around, taking in the surroundings—the eerie, claw-marked den, the unsettling quiet of the woods. "How did you even find this place?"
I shake my head, struggling to find an answer. "I don't know, Dad. I just... I woke up here." The uncertainty in my voice does nothing to ease the tension.
His eyes lock onto the tattered remains of Leah's jacket in my hands, and something inside him snaps. The color drains from his face as he stumbles a few steps backward. "This... this is where it happened," he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper. “This is where we found Leah."
“I thought you said you don’t remember anything from that night,” he says accusingly.
"I swear, Dad, I don't know anything about this place," I insist, my own heart pounding.
“It was you, wasn’t it? You’ve been hiding this from me.” His voice is frantic. “You... last night, the growling, it was you.” His voice rises, tinged with hysteria.
I step back, my pulse racing, feeling the chill of the night and the weight of his accusation. "Dad, I don't know what you're talking ab—”
"No!" he interrupts, his voice breaking as he points a trembling finger at me. "You knew, you always knew. It was you, Ryan. All these years, the evidence was right there, but I refused to see it. You were the dogman. You killed Leah!"
His words hit me like a physical blow, absurd and horrifying in their implications. "Dad, you're not making any sense. You're talking crazy! I was just a little kid! How could I–" I protest, my voice shaky.
He steps closer, his presence looming over me, the outline of his figure distorted by the shadows of the trees. "Think about it! It all makes sense now. You led us here, to this place, because you remember. Because you did it."
"Dad, stop it!" I shout, my heart pounding in my chest. "You're scaring me. You need help, professional help. This isn't you."
But he's beyond reason, his eyes wild with a haunted grief. "I have to end this," he mutters, more to himself than to me, his hand tightening around his rifle.
His finger hovers dangerously over the trigger of his rifle. My instincts kick in, and I know I have to act fast.
I lunge toward him, trying to knock the weapon away, but he's quicker than I expected. We struggle, our breaths heavy in the cold night air, the sounds of our scuffle the only noise in the otherwise silent woods. His strength surprises me, fueled by his frantic emotions. He shoves me back, and I stumble over a root, my balance lost for a crucial second. That's all he needs. He raises his rifle, his intentions clear in his wild, pained eyes.
I dive to the ground just as the shot rings out, a deafening blast that echoes ominously through the trees. The bullet whizzes past, narrowly missing me, embedding itself in the bark of an old pine. I scramble to my feet, my heart pounding in my ears, and I start running. The underbrush claws at my clothes and skin, but I push through, driven by a primal urge to survive.
"Dad, stop! It's me, Ryan!" I shout back as I dodge between the trees. Another shot breaks the silence, closer this time, sending splinters of wood flying from a nearby tree trunk. It's surreal, being hunted by my own father, a man tormented by grief and lost in his delusions.
I don't stop to look back. I can hear him crashing through the forest behind me, his heavy breaths and muttered curses carried on the wind. The terrain is rough, and I'm fueled by adrenaline, but exhaustion is setting in. I need a plan.
Ahead, I see a rocky outcrop and make a split-second decision to head for it. It offers a chance to hide, to catch my breath and maybe reason with him if he catches up. As I reach the rocks, I slip behind the largest one, my body pressed tight against the cold, damp surface. I hear his footsteps approaching, slow and cautious now.
As I press against the rock, trying to calm my racing heart, I can hear Dad's footsteps drawing closer, each step crunching ominously on the forest floor. He's methodical, deliberate, like a hunter stalking his prey.
“Come out, Ryan!” Dad’s voice is ragged, filled with a blend of fury and pain.
My heart pounds against my chest, the cold sweat on my back making me shiver against the rough surface of the rock. I know I can't just sit here; it's only a matter of time before he finds me.
Taking a deep breath, I peek around the edge of the rock, trying to gauge his position. I see him, rifle raised, scanning the area slowly. This might be my only chance to end this madness without further violence. I need to disarm him, to talk some sense into him if I can.
As quietly as I can, I move out from behind the rock, my steps careful to avoid any twigs or leaves that might betray my position. I'm almost upon him when a branch snaps under my foot—a sound so trivial yet so alarmingly loud in the quiet of the woods.
Dad whirls around, looking completely unhinged. "Ryan!" he exclaims, his rifle swinging in my direction. Panic overtakes me, and I lunge forward, my hands reaching for the gun.
We struggle, the rifle between us, our breaths heavy and erratic. "Dad, please, stop!" I plead, trying to wrestle the gun away. But he's strong, stronger than I expected.
In the chaos, the rifle goes off. The sound is deafening, a sharp echo that seems to reverberate off every tree around us. Pain explodes in my abdomen, sharp and burning, like nothing I've ever felt before. I stagger back, my hands instinctively going to the wound. The warmth of my own blood coats my fingers, stark and terrifying.
Dad drops the rifle, his eyes wide with horror. "Oh my God! What have I done?" he gasps, rushing to my side as I collapse onto the forest floor.
As the pain sears through me, a strange, overpowering energy surges within. It's wild, primal, unlike anything I've ever experienced. Looking down in horror, my hands are no longer hands but large, hairy, clawed appendages. The transformation is rapid, consuming—my vision blurs, senses heighten, and a raw, guttural growl builds in my throat.
In that moment, a flood of understanding washes over me, mingling with the horror of realization. These are the hands of the creature from my nightmares, the creature whose face I can never fully recall because, as I now understand, it is me.
What happens next feels detached, as if I'm no longer in control of my own actions, watching from a distance as my body moves on its own. I turn towards my dad, his face a mask of terror. He stumbles back, his eyes wide with the dawning realization of what his son has become.
The forest around us seems to fall silent, holding its breath as the nightmarish scene unfolds. I can hear my own growls, guttural and deep, filling the air with a sound that's both foreign and intimately familiar. The pain in my abdomen fuels a dark, violent urge, an urge that's too strong to resist.
With a ferocity that feels both alien and intrinsic, I move towards him. My dad, paralyzed by fear and shock, doesn't run. Maybe he can't. Maybe he doesn't want to.
The encounter was brutal and swift, a blur of motion and violence. My dad barely puts up a struggle, as though resigned to his fate.
Not that there is anything he can do. The creature that I’ve become is too powerful, too consumed by the wild instincts surging through me. I tear him apart, limb from bloody limb, my hands—no, my claws—rending through fabric and flesh with disgusting ease.
The sound of my dad’s screams, of tearing fabric and flesh is drowned out by the animalistic growls that echo through the trees.
When it’s all over, the red mist that had clouded my vision begins to fade, and the fierce, uncontrollable rage that drove my actions subsides. I'm left standing, my breaths heavy and erratic, in the eerie stillness of the forest. The transformation reverses as quickly as it came on, and I find myself back in my human form. My clothes are ripped to shreds, hanging off my frame in tattered remnants. At my feet lies what’s left of my dad, his body torn and unrecognizable.
I glance down at my abdomen, expecting agony, but instead find my wound miraculously healed. No sign of the gunshot remains, just a faint scar where I expected a bloody mess.
Shock sets in, a numbing disbelief mixed with a gut-wrenching realization of what I've become and what I've done. My hands, now human again, tremble as I look at them, half-expecting to see the claws that had so effortlessly ripped through flesh and bone. But there's only blood, my father's blood against my skin.
I stand there for what feels like an eternity, trapped in a nightmare of my own making.
Eventually, the shock wears thin, and a cold practicality takes hold. I need to get out of here. I need to cover my tracks, to disappear. Because who would believe this? Who would understand that I didn't choose this, that I'm not a monster by choice?
With trembling hands, I do what’s necessary. I bury my dad in a shallow grave, the physical act of digging strangely grounding. I cover him with leaves and branches, a pitiful attempt to hide the brutality of his end. I take a moment, whispering apologies into the wind, knowing full well that nothing I say can change what happened.
I leave the forest behind, my mind a whirl of dark thoughts. As I walk, the first hints of dawn brush against the horizon, the sky bleeding a soft pink. It’s hauntingly beautiful.

I’ve always hated the smell of gun oil. It clings to everything it touches, soaking deep into the fibers of my clothes, the lining of my backpack, the coarse hair on the back of my hands. Yet here I am, kneeling on the cracked linoleum of our mudroom, a Remington .308 laid across my thighs, and the stench of gun oil sharp in my nostrils. The early morning light barely scratches at the edges of the blinds, dim and gray like the belly of a dead fish.
My dad Frank is in the kitchen, clattering around with the coffeepot and mumbling under his breath. Today we’re heading up to the woods of Northern Michigan, same as we did every year before Leah… before we lost her.
I can’t help but feel the old scars throbbing as I load bullets into the magazine. It’s been ten years since that hunting trip, the one that tore my family into before and after. Before, when Leah's laughter was a constant soundtrack to our lives; after, when every silence was filled with her absence.
We were just kids back then. I was ten, Leah was eight. It was supposed to be a typical hunting trip, one of those bonding experiences Dad was always talking about. But things went wrong. We got separated from Dad somehow. One minute we were following him, the next we were lost, the dense woods closing in around us.
Dad says when he found me, I was huddled under a fallen tree, my eyes wide, my body frozen. All I could mutter through chattering teeth was "Dogman."
It was only later, after the search parties had combed through every thicket and hollow, that they found her. What remained of Leah was barely recognizable, the evidence of a brutal mauling undeniable. The authorities concluded it was likely a bear attack, but Dad... he never accepted that explanation. He had seen the tracks, too large and oddly shaped for any bear.
As I load another round, the memory flashes, unbidden and unwelcome. Large, hairy clawed hands reaching out towards us, impossibly big, grotesque in their form. Yet, the rest of the creature eludes me, a shadow just beyond the edge of my recall, leaving me with nothing but fragmented terrors and Leah’s haunting, echoing screams. My mind blocked most of it out, a self-defense mechanism, I guess.
For years after that day, sleep was a battleground. I'd wake up in strange places—kitchen floor, backyard, even at the edge of the nearby creek. My therapist said it was my mind's way of trying to resolve the unresolved, to wander back through the woods searching for Leah. But all I found in those sleepless nights was a deeper sense of loss.
It took time, a lot of therapy, and patience I didn't know I had, but the sleepwalking did eventually stop. I guess I started to find some semblance of peace.
I have mostly moved on with my life. The fragmentary memories of that day are still there, lurking in the corners of my mind, but they don’t dominate my thoughts like they used to. I just finished my sophomore year at Michigan State, majoring in Environmental Science.
As for Dad, the loss of Leah broke him. He became a shell of himself. It destroyed his marriage with Mom. He blamed himself for letting us out of his sight, for not protecting Leah. His life took on a single, consuming focus: finding the creature that killed her. He read every book, every article on cryptids and unexplained phenomena. He mapped sightings, connected dots across blurry photos and shaky testimonies of the Dogman.
But as the tenth anniversary of Leah’s death approaches, Dad's obsession has grown more intense. He’s started staying up late, poring over his maps and notes, muttering to himself about patterns and cycles. He’s convinced that the dogman reappears every ten years, and this is our window of opportunity to finally hunt it down.
I’m not nearly as convinced. The whole dogman thing seems like a coping mechanism, a way for Dad to channel his guilt and grief into something tangible, something he can fight against. But I decided to tag along on this trip, partly to keep an eye on him, partly because a small part of me hopes that maybe, just maybe, we’ll find some kind of closure out there in the woods.
I finish loading the rifle and set it aside, standing up to stretch my legs. I wipe my greasy hands on an old rag, trying to get rid of the smell. The early morning light is starting to seep into the room, casting long shadows across the floor.
Dad comes out of the kitchen with two thermoses of coffee in hand. His eyes are bleary and tired.
“You ready, Ryan?” he asks, handing me a thermos, his voice rough from too many sleepless nights.
“Yeah, I’m ready,” I reply, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
We load our gear into the truck, the weight of our supplies and weapons a physical reminder of the burden we carry. The drive from Lansing across the Lower Peninsula is long and quiet, the silence between us filled with unspoken memories and unresolved grief.
—
The drive north is a blur of highway lines and the dull hum of the engine. I drift off, the landscape outside blending into a haze. In my sleep, fragments of that day with Leah replay like scattered pieces of a puzzle. I see her smile, the way she tugged at my sleeve, eager to explore. The sunlight filters through the trees in sharp, jagged streaks.
Then, the memory shifts—darker, disjointed. Leah's voice echoes, a playful laugh turning into a scream that pierces the air. The crunch of leaves underfoot as something heavy moves through the underbrush. I see a shadow, large and looming, not quite fitting the shapes of any creature I know.
Then, something darker creeps into the dream, something I’ve never allowed myself to remember clearly.
Before I can see what it is I wake up with a start as the truck jerks slightly on a rough patch of road. Dad glances over. "Bad dream?" he asks. I nod, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, the remnants of the dream clinging to me like the cold.
"Yeah, just... thinking about Leah," I manage to say.
As we drive, Dad attempts to bridge the silence with small talk. He asks about my finals, my plans for the summer, anything to keep the conversation going. His voice carries a forced cheerfulness, but it’s clear his heart isn’t in it. I respond when necessary, my answers brief, my gaze fixed on the passing scenery.
The landscape changes as we head further north, from flat expanses to rolling hills dotted with dense patches of forest. It's beautiful country, the kind that reminds you how vast and wild Michigan can be, but today it just feels oppressive, like it’s closing in on us.
—
We finally arrive at the cabin, nestled deep in the woods, its weathered wood blending seamlessly with the surrounding trees. The place hasn't changed much since the last time I was here—a relic from another time, filled with the echoes of our past. I can still see Leah running around the porch, her laughter ringing out into the forest.
Dad parks the truck, and we step out into the crisp air. The smell of pine and damp earth fills my nostrils. We start unloading our gear, the tension between us palpable.
“Let’s get this inside,” Dad says, his voice gruff as he hefts a duffel bag onto his shoulder.
I nod, grabbing my own bag and following him to the cabin. Inside, it’s a mix of old and new—the same rustic furniture, but with new hunting gear and maps strewn across the table. Dad’s obsession is evident in every corner of the room, a constant reminder of why we’re here.
As we unpack, we exchange strained attempts at normalcy. He talks about the latest cryptid sightings he’s read about, his eyes lighting up with a fervor that both worries and saddens me.
“Did you hear about the sighting up near Alpena?” he asks, laying out his maps on the table.
“Yeah, you mentioned it,” I reply, trying to muster some enthusiasm. “Do you really think there’s something to it?”
Dad’s eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I see a flicker of doubt. But it’s quickly replaced by grim determination. “I have to believe it, Ryan. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
We finish unpacking, the silence between us growing heavier with each passing minute. I step outside to clear my head, the cool air a welcome relief. The sun is starting to set, casting long shadows across the clearing. I can’t shake the feeling of unease.
"You can take the upstairs room," Dad mutters. His voice is strained, trying to sound normal, but it's clear the weight of the past is heavy on him. I nod, hauling my backpack up the creaking stairs to the small bedroom that I used to share with Leah. The room feels smaller now, or maybe I've just grown too much since those innocent days.
I unpack silently, setting my things aside. The bed is stiff and cold under my touch. As I settle in, I can't help but glance at the corner where Leah and I would huddle together, whispering secrets and making plans for adventures that would never happen. I push the thoughts away, focusing on the practicalities of unpacking.
After settling in, I go back downstairs to find Dad loading up a backpack with supplies for our hunt. The intensity in his eyes is palpable, his hands moving with practiced precision. I know this routine; it's one he's perfected over countless solo trips since that fateful day.
"We'll head out early," he says, not looking up from his task. "Gotta make the most of the daylight."
I nod, though unease curls in my stomach. I'm not just worried about what we might find—or not find—out there. I'm worried about him. Each year, the obsession seems to carve him out a bit more, leaving less of the Dad I knew.
—
The morning air is sharp with the scent of pine and wet earth as Dad and I head into the deeper parts of the forest. The terrain is rugged, familiar in its untamed beauty, but there’s a tension between us that makes the landscape feel alien. Dad moves with a purposeful stride, his eyes scanning the woods around us. Every snap of a twig, every rustle in the underbrush seems to draw his attention. He’s on edge, and it puts me on edge too.
As we walk, my mind drifts back to that day ten years ago. I can almost hear Leah’s voice echoing through the trees, her high-pitched call as she darted ahead, "Catch me, Ryan!" I remember how the sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dancing shadows on the ground. Those memories are so vivid, so tangible, it feels like I could just turn a corner and see her there, waiting for us.
Dad suddenly stops and kneels, examining the ground. He points out a set of tracks that are too large for a deer, with an unusual gait pattern. "It’s been here, Ry. I’m telling you, it’s close," he whispers, a mixture of excitement and something darker in his voice. I nod, though I’m not sure what to believe. Part of me wants to dismiss it all as grief-fueled obsession, but another part, the part that heard Leah's scream and saw something monstrous in the woods that day, isn’t so sure.
As we continue, Dad's comments become increasingly cryptic. "You know, they say the dogman moves in cycles, drawn to certain places, certain times. Like it’s tied to the land itself," he muses, more to himself than to me. His fixation on the creature has always been intense, but now it borders on mania.
We set up a makeshift blind near a clearing where Dad insists the creature will pass. Hours drag by with little to see but the occasional bird or distant deer.
The sun rises higher in the sky, casting long, slender shadows through the dense canopy. I shift uncomfortably in my spot, the forest floor hard and unyielding beneath me. My eyes dart between the trees, hoping to catch a glimpse of something, anything, to break the monotony. Dad, on the other hand, remains steadfast, his gaze fixed on the treeline as if he can will the dogman into existence by sheer force of will.
A bird chirps nearby, startling me. I sigh and adjust my grip on the rifle. I glance over at Dad.
“Anything?” I ask, more out of boredom than genuine curiosity.
“Not yet,” he replies, his voice tight. “But it’s out there. I know it.”
I nod, even though I’m not sure I believe him. The forest seems too quiet, too still. Maybe we’re chasing ghosts.
As the sun begins its descent, the forest is bathed in a warm, golden light. The air cools, and a breeze rustles the leaves. I shiver, more from anticipation than the cold. The long hours of sitting and waiting are starting to wear on me.
“Let’s call it a day for now,” Dad says finally, his voice heavy with disappointment. “We’ll head back to the cabin, get some rest, and try again tomorrow.”
I stand and stretch, feeling the stiffness in my muscles. We pack up our gear in silence and start the trek back to the cabin. The walk is long and quiet, the only sounds are the crunch of leaves underfoot and the distant calls of birds settling in for the night.
—
Dinner is a quiet affair, both of us lost in our thoughts. I try to make small talk, asking Dad about his plans for tomorrow, but it feels forced. We clean up in silence.
After dinner, I retreat to the small bedroom. The fatigue from the day's hike has settled into my bones, but sleep still feels like a distant hope. I lie down, staring at the ceiling, the room cloaked in darkness save for the sliver of moonlight creeping through the window. Downstairs, I hear the faint sound of Dad moving around, likely unable to sleep himself.
I drift into sleep, but it's not restful. My dreams pull me back to that fateful day in the woods. Leah's voice is clear and vibrant, her laughter echoing through the trees. She looks just as she did then—bright-eyed and full of life, her blonde hair catching the sunlight as she runs ahead of me.
"Come on, Ry! You can't catch me!" she taunts, her voice playful and teasing.
I chase after her, but the scene shifts abruptly. The sky darkens, the woods around us growing dense and foreboding. Leah's laughter fades, replaced by a chilling silence. I see her ahead, standing still, her back to me.
"Leah?" I call out, my voice trembling. She turns slowly, her eyes wide and filled with fear. "Ryan, you have to remember," she says, her voice barely a whisper. "It wasn't what you think. You need to know the truth."
Leah’s words hang in the air, cryptic and unsettling. Before I can respond, she turns and starts running again, her figure becoming a blur among the trees. Panic rises in my chest as I sprint after her, my feet pounding against the forest floor.
“Leah, wait!” I shout, desperation lacing my voice. The forest around me seems to close in, the trees towering and twisted, shadows dancing menacingly in the dim light. I push forward, trying to keep her in sight, but she’s too fast, slipping away like a wisp of smoke.
Suddenly, there’s a rustle, a flash of movement in the corner of my vision. Leah screams, a sound that pierces through the heavy silence. It happens too quickly—I can’t see what it is, only a dark blur that snatches her up.
“Leah!” I scream, my voice breaking. I stumble, falling to my knees as the forest spins around me. My heart races, and the terror is so real, so visceral, that it pulls me back to that awful day, the one that changed everything.
I jolt awake, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
I sit up, wiping the cold sweat from my forehead as I try to steady my breathing. The room is still dark, the shadows cast by the moonlight seem to flicker and dance on the walls. My heart is still racing from the nightmare, the echo of Leah's scream lingering in my ears.
As I struggle to calm down, the floorboards outside my room creak. The door opens slowly, and I see the silhouette of my dad in the doorway, a Bowie knife in his hand, his posture tense.
“Dad, what the hell are you doing?” I whisper, my voice shaking.
“Shh,” he hisses, holding up a hand to silence me. “I heard something. Something moving around in the cabin. Stay quiet.”
I swallow hard, my mouth dry. I glance at the clock on the nightstand—it’s just past three in the morning. The cabin is silent, the kind of deep, oppressive silence that makes every small sound seem louder. I can’t hear anything out of the ordinary, but Dad’s expression is deadly serious.
He motions for me to get up, and I do, moving as quietly as I can. My heart is racing, a mix of lingering fear from the dream and the sudden, sharp anxiety of the present moment. Dad leads the way, stepping cautiously out of the bedroom and into the hallway, the knife held ready in front of him.
We move through the cabin, checking each room in turn. The living room is empty, the furniture casting long shadows in the dim moonlight. The kitchen is just as we left it, the plates from dinner still drying on the counter. Everything seems normal, untouched.
We finish our sweep of the cabin without finding anything amiss. The silence is heavy, punctuated only by our soft footfalls. I can see the tension in Dad’s frame, his grip on the knife unwavering. After checking the last room, we pause in the dimly lit hallway, the air thick with unspoken questions.
“There’s nothing here,” I say, my voice low. “Are you sure you heard something?”
He looks at me, his eyes searching for something in my face. “I heard growling. Deep and close. It was right outside the window.”
“Maybe it was just an animal outside, a raccoon or something?” I suggest, although the certainty in his voice makes me doubt my own reassurance.
“No, it wasn’t like that. It was different,” he insists, his voice tense.
I nod, not wanting to argue, but the seeds of worry are planted deep.
The look in his eyes sends a chill down my spine. It’s not just fear—it’s desperation. The kind of desperation that comes from years of chasing shadows and finding nothing. I can see the toll this hunt has taken on him, the way it’s worn him down, turned him into a man I barely recognize.
We head back to our rooms. As I lie down, my mind races with thoughts of my dad. I can’t help but wonder if he’s losing it, if the years of grief and guilt have finally pushed him over the edge.
Dad wasn’t always like this. Before Leah’s death, he was the kind of father who took us fishing, helped with homework, and told terrible jokes that made us groan and laugh at the same time. He was solid, dependable. But losing Leah changed him. The guilt twisted him into someone I barely recognize, someone driven by a need for answers, for closure, that may never come.
I try to sleep, but my thoughts keep me awake. I can hear Dad moving around downstairs, probably pacing or double-checking the locks. His paranoia has become a constant presence, and I don’t know how to help him. I don’t even know if I can help him.
—
The next morning, the sunlight filters weakly through the cabin windows, casting a pale light that does little to lift the heavy mood. I drag myself out of bed, feeling the exhaustion of another restless night. Dad is already up, hunched over his maps at the kitchen table, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep.
“Morning,” I mumble, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I pour myself a cup of coffee. “Did you sleep at all?”
He shakes his head, not looking up from his notes. “Not much. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I heard last night.”
I sip my coffee, trying to shake off the remnants of my nightmare. “Maybe it was just an animal, Dad. We’re deep in the woods, after all.”
He finally looks up, his eyes intense. “Ryan, I know what I heard. It wasn’t just an animal. It was something else.”
I sigh, not wanting to argue. “Okay, fine, Dad. What’s the plan for today?”
“We’re going back out. I found some tracks yesterday, and I want to follow them. See where they lead.”
I nod, feeling a mix of apprehension and resignation. I can see how much this means to him, how desperate he is for any kind of lead. “Alright. Let’s get packed and head out.”
We spend the morning preparing, loading up our gear and double-checking our supplies. Dad is meticulous, going over everything with a fine-toothed comb. I try to match his focus, but my mind keeps drifting back to Leah and the dream I had. Her words echo in my head, cryptic and unsettling: “You need to know the truth.”
We set off into the woods, the air crisp and cool. The forest is alive with the sounds of birds and rustling leaves, but it all feels distant, like background noise to the tension between us. Dad leads the way, his eyes scanning the ground for any sign of the tracks he found yesterday.
As we walk, I can’t help but notice how erratically he’s acting. He mutters to himself, his eyes darting around as if expecting something to jump out at us. His grip on his rifle is tight, his knuckles white.
“Dad, are you okay?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
He glances at me, his expression unreadable. “I’m fine. Just focused.”
He stops frequently to examine the ground or the bark of trees, pointing out marks and signs that seem meaningless to me.
“Look at this,” he says, crouching down to examine a broken branch. “See how it’s snapped? That’s not a deer or a bear. That’s something bigger. Stronger.”
I crouch next to Dad, squinting at the broken branch. To me, it just looks like a regular broken branch, the kind you see all over the forest. "I don't know, Dad. It just looks like a branch to me," I say, trying to keep my voice neutral.
Dad's eyes flicker with frustration. "You're not looking close enough. It's the way it's snapped—too clean, too deliberate. Something did this."
I nod, not wanting to argue. "Okay, sure. But even if you're right, it could be anything. A storm, another hunter..."
His expression hardens. "I know what I'm looking for. This is different."
I sigh, feeling the weight of the past and the tension between us pressing down on me. "Dad, I had a dream last night. About Leah." The words hang in the air between us, heavy and fraught with unspoken emotions.
Dad's eyes widen, and he straightens up, his entire demeanor shifting. "What kind of dream? What did you see?" His voice is urgent, almost desperate.
"It was... strange. We were in the woods, like we are now, but everything felt different. Leah was there, running ahead of me, laughing. Then she stopped and told me I needed to know the truth, that it wasn't what I thought."
Dad grabs my shoulders, his grip tight. "What else did she say? Did she tell you anything specific? Anything about the creature?"
I shake my head, feeling a chill run down my spine. "No, that was it. She just said I needed to know the truth, and then she was gone."
Dad’s grip on my shoulders tightens, and his eyes bore into mine with a mixture of desperation and hope. “Ryan, you have to try to remember. Think hard. What did the creature look like? Did you see anything else?”
I pull back slightly, uneasy with his intensity. “Dad, I told you. I don’t remember. It was just a dream. A nightmare, really. My mind’s probably just mixing things up.”
He lets go of me and runs a hand through his hair, looking frustrated and lost. “Dreams can be important. They can hold memories we’ve buried deep. Please, try to remember. This could be a sign, a clue.”
I rub my temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache. “I’ve tried, okay? I’ve tried for years to piece together what happened that day. But it’s all just fragments, like pieces of a puzzle that don’t fit. The dream… it felt real, but I don’t think it’s telling me anything new.”
Dad’s face falls, and he looks older than I’ve ever seen him. He turns away, staring into the forest as if it holds all the answers.
—
As we make our way back to the cabin, the sun begins to set, casting long shadows through the trees. The air grows colder, and I shiver, pulling my jacket tighter around me. Dad is silent, lost in his thoughts, his face drawn and haggard.
Back at the cabin, we unload our gear once again in silence. Dad disappears into his room, muttering something about going over his notes. I decide to explore the cabin, hoping to find something that might help me understand what’s going on with him.
In the attic, I find a box of old family photos and documents. As I sift through the contents, I come across a worn journal with Dad’s handwriting on the cover. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I open it, flipping through the pages.
The journal is filled with notes and sketches, detailing his obsession with the dogman. But there’s something else—entries that talk about Leah, about that day in the woods. His handwriting becomes more erratic, the words harder to read. One entry stands out, dated just a few days after Leah’s death:
“June 15, 2013 – It was supposed to be a normal trip. Keep them close, Frank, I kept telling myself. But I failed. Leah is gone, and it’s my fault. I heard her scream, saw the shadows. I tried to get to her, but… the thing, it was there. Too fast. Too strong. My hands… blood everywhere. No one will believe me. I can’t even believe myself. I have to find it. I have to protect Ryan. I have to make it right. God, what have I done?”
Before I can read further, the attic door creaks open, and Dad’s voice slices through the stillness.
“What are you doing up here?” His tone is sharp, almost panicked.
I turn to see him standing in the doorway, his face pale and his eyes wide with something between anger and fear. I clutch the journal to my chest, my mind racing. “I found this… I was just trying to understand…”
In an instant, he crosses the room and snatches the journal from my hands. His grip is tight, his knuckles white. “You had no right,” he growls, his voice trembling.
“Dad, I just wanted to know the truth!” I shout, frustration boiling over. “What really happened to Leah.”
His eyes flash with a mix of rage and anguish, and before I can react, he slaps me across the face. The force of it knocks me off balance, and I stumble backward, my cheek stinging.
For a moment, there’s a stunned silence. We both stand there, breathing hard, the air thick with tension.
“I’m sorry,” Dad says finally, his voice barely a whisper. “I didn’t mean to… I just…” He trails off, clutching the journal to his chest like a lifeline.
I touch my cheek, feeling the heat from the slap, and take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “Dad, what aren’t you telling me? What really happened that day?”
“Stay out of it, Ryan,” Dad growls, his eyes dark with anger. “You don’t know what you’re messing with.”
He turns and storms out of the attic. I’m left standing there, my cheek throbbing, my mind racing. What the fuck is going on? What really happened to Leah? And what is Dad so afraid of?
—
That night, I sleep with my rifle within arm's reach, more afraid of my dad than any dogman. The slap still burns on my cheek, and the look in his eyes—rage, fear, something darker—haunts me. I lie awake, listening to the creaks and groans of the old cabin, every sound amplified in the stillness. Eventually, exhaustion pulls me under, and I fall into a restless sleep.
The dream returns, vivid and unsettling. I'm back in the woods, chasing after Leah. Her laughter echoes through the trees, a haunting reminder of happier times. This time, though, I push myself harder, refusing to let her slip away.
"Ryan, catch me!" she calls, her voice playful.
"I'm coming, Leah!" I shout, my legs pumping, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
The forest around us is a twisted, shadowy maze, the trees seeming to close in on us. Leah's figure becomes clearer, her blonde hair catching the dim light filtering through the canopy. She stops suddenly, turning to face me, her eyes wide with fear.
"Leah, what is it?" I ask, my voice trembling.
"Look behind you," she whispers, her voice barely audible.
I turn slowly, dread creeping up my spine. In the shadows, I see a figure, its form indistinct and shifting. It’s not quite animal, not quite human—something in between. The sight of it sends a jolt of terror through me, and I wake up with a start, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
I’m not in my bed. The ground beneath me is cold and hard, the smell of damp earth filling my nostrils. Panic rises as I realize I’ve sleepwalked into the woods. I scramble to my feet, my eyes adjusting to the dim light. The moon casts a pale glow over the surroundings, revealing what looks like a long-abandoned animal lair.
The walls are covered in giant claw marks, deep gouges in the wood and earth. The air is heavy with the scent of decay, and a chill runs through me. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched.
Carefully, I start to move, my eyes scanning the ground, desperate for a familiar landmark. That's when I see them—faded scraps of fabric caught on the jagged edges of the underbrush. My steps falter, a sense of dread washing over me as I bend down to examine them. The fabric is torn, weathered by time and the elements, but unmistakably familiar. It's part of Leah's jacket—the bright pink one she wore on the day she disappeared.
As I strain to make sense of it all, a rustling sound behind me snaps my focus. My heart leaps into my throat. I spin around, my hand instinctively reaching for the rifle I don't have—because, of course, I didn't bring it in my unconscious state.
The shadowy figure that emerges from the trees is unsettlingly familiar, mirroring the menacing forms of my nightmares. But as it steps into the moonlight, I recognize the worn jacket, the weary posture. It's Dad.
"Ryan!" he calls out, his voice a mix of relief and stern concern. "I've been looking everywhere for you. What the hell are you doing out here?"
I exhale slowly, the terror ebbing away as reality sets back in. "I—I don't know, Dad. I must've sleepwalked again." My voice is shaky, my earlier dream still clinging to the edges of my consciousness.
Dad stares at me in disbelief. "You haven't sleepwalked since you were a kid, Ry. This... this isn't just a coincidence." His eyes dart around, taking in the surroundings—the eerie, claw-marked den, the unsettling quiet of the woods. "How did you even find this place?"
I shake my head, struggling to find an answer. "I don't know, Dad. I just... I woke up here." The uncertainty in my voice does nothing to ease the tension.
His eyes lock onto the tattered remains of Leah's jacket in my hands, and something inside him snaps. The color drains from his face as he stumbles a few steps backward. "This... this is where it happened," he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper. “This is where we found Leah."
“I thought you said you don’t remember anything from that night,” he says accusingly.
"I swear, Dad, I don't know anything about this place," I insist, my own heart pounding.
“It was you, wasn’t it? You’ve been hiding this from me.” His voice is frantic. “You... last night, the growling, it was you.” His voice rises, tinged with hysteria.
I step back, my pulse racing, feeling the chill of the night and the weight of his accusation. "Dad, I don't know what you're talking ab—”
"No!" he interrupts, his voice breaking as he points a trembling finger at me. "You knew, you always knew. It was you, Ryan. All these years, the evidence was right there, but I refused to see it. You were the dogman. You killed Leah!"
His words hit me like a physical blow, absurd and horrifying in their implications. "Dad, you're not making any sense. You're talking crazy! I was just a little kid! How could I–" I protest, my voice shaky.
He steps closer, his presence looming over me, the outline of his figure distorted by the shadows of the trees. "Think about it! It all makes sense now. You led us here, to this place, because you remember. Because you did it."
"Dad, stop it!" I shout, my heart pounding in my chest. "You're scaring me. You need help, professional help. This isn't you."
But he's beyond reason, his eyes wild with a haunted grief. "I have to end this," he mutters, more to himself than to me, his hand tightening around his rifle.
His finger hovers dangerously over the trigger of his rifle. My instincts kick in, and I know I have to act fast.
I lunge toward him, trying to knock the weapon away, but he's quicker than I expected. We struggle, our breaths heavy in the cold night air, the sounds of our scuffle the only noise in the otherwise silent woods. His strength surprises me, fueled by his frantic emotions. He shoves me back, and I stumble over a root, my balance lost for a crucial second. That's all he needs. He raises his rifle, his intentions clear in his wild, pained eyes.
I dive to the ground just as the shot rings out, a deafening blast that echoes ominously through the trees. The bullet whizzes past, narrowly missing me, embedding itself in the bark of an old pine. I scramble to my feet, my heart pounding in my ears, and I start running. The underbrush claws at my clothes and skin, but I push through, driven by a primal urge to survive.
"Dad, stop! It's me, Ryan!" I shout back as I dodge between the trees. Another shot breaks the silence, closer this time, sending splinters of wood flying from a nearby tree trunk. It's surreal, being hunted by my own father, a man tormented by grief and lost in his delusions.
I don't stop to look back. I can hear him crashing through the forest behind me, his heavy breaths and muttered curses carried on the wind. The terrain is rough, and I'm fueled by adrenaline, but exhaustion is setting in. I need a plan.
Ahead, I see a rocky outcrop and make a split-second decision to head for it. It offers a chance to hide, to catch my breath and maybe reason with him if he catches up. As I reach the rocks, I slip behind the largest one, my body pressed tight against the cold, damp surface. I hear his footsteps approaching, slow and cautious now.
As I press against the rock, trying to calm my racing heart, I can hear Dad's footsteps drawing closer, each step crunching ominously on the forest floor. He's methodical, deliberate, like a hunter stalking his prey.
“Come out, Ryan!” Dad’s voice is ragged, filled with a blend of fury and pain.
My heart pounds against my chest, the cold sweat on my back making me shiver against the rough surface of the rock. I know I can't just sit here; it's only a matter of time before he finds me.
Taking a deep breath, I peek around the edge of the rock, trying to gauge his position. I see him, rifle raised, scanning the area slowly. This might be my only chance to end this madness without further violence. I need to disarm him, to talk some sense into him if I can.
As quietly as I can, I move out from behind the rock, my steps careful to avoid any twigs or leaves that might betray my position. I'm almost upon him when a branch snaps under my foot—a sound so trivial yet so alarmingly loud in the quiet of the woods.
Dad whirls around, looking completely unhinged. "Ryan!" he exclaims, his rifle swinging in my direction. Panic overtakes me, and I lunge forward, my hands reaching for the gun.
We struggle, the rifle between us, our breaths heavy and erratic. "Dad, please, stop!" I plead, trying to wrestle the gun away. But he's strong, stronger than I expected.
In the chaos, the rifle goes off. The sound is deafening, a sharp echo that seems to reverberate off every tree around us. Pain explodes in my abdomen, sharp and burning, like nothing I've ever felt before. I stagger back, my hands instinctively going to the wound. The warmth of my own blood coats my fingers, stark and terrifying.
Dad drops the rifle, his eyes wide with horror. "Oh my God! What have I done?" he gasps, rushing to my side as I collapse onto the forest floor.
As the pain sears through me, a strange, overpowering energy surges within. It's wild, primal, unlike anything I've ever experienced. Looking down in horror, my hands are no longer hands but large, hairy, clawed appendages. The transformation is rapid, consuming—my vision blurs, senses heighten, and a raw, guttural growl builds in my throat.
In that moment, a flood of understanding washes over me, mingling with the horror of realization. These are the hands of the creature from my nightmares, the creature whose face I can never fully recall because, as I now understand, it is me.
What happens next feels detached, as if I'm no longer in control of my own actions, watching from a distance as my body moves on its own. I turn towards my dad, his face a mask of terror. He stumbles back, his eyes wide with the dawning realization of what his son has become.
The forest around us seems to fall silent, holding its breath as the nightmarish scene unfolds. I can hear my own growls, guttural and deep, filling the air with a sound that's both foreign and intimately familiar. The pain in my abdomen fuels a dark, violent urge, an urge that's too strong to resist.
With a ferocity that feels both alien and intrinsic, I move towards him. My dad, paralyzed by fear and shock, doesn't run. Maybe he can't. Maybe he doesn't want to.
The encounter was brutal and swift, a blur of motion and violence. My dad barely puts up a struggle, as though resigned to his fate.
Not that there is anything he can do. The creature that I’ve become is too powerful, too consumed by the wild instincts surging through me. I tear him apart, limb from bloody limb, my hands—no, my claws—rending through fabric and flesh with disgusting ease.
The sound of my dad’s screams, of tearing fabric and flesh is drowned out by the animalistic growls that echo through the trees.
When it’s all over, the red mist that had clouded my vision begins to fade, and the fierce, uncontrollable rage that drove my actions subsides. I'm left standing, my breaths heavy and erratic, in the eerie stillness of the forest. The transformation reverses as quickly as it came on, and I find myself back in my human form. My clothes are ripped to shreds, hanging off my frame in tattered remnants. At my feet lies what’s left of my dad, his body torn and unrecognizable.
I glance down at my abdomen, expecting agony, but instead find my wound miraculously healed. No sign of the gunshot remains, just a faint scar where I expected a bloody mess.
Shock sets in, a numbing disbelief mixed with a gut-wrenching realization of what I've become and what I've done. My hands, now human again, tremble as I look at them, half-expecting to see the claws that had so effortlessly ripped through flesh and bone. But there's only blood, my father's blood against my skin.
I stand there for what feels like an eternity, trapped in a nightmare of my own making.
Eventually, the shock wears thin, and a cold practicality takes hold. I need to get out of here. I need to cover my tracks, to disappear. Because who would believe this? Who would understand that I didn't choose this, that I'm not a monster by choice?
With trembling hands, I do what’s necessary. I bury my dad in a shallow grave, the physical act of digging strangely grounding. I cover him with leaves and branches, a pitiful attempt to hide the brutality of his end. I take a moment, whispering apologies into the wind, knowing full well that nothing I say can change what happened.
I leave the forest behind, my mind a whirl of dark thoughts. As I walk, the first hints of dawn brush against the horizon, the sky bleeding a soft pink. It’s hauntingly beautiful.

I’ve always hated the smell of gun oil. It clings to everything it touches, soaking deep into the fibers of my clothes, the lining of my backpack, the coarse hair on the back of my hands. Yet here I am, kneeling on the cracked linoleum of our mudroom, a Remington .308 laid across my thighs, and the stench of gun oil sharp in my nostrils. The early morning light barely scratches at the edges of the blinds, dim and gray like the belly of a dead fish.
My dad Frank is in the kitchen, clattering around with the coffeepot and mumbling under his breath. Today we’re heading up to the woods of Northern Michigan, same as we did every year before Leah… before we lost her.
I can’t help but feel the old scars throbbing as I load bullets into the magazine. It’s been ten years since that hunting trip, the one that tore my family into before and after. Before, when Leah's laughter was a constant soundtrack to our lives; after, when every silence was filled with her absence.
We were just kids back then. I was ten, Leah was eight. It was supposed to be a typical hunting trip, one of those bonding experiences Dad was always talking about. But things went wrong. We got separated from Dad somehow. One minute we were following him, the next we were lost, the dense woods closing in around us.
Dad says when he found me, I was huddled under a fallen tree, my eyes wide, my body frozen. All I could mutter through chattering teeth was "Dogman."
It was only later, after the search parties had combed through every thicket and hollow, that they found her. What remained of Leah was barely recognizable, the evidence of a brutal mauling undeniable. The authorities concluded it was likely a bear attack, but Dad... he never accepted that explanation. He had seen the tracks, too large and oddly shaped for any bear.
As I load another round, the memory flashes, unbidden and unwelcome. Large, hairy clawed hands reaching out towards us, impossibly big, grotesque in their form. Yet, the rest of the creature eludes me, a shadow just beyond the edge of my recall, leaving me with nothing but fragmented terrors and Leah’s haunting, echoing screams. My mind blocked most of it out, a self-defense mechanism, I guess.
For years after that day, sleep was a battleground. I'd wake up in strange places—kitchen floor, backyard, even at the edge of the nearby creek. My therapist said it was my mind's way of trying to resolve the unresolved, to wander back through the woods searching for Leah. But all I found in those sleepless nights was a deeper sense of loss.
It took time, a lot of therapy, and patience I didn't know I had, but the sleepwalking did eventually stop. I guess I started to find some semblance of peace.
I have mostly moved on with my life. The fragmentary memories of that day are still there, lurking in the corners of my mind, but they don’t dominate my thoughts like they used to. I just finished my sophomore year at Michigan State, majoring in Environmental Science.
As for Dad, the loss of Leah broke him. He became a shell of himself. It destroyed his marriage with Mom. He blamed himself for letting us out of his sight, for not protecting Leah. His life took on a single, consuming focus: finding the creature that killed her. He read every book, every article on cryptids and unexplained phenomena. He mapped sightings, connected dots across blurry photos and shaky testimonies of the Dogman.
But as the tenth anniversary of Leah’s death approaches, Dad's obsession has grown more intense. He’s started staying up late, poring over his maps and notes, muttering to himself about patterns and cycles. He’s convinced that the dogman reappears every ten years, and this is our window of opportunity to finally hunt it down.
I’m not nearly as convinced. The whole dogman thing seems like a coping mechanism, a way for Dad to channel his guilt and grief into something tangible, something he can fight against. But I decided to tag along on this trip, partly to keep an eye on him, partly because a small part of me hopes that maybe, just maybe, we’ll find some kind of closure out there in the woods.
I finish loading the rifle and set it aside, standing up to stretch my legs. I wipe my greasy hands on an old rag, trying to get rid of the smell. The early morning light is starting to seep into the room, casting long shadows across the floor.
Dad comes out of the kitchen with two thermoses of coffee in hand. His eyes are bleary and tired.
“You ready, Ryan?” he asks, handing me a thermos, his voice rough from too many sleepless nights.
“Yeah, I’m ready,” I reply, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
We load our gear into the truck, the weight of our supplies and weapons a physical reminder of the burden we carry. The drive from Lansing across the Lower Peninsula is long and quiet, the silence between us filled with unspoken memories and unresolved grief.
—
The drive north is a blur of highway lines and the dull hum of the engine. I drift off, the landscape outside blending into a haze. In my sleep, fragments of that day with Leah replay like scattered pieces of a puzzle. I see her smile, the way she tugged at my sleeve, eager to explore. The sunlight filters through the trees in sharp, jagged streaks.
Then, the memory shifts—darker, disjointed. Leah's voice echoes, a playful laugh turning into a scream that pierces the air. The crunch of leaves underfoot as something heavy moves through the underbrush. I see a shadow, large and looming, not quite fitting the shapes of any creature I know.
Then, something darker creeps into the dream, something I’ve never allowed myself to remember clearly.
Before I can see what it is I wake up with a start as the truck jerks slightly on a rough patch of road. Dad glances over. "Bad dream?" he asks. I nod, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, the remnants of the dream clinging to me like the cold.
"Yeah, just... thinking about Leah," I manage to say.
As we drive, Dad attempts to bridge the silence with small talk. He asks about my finals, my plans for the summer, anything to keep the conversation going. His voice carries a forced cheerfulness, but it’s clear his heart isn’t in it. I respond when necessary, my answers brief, my gaze fixed on the passing scenery.
The landscape changes as we head further north, from flat expanses to rolling hills dotted with dense patches of forest. It's beautiful country, the kind that reminds you how vast and wild Michigan can be, but today it just feels oppressive, like it’s closing in on us.
—
We finally arrive at the cabin, nestled deep in the woods, its weathered wood blending seamlessly with the surrounding trees. The place hasn't changed much since the last time I was here—a relic from another time, filled with the echoes of our past. I can still see Leah running around the porch, her laughter ringing out into the forest.
Dad parks the truck, and we step out into the crisp air. The smell of pine and damp earth fills my nostrils. We start unloading our gear, the tension between us palpable.
“Let’s get this inside,” Dad says, his voice gruff as he hefts a duffel bag onto his shoulder.
I nod, grabbing my own bag and following him to the cabin. Inside, it’s a mix of old and new—the same rustic furniture, but with new hunting gear and maps strewn across the table. Dad’s obsession is evident in every corner of the room, a constant reminder of why we’re here.
As we unpack, we exchange strained attempts at normalcy. He talks about the latest cryptid sightings he’s read about, his eyes lighting up with a fervor that both worries and saddens me.
“Did you hear about the sighting up near Alpena?” he asks, laying out his maps on the table.
“Yeah, you mentioned it,” I reply, trying to muster some enthusiasm. “Do you really think there’s something to it?”
Dad’s eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I see a flicker of doubt. But it’s quickly replaced by grim determination. “I have to believe it, Ryan. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
We finish unpacking, the silence between us growing heavier with each passing minute. I step outside to clear my head, the cool air a welcome relief. The sun is starting to set, casting long shadows across the clearing. I can’t shake the feeling of unease.
"You can take the upstairs room," Dad mutters. His voice is strained, trying to sound normal, but it's clear the weight of the past is heavy on him. I nod, hauling my backpack up the creaking stairs to the small bedroom that I used to share with Leah. The room feels smaller now, or maybe I've just grown too much since those innocent days.
I unpack silently, setting my things aside. The bed is stiff and cold under my touch. As I settle in, I can't help but glance at the corner where Leah and I would huddle together, whispering secrets and making plans for adventures that would never happen. I push the thoughts away, focusing on the practicalities of unpacking.
After settling in, I go back downstairs to find Dad loading up a backpack with supplies for our hunt. The intensity in his eyes is palpable, his hands moving with practiced precision. I know this routine; it's one he's perfected over countless solo trips since that fateful day.
"We'll head out early," he says, not looking up from his task. "Gotta make the most of the daylight."
I nod, though unease curls in my stomach. I'm not just worried about what we might find—or not find—out there. I'm worried about him. Each year, the obsession seems to carve him out a bit more, leaving less of the Dad I knew.
—
The morning air is sharp with the scent of pine and wet earth as Dad and I head into the deeper parts of the forest. The terrain is rugged, familiar in its untamed beauty, but there’s a tension between us that makes the landscape feel alien. Dad moves with a purposeful stride, his eyes scanning the woods around us. Every snap of a twig, every rustle in the underbrush seems to draw his attention. He’s on edge, and it puts me on edge too.
As we walk, my mind drifts back to that day ten years ago. I can almost hear Leah’s voice echoing through the trees, her high-pitched call as she darted ahead, "Catch me, Ryan!" I remember how the sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dancing shadows on the ground. Those memories are so vivid, so tangible, it feels like I could just turn a corner and see her there, waiting for us.
Dad suddenly stops and kneels, examining the ground. He points out a set of tracks that are too large for a deer, with an unusual gait pattern. "It’s been here, Ry. I’m telling you, it’s close," he whispers, a mixture of excitement and something darker in his voice. I nod, though I’m not sure what to believe. Part of me wants to dismiss it all as grief-fueled obsession, but another part, the part that heard Leah's scream and saw something monstrous in the woods that day, isn’t so sure.
As we continue, Dad's comments become increasingly cryptic. "You know, they say the dogman moves in cycles, drawn to certain places, certain times. Like it’s tied to the land itself," he muses, more to himself than to me. His fixation on the creature has always been intense, but now it borders on mania.
We set up a makeshift blind near a clearing where Dad insists the creature will pass. Hours drag by with little to see but the occasional bird or distant deer.
The sun rises higher in the sky, casting long, slender shadows through the dense canopy. I shift uncomfortably in my spot, the forest floor hard and unyielding beneath me. My eyes dart between the trees, hoping to catch a glimpse of something, anything, to break the monotony. Dad, on the other hand, remains steadfast, his gaze fixed on the treeline as if he can will the dogman into existence by sheer force of will.
A bird chirps nearby, startling me. I sigh and adjust my grip on the rifle. I glance over at Dad.
“Anything?” I ask, more out of boredom than genuine curiosity.
“Not yet,” he replies, his voice tight. “But it’s out there. I know it.”
I nod, even though I’m not sure I believe him. The forest seems too quiet, too still. Maybe we’re chasing ghosts.
As the sun begins its descent, the forest is bathed in a warm, golden light. The air cools, and a breeze rustles the leaves. I shiver, more from anticipation than the cold. The long hours of sitting and waiting are starting to wear on me.
“Let’s call it a day for now,” Dad says finally, his voice heavy with disappointment. “We’ll head back to the cabin, get some rest, and try again tomorrow.”
I stand and stretch, feeling the stiffness in my muscles. We pack up our gear in silence and start the trek back to the cabin. The walk is long and quiet, the only sounds are the crunch of leaves underfoot and the distant calls of birds settling in for the night.
—
Dinner is a quiet affair, both of us lost in our thoughts. I try to make small talk, asking Dad about his plans for tomorrow, but it feels forced. We clean up in silence.
After dinner, I retreat to the small bedroom. The fatigue from the day's hike has settled into my bones, but sleep still feels like a distant hope. I lie down, staring at the ceiling, the room cloaked in darkness save for the sliver of moonlight creeping through the window. Downstairs, I hear the faint sound of Dad moving around, likely unable to sleep himself.
I drift into sleep, but it's not restful. My dreams pull me back to that fateful day in the woods. Leah's voice is clear and vibrant, her laughter echoing through the trees. She looks just as she did then—bright-eyed and full of life, her blonde hair catching the sunlight as she runs ahead of me.
"Come on, Ry! You can't catch me!" she taunts, her voice playful and teasing.
I chase after her, but the scene shifts abruptly. The sky darkens, the woods around us growing dense and foreboding. Leah's laughter fades, replaced by a chilling silence. I see her ahead, standing still, her back to me.
"Leah?" I call out, my voice trembling. She turns slowly, her eyes wide and filled with fear. "Ryan, you have to remember," she says, her voice barely a whisper. "It wasn't what you think. You need to know the truth."
Leah’s words hang in the air, cryptic and unsettling. Before I can respond, she turns and starts running again, her figure becoming a blur among the trees. Panic rises in my chest as I sprint after her, my feet pounding against the forest floor.
“Leah, wait!” I shout, desperation lacing my voice. The forest around me seems to close in, the trees towering and twisted, shadows dancing menacingly in the dim light. I push forward, trying to keep her in sight, but she’s too fast, slipping away like a wisp of smoke.
Suddenly, there’s a rustle, a flash of movement in the corner of my vision. Leah screams, a sound that pierces through the heavy silence. It happens too quickly—I can’t see what it is, only a dark blur that snatches her up.
“Leah!” I scream, my voice breaking. I stumble, falling to my knees as the forest spins around me. My heart races, and the terror is so real, so visceral, that it pulls me back to that awful day, the one that changed everything.
I jolt awake, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
I sit up, wiping the cold sweat from my forehead as I try to steady my breathing. The room is still dark, the shadows cast by the moonlight seem to flicker and dance on the walls. My heart is still racing from the nightmare, the echo of Leah's scream lingering in my ears.
As I struggle to calm down, the floorboards outside my room creak. The door opens slowly, and I see the silhouette of my dad in the doorway, a Bowie knife in his hand, his posture tense.
“Dad, what the hell are you doing?” I whisper, my voice shaking.
“Shh,” he hisses, holding up a hand to silence me. “I heard something. Something moving around in the cabin. Stay quiet.”
I swallow hard, my mouth dry. I glance at the clock on the nightstand—it’s just past three in the morning. The cabin is silent, the kind of deep, oppressive silence that makes every small sound seem louder. I can’t hear anything out of the ordinary, but Dad’s expression is deadly serious.
He motions for me to get up, and I do, moving as quietly as I can. My heart is racing, a mix of lingering fear from the dream and the sudden, sharp anxiety of the present moment. Dad leads the way, stepping cautiously out of the bedroom and into the hallway, the knife held ready in front of him.
We move through the cabin, checking each room in turn. The living room is empty, the furniture casting long shadows in the dim moonlight. The kitchen is just as we left it, the plates from dinner still drying on the counter. Everything seems normal, untouched.
We finish our sweep of the cabin without finding anything amiss. The silence is heavy, punctuated only by our soft footfalls. I can see the tension in Dad’s frame, his grip on the knife unwavering. After checking the last room, we pause in the dimly lit hallway, the air thick with unspoken questions.
“There’s nothing here,” I say, my voice low. “Are you sure you heard something?”
He looks at me, his eyes searching for something in my face. “I heard growling. Deep and close. It was right outside the window.”
“Maybe it was just an animal outside, a raccoon or something?” I suggest, although the certainty in his voice makes me doubt my own reassurance.
“No, it wasn’t like that. It was different,” he insists, his voice tense.
I nod, not wanting to argue, but the seeds of worry are planted deep.
The look in his eyes sends a chill down my spine. It’s not just fear—it’s desperation. The kind of desperation that comes from years of chasing shadows and finding nothing. I can see the toll this hunt has taken on him, the way it’s worn him down, turned him into a man I barely recognize.
We head back to our rooms. As I lie down, my mind races with thoughts of my dad. I can’t help but wonder if he’s losing it, if the years of grief and guilt have finally pushed him over the edge.
Dad wasn’t always like this. Before Leah’s death, he was the kind of father who took us fishing, helped with homework, and told terrible jokes that made us groan and laugh at the same time. He was solid, dependable. But losing Leah changed him. The guilt twisted him into someone I barely recognize, someone driven by a need for answers, for closure, that may never come.
I try to sleep, but my thoughts keep me awake. I can hear Dad moving around downstairs, probably pacing or double-checking the locks. His paranoia has become a constant presence, and I don’t know how to help him. I don’t even know if I can help him.
—
The next morning, the sunlight filters weakly through the cabin windows, casting a pale light that does little to lift the heavy mood. I drag myself out of bed, feeling the exhaustion of another restless night. Dad is already up, hunched over his maps at the kitchen table, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep.
“Morning,” I mumble, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I pour myself a cup of coffee. “Did you sleep at all?”
He shakes his head, not looking up from his notes. “Not much. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I heard last night.”
I sip my coffee, trying to shake off the remnants of my nightmare. “Maybe it was just an animal, Dad. We’re deep in the woods, after all.”
He finally looks up, his eyes intense. “Ryan, I know what I heard. It wasn’t just an animal. It was something else.”
I sigh, not wanting to argue. “Okay, fine, Dad. What’s the plan for today?”
“We’re going back out. I found some tracks yesterday, and I want to follow them. See where they lead.”
I nod, feeling a mix of apprehension and resignation. I can see how much this means to him, how desperate he is for any kind of lead. “Alright. Let’s get packed and head out.”
We spend the morning preparing, loading up our gear and double-checking our supplies. Dad is meticulous, going over everything with a fine-toothed comb. I try to match his focus, but my mind keeps drifting back to Leah and the dream I had. Her words echo in my head, cryptic and unsettling: “You need to know the truth.”
We set off into the woods, the air crisp and cool. The forest is alive with the sounds of birds and rustling leaves, but it all feels distant, like background noise to the tension between us. Dad leads the way, his eyes scanning the ground for any sign of the tracks he found yesterday.
As we walk, I can’t help but notice how erratically he’s acting. He mutters to himself, his eyes darting around as if expecting something to jump out at us. His grip on his rifle is tight, his knuckles white.
“Dad, are you okay?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
He glances at me, his expression unreadable. “I’m fine. Just focused.”
He stops frequently to examine the ground or the bark of trees, pointing out marks and signs that seem meaningless to me.
“Look at this,” he says, crouching down to examine a broken branch. “See how it’s snapped? That’s not a deer or a bear. That’s something bigger. Stronger.”
I crouch next to Dad, squinting at the broken branch. To me, it just looks like a regular broken branch, the kind you see all over the forest. "I don't know, Dad. It just looks like a branch to me," I say, trying to keep my voice neutral.
Dad's eyes flicker with frustration. "You're not looking close enough. It's the way it's snapped—too clean, too deliberate. Something did this."
I nod, not wanting to argue. "Okay, sure. But even if you're right, it could be anything. A storm, another hunter..."
His expression hardens. "I know what I'm looking for. This is different."
I sigh, feeling the weight of the past and the tension between us pressing down on me. "Dad, I had a dream last night. About Leah." The words hang in the air between us, heavy and fraught with unspoken emotions.
Dad's eyes widen, and he straightens up, his entire demeanor shifting. "What kind of dream? What did you see?" His voice is urgent, almost desperate.
"It was... strange. We were in the woods, like we are now, but everything felt different. Leah was there, running ahead of me, laughing. Then she stopped and told me I needed to know the truth, that it wasn't what I thought."
Dad grabs my shoulders, his grip tight. "What else did she say? Did she tell you anything specific? Anything about the creature?"
I shake my head, feeling a chill run down my spine. "No, that was it. She just said I needed to know the truth, and then she was gone."
Dad’s grip on my shoulders tightens, and his eyes bore into mine with a mixture of desperation and hope. “Ryan, you have to try to remember. Think hard. What did the creature look like? Did you see anything else?”
I pull back slightly, uneasy with his intensity. “Dad, I told you. I don’t remember. It was just a dream. A nightmare, really. My mind’s probably just mixing things up.”
He lets go of me and runs a hand through his hair, looking frustrated and lost. “Dreams can be important. They can hold memories we’ve buried deep. Please, try to remember. This could be a sign, a clue.”
I rub my temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache. “I’ve tried, okay? I’ve tried for years to piece together what happened that day. But it’s all just fragments, like pieces of a puzzle that don’t fit. The dream… it felt real, but I don’t think it’s telling me anything new.”
Dad’s face falls, and he looks older than I’ve ever seen him. He turns away, staring into the forest as if it holds all the answers.
—
As we make our way back to the cabin, the sun begins to set, casting long shadows through the trees. The air grows colder, and I shiver, pulling my jacket tighter around me. Dad is silent, lost in his thoughts, his face drawn and haggard.
Back at the cabin, we unload our gear once again in silence. Dad disappears into his room, muttering something about going over his notes. I decide to explore the cabin, hoping to find something that might help me understand what’s going on with him.
In the attic, I find a box of old family photos and documents. As I sift through the contents, I come across a worn journal with Dad’s handwriting on the cover. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I open it, flipping through the pages.
The journal is filled with notes and sketches, detailing his obsession with the dogman. But there’s something else—entries that talk about Leah, about that day in the woods. His handwriting becomes more erratic, the words harder to read. One entry stands out, dated just a few days after Leah’s death:
“June 15, 2013 – It was supposed to be a normal trip. Keep them close, Frank, I kept telling myself. But I failed. Leah is gone, and it’s my fault. I heard her scream, saw the shadows. I tried to get to her, but… the thing, it was there. Too fast. Too strong. My hands… blood everywhere. No one will believe me. I can’t even believe myself. I have to find it. I have to protect Ryan. I have to make it right. God, what have I done?”
Before I can read further, the attic door creaks open, and Dad’s voice slices through the stillness.
“What are you doing up here?” His tone is sharp, almost panicked.
I turn to see him standing in the doorway, his face pale and his eyes wide with something between anger and fear. I clutch the journal to my chest, my mind racing. “I found this… I was just trying to understand…”
In an instant, he crosses the room and snatches the journal from my hands. His grip is tight, his knuckles white. “You had no right,” he growls, his voice trembling.
“Dad, I just wanted to know the truth!” I shout, frustration boiling over. “What really happened to Leah.”
His eyes flash with a mix of rage and anguish, and before I can react, he slaps me across the face. The force of it knocks me off balance, and I stumble backward, my cheek stinging.
For a moment, there’s a stunned silence. We both stand there, breathing hard, the air thick with tension.
“I’m sorry,” Dad says finally, his voice barely a whisper. “I didn’t mean to… I just…” He trails off, clutching the journal to his chest like a lifeline.
I touch my cheek, feeling the heat from the slap, and take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “Dad, what aren’t you telling me? What really happened that day?”
“Stay out of it, Ryan,” Dad growls, his eyes dark with anger. “You don’t know what you’re messing with.”
He turns and storms out of the attic. I’m left standing there, my cheek throbbing, my mind racing. What the fuck is going on? What really happened to Leah? And what is Dad so afraid of?
—
That night, I sleep with my rifle within arm's reach, more afraid of my dad than any dogman. The slap still burns on my cheek, and the look in his eyes—rage, fear, something darker—haunts me. I lie awake, listening to the creaks and groans of the old cabin, every sound amplified in the stillness. Eventually, exhaustion pulls me under, and I fall into a restless sleep.
The dream returns, vivid and unsettling. I'm back in the woods, chasing after Leah. Her laughter echoes through the trees, a haunting reminder of happier times. This time, though, I push myself harder, refusing to let her slip away.
"Ryan, catch me!" she calls, her voice playful.
"I'm coming, Leah!" I shout, my legs pumping, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
The forest around us is a twisted, shadowy maze, the trees seeming to close in on us. Leah's figure becomes clearer, her blonde hair catching the dim light filtering through the canopy. She stops suddenly, turning to face me, her eyes wide with fear.
"Leah, what is it?" I ask, my voice trembling.
"Look behind you," she whispers, her voice barely audible.
I turn slowly, dread creeping up my spine. In the shadows, I see a figure, its form indistinct and shifting. It’s not quite animal, not quite human—something in between. The sight of it sends a jolt of terror through me, and I wake up with a start, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
I’m not in my bed. The ground beneath me is cold and hard, the smell of damp earth filling my nostrils. Panic rises as I realize I’ve sleepwalked into the woods. I scramble to my feet, my eyes adjusting to the dim light. The moon casts a pale glow over the surroundings, revealing what looks like a long-abandoned animal lair.
The walls are covered in giant claw marks, deep gouges in the wood and earth. The air is heavy with the scent of decay, and a chill runs through me. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched.
Carefully, I start to move, my eyes scanning the ground, desperate for a familiar landmark. That's when I see them—faded scraps of fabric caught on the jagged edges of the underbrush. My steps falter, a sense of dread washing over me as I bend down to examine them. The fabric is torn, weathered by time and the elements, but unmistakably familiar. It's part of Leah's jacket—the bright pink one she wore on the day she disappeared.
As I strain to make sense of it all, a rustling sound behind me snaps my focus. My heart leaps into my throat. I spin around, my hand instinctively reaching for the rifle I don't have—because, of course, I didn't bring it in my unconscious state.
The shadowy figure that emerges from the trees is unsettlingly familiar, mirroring the menacing forms of my nightmares. But as it steps into the moonlight, I recognize the worn jacket, the weary posture. It's Dad.
"Ryan!" he calls out, his voice a mix of relief and stern concern. "I've been looking everywhere for you. What the hell are you doing out here?"
I exhale slowly, the terror ebbing away as reality sets back in. "I—I don't know, Dad. I must've sleepwalked again." My voice is shaky, my earlier dream still clinging to the edges of my consciousness.
Dad stares at me in disbelief. "You haven't sleepwalked since you were a kid, Ry. This... this isn't just a coincidence." His eyes dart around, taking in the surroundings—the eerie, claw-marked den, the unsettling quiet of the woods. "How did you even find this place?"
I shake my head, struggling to find an answer. "I don't know, Dad. I just... I woke up here." The uncertainty in my voice does nothing to ease the tension.
His eyes lock onto the tattered remains of Leah's jacket in my hands, and something inside him snaps. The color drains from his face as he stumbles a few steps backward. "This... this is where it happened," he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper. “This is where we found Leah."
“I thought you said you don’t remember anything from that night,” he says accusingly.
"I swear, Dad, I don't know anything about this place," I insist, my own heart pounding.
“It was you, wasn’t it? You’ve been hiding this from me.” His voice is frantic. “You... last night, the growling, it was you.” His voice rises, tinged with hysteria.
I step back, my pulse racing, feeling the chill of the night and the weight of his accusation. "Dad, I don't know what you're talking ab—”
"No!" he interrupts, his voice breaking as he points a trembling finger at me. "You knew, you always knew. It was you, Ryan. All these years, the evidence was right there, but I refused to see it. You were the dogman. You killed Leah!"
His words hit me like a physical blow, absurd and horrifying in their implications. "Dad, you're not making any sense. You're talking crazy! I was just a little kid! How could I–" I protest, my voice shaky.
He steps closer, his presence looming over me, the outline of his figure distorted by the shadows of the trees. "Think about it! It all makes sense now. You led us here, to this place, because you remember. Because you did it."
"Dad, stop it!" I shout, my heart pounding in my chest. "You're scaring me. You need help, professional help. This isn't you."
But he's beyond reason, his eyes wild with a haunted grief. "I have to end this," he mutters, more to himself than to me, his hand tightening around his rifle.
His finger hovers dangerously over the trigger of his rifle. My instincts kick in, and I know I have to act fast.
I lunge toward him, trying to knock the weapon away, but he's quicker than I expected. We struggle, our breaths heavy in the cold night air, the sounds of our scuffle the only noise in the otherwise silent woods. His strength surprises me, fueled by his frantic emotions. He shoves me back, and I stumble over a root, my balance lost for a crucial second. That's all he needs. He raises his rifle, his intentions clear in his wild, pained eyes.
I dive to the ground just as the shot rings out, a deafening blast that echoes ominously through the trees. The bullet whizzes past, narrowly missing me, embedding itself in the bark of an old pine. I scramble to my feet, my heart pounding in my ears, and I start running. The underbrush claws at my clothes and skin, but I push through, driven by a primal urge to survive.
"Dad, stop! It's me, Ryan!" I shout back as I dodge between the trees. Another shot breaks the silence, closer this time, sending splinters of wood flying from a nearby tree trunk. It's surreal, being hunted by my own father, a man tormented by grief and lost in his delusions.
I don't stop to look back. I can hear him crashing through the forest behind me, his heavy breaths and muttered curses carried on the wind. The terrain is rough, and I'm fueled by adrenaline, but exhaustion is setting in. I need a plan.
Ahead, I see a rocky outcrop and make a split-second decision to head for it. It offers a chance to hide, to catch my breath and maybe reason with him if he catches up. As I reach the rocks, I slip behind the largest one, my body pressed tight against the cold, damp surface. I hear his footsteps approaching, slow and cautious now.
As I press against the rock, trying to calm my racing heart, I can hear Dad's footsteps drawing closer, each step crunching ominously on the forest floor. He's methodical, deliberate, like a hunter stalking his prey.
“Come out, Ryan!” Dad’s voice is ragged, filled with a blend of fury and pain.
My heart pounds against my chest, the cold sweat on my back making me shiver against the rough surface of the rock. I know I can't just sit here; it's only a matter of time before he finds me.
Taking a deep breath, I peek around the edge of the rock, trying to gauge his position. I see him, rifle raised, scanning the area slowly. This might be my only chance to end this madness without further violence. I need to disarm him, to talk some sense into him if I can.
As quietly as I can, I move out from behind the rock, my steps careful to avoid any twigs or leaves that might betray my position. I'm almost upon him when a branch snaps under my foot—a sound so trivial yet so alarmingly loud in the quiet of the woods.
Dad whirls around, looking completely unhinged. "Ryan!" he exclaims, his rifle swinging in my direction. Panic overtakes me, and I lunge forward, my hands reaching for the gun.
We struggle, the rifle between us, our breaths heavy and erratic. "Dad, please, stop!" I plead, trying to wrestle the gun away. But he's strong, stronger than I expected.
In the chaos, the rifle goes off. The sound is deafening, a sharp echo that seems to reverberate off every tree around us. Pain explodes in my abdomen, sharp and burning, like nothing I've ever felt before. I stagger back, my hands instinctively going to the wound. The warmth of my own blood coats my fingers, stark and terrifying.
Dad drops the rifle, his eyes wide with horror. "Oh my God! What have I done?" he gasps, rushing to my side as I collapse onto the forest floor.
As the pain sears through me, a strange, overpowering energy surges within. It's wild, primal, unlike anything I've ever experienced. Looking down in horror, my hands are no longer hands but large, hairy, clawed appendages. The transformation is rapid, consuming—my vision blurs, senses heighten, and a raw, guttural growl builds in my throat.
In that moment, a flood of understanding washes over me, mingling with the horror of realization. These are the hands of the creature from my nightmares, the creature whose face I can never fully recall because, as I now understand, it is me.
What happens next feels detached, as if I'm no longer in control of my own actions, watching from a distance as my body moves on its own. I turn towards my dad, his face a mask of terror. He stumbles back, his eyes wide with the dawning realization of what his son has become.
The forest around us seems to fall silent, holding its breath as the nightmarish scene unfolds. I can hear my own growls, guttural and deep, filling the air with a sound that's both foreign and intimately familiar. The pain in my abdomen fuels a dark, violent urge, an urge that's too strong to resist.
With a ferocity that feels both alien and intrinsic, I move towards him. My dad, paralyzed by fear and shock, doesn't run. Maybe he can't. Maybe he doesn't want to.
The encounter was brutal and swift, a blur of motion and violence. My dad barely puts up a struggle, as though resigned to his fate.
Not that there is anything he can do. The creature that I’ve become is too powerful, too consumed by the wild instincts surging through me. I tear him apart, limb from bloody limb, my hands—no, my claws—rending through fabric and flesh with disgusting ease.
The sound of my dad’s screams, of tearing fabric and flesh is drowned out by the animalistic growls that echo through the trees.
When it’s all over, the red mist that had clouded my vision begins to fade, and the fierce, uncontrollable rage that drove my actions subsides. I'm left standing, my breaths heavy and erratic, in the eerie stillness of the forest. The transformation reverses as quickly as it came on, and I find myself back in my human form. My clothes are ripped to shreds, hanging off my frame in tattered remnants. At my feet lies what’s left of my dad, his body torn and unrecognizable.
I glance down at my abdomen, expecting agony, but instead find my wound miraculously healed. No sign of the gunshot remains, just a faint scar where I expected a bloody mess.
Shock sets in, a numbing disbelief mixed with a gut-wrenching realization of what I've become and what I've done. My hands, now human again, tremble as I look at them, half-expecting to see the claws that had so effortlessly ripped through flesh and bone. But there's only blood, my father's blood against my skin.
I stand there for what feels like an eternity, trapped in a nightmare of my own making.
Eventually, the shock wears thin, and a cold practicality takes hold. I need to get out of here. I need to cover my tracks, to disappear. Because who would believe this? Who would understand that I didn't choose this, that I'm not a monster by choice?
With trembling hands, I do what’s necessary. I bury my dad in a shallow grave, the physical act of digging strangely grounding. I cover him with leaves and branches, a pitiful attempt to hide the brutality of his end. I take a moment, whispering apologies into the wind, knowing full well that nothing I say can change what happened.
I leave the forest behind, my mind a whirl of dark thoughts. As I walk, the first hints of dawn brush against the horizon, the sky bleeding a soft pink. It’s hauntingly beautiful.

In today’s evolving and competitive landscape, the value of innovation is shifting from the traditional closed systems approach to a more open, decentralized, and community-driven approach. Paul Lalovich and Tesha Teshanovich from Agile Dynamics outline what is driving the trend, its implications for organizations, and how leaders can successfully operate at the forefront of the shift.
Innovation transcends the mere conceptualization of fresh ideas; it is the actionable process of enhancing existing products or conjuring entirely new offerings. While there is a strong correlation between R&D and innovation – with the former serving as a wellspring for pioneering thoughts – the journey from groundbreaking research to practical utility can be intricate and protracted.
However, it’s worth noting that innovation isn't solely tethered to structured R&D. It can spontaneously arise from sheer curiosity, a spark of inspiration, or even the simple act of refining or tweaking existing methodologies.
Firms might invest in R&D to catalyze innovation, but they can also harness external advancements – referred to as ‘spillovers’. After all, groundbreaking knowledge isn't always the exclusive domain of its creators, making external inspirations invaluable.
Emerging from a robust foundation of innovation, soft power presents tangible advantages. Leaders in technology often establish benchmarks that others deem beneficial to adopt. As a result, global standards lean favorably toward those pioneers. Moreover, countries recognized for their innovative acumen become prime territories for patent filings. These innovation hubs magnetize not just domestic but international investments and capital.
Perhaps the most profound testament to their soft power is the allure they hold for top-tier talents. For instance, Silicon Valley has evolved into a global nexus, drawing in exceptional minds from the realms of information, communication, and digital technologies. Such concentrations of talent can significantly influence a nation’s trade dynamics.

Tech monopolies slow down innovation

In the arena of global economic dominance, competition emerges as the cornerstone, propelling nations to the forefront of innovation and growth. While Chinese strategies appear to have adapted, embracing the dynamism of competitive markets, the United States stands at a crossroads. Some of its tech behemoths promote their size and market leadership as pivotal for cutting-edge innovation.
Yet, it is crucial to discern the nature of this innovation and whose interests it truly serves. Does it prioritize shareholder returns, or is there a broader, national interest at play? As smaller, agile firms emerge, emphasizing true boundary-pushing innovation, one must ponder: Is the spirit of unbridled competition – a force that once fueled the American economy – being overshadowed by the looming giants?
In the nuanced interplay between governmental oversight and market forces, recent actions within China's technology sector provide a captivating study of regulatory boundaries. This phenomenon, aptly termed ‘de-tycoonification’, captures a deliberate effort to harmonize enterprise innovation with centralized checks.
A leading digital commerce platform in China encountered regulatory attention. The swift determination that its practices were anti-competitive, accompanied by a significant financial penalty, symbolizes a broader intent to redefine market paradigms. Prompt official communique following these events conveys a clear perspective: monopolistic behaviours can inhibit the holistic evolution of a market-based economy.
This stance also emphasizes that thoughtful regulations, rather than restricting growth, might actually serve as pillars to stabilize and nurture it. The regulatory web further ensnared another major digital entity in China, underscoring the principle that technological ingenuity should operate within established ethical and legal frameworks. Such internal checks within China challenge certain dominant narratives in global tech centres.
The notion that maintaining a robust market stature acts as a shield against global tech adversaries comes under scrutiny. The introspective regulatory steps within China necessitate a broader re-evaluation of such assumptions.
The tech landscape today is unmistakably marked by the towering presence of Big Tech, but what underlies this dominance might point towards a concerning reduction in competitive intensity. For two decades, the profits raked in by American tech behemoths have remained unparalleled, with market valuations suggesting this trend is expected to continue, if not amplify, in the coming years.
Such sustained, sky-high profitability isn't typical in a genuinely competitive market. In such a setting, rivals and newcomers usually exert downward pressures, ensuring no single entity retains an overwhelming edge for extended periods. The tech industry's trajectory further points towards a rising penchant for consolidation. This is evidenced by the substantial acquisitions of budding companies by the tech titans.
Data sourced from Mergermarket underscores an uptick in acquisition activity by these colossal tech firms, particularly post-2010. The symbiotic relationship between persistent high profits and a trend toward industry concentration suggests that the tech market might be veering away from the vibrant competitive arena it once was.

Cardwell’s law

The tech landscape’s evolution, in its relationship with innovation, is witnessing a palpable shift in entrepreneurial motivation and vision. Historically, the fervour of pioneering something transformative, encapsulated in the ‘moonshot thinking’, drove entrepreneurs. This audacious spirit envisioned groundbreaking entities akin to the tech luminaries of the late 20th and early 21st century. Yet, today’s entrepreneurial aspirations seem more tempered.
Instead of fostering ambitions of building the next revolutionary tech empire, there’s a growing inclination towards securing an acquisition by an existing tech colossus. This shift in sentiment dims the likelihood of a new tech juggernaut rising to challenge the incumbent titans. Post the era of computer-centric, web-driven, and smartphone-related innovations, a cloud of uncertainty looms over the emergence of new tech powerhouses.
Notably, the promising technological domains of the upcoming decade – be it autonomous vehicles with their exorbitant R&D costs, virtual or augmented reality's significant development expenditures, the data intensity of artificial intelligence, or drones and the Internet of Things with their challenging profit margins – present formidable entry barriers.
These hurdles, combined with a changing entrepreneurial landscape, cast a shadow on the future dynamism of tech innovation. Cardwell's elucidation on the patterns of technological evolution offers a poignant lens through which to view the current landscape dominated by Big Tech.
Donald Stephen Lowell Cardwell’s seminal work from 1972 suggests that technological vigor within societies is not an enduring flame, but a fleeting burst of brilliance. Within the European context, as one nation's innovative energy began to wane, another would rise, ensuring a consistent relay of progress across the continent.
Visualize this relay of innovation as a torch, brilliant yet intense. Historically, regions such as Northern Italy, Southern Germany, Spain, and Portugal, and later Holland, Britain, the United States, and Germany, took turns in holding this torch, leading the march of innovation. Yet, no single society clung to this leadership for extended durations. The relay ensured that as one nation's innovation diminished, another took up the mantle, propelling the collective forward.
This phenomenon, coined as ‘Cardwell’s Law’ by Joel Mokyr, posits that when left in isolation, a society’s technological creativity is but a brief spark. Over time, conservatism’s stifling grip, intent on preserving existing structures of power and privilege, often curtails this innovative drive.
This is where the analogy becomes particularly relevant for the Big Tech landscape. In today’s digital age, a few colossal entities dominate, much like the leading nations of old Europe. Yet, as these tech giants solidify their positions, they risk becoming victims of the very conservatism Mokyr speaks of.
Instead of being conduits for continual innovation, their sheer dominance and entrenched positions could lead to a stagnation in technological creativity. As they grow in size and influence, there is an increasing tendency to preserve the status quo, which inadvertently suppresses the innovative spark found in smaller, more agile entities.

Decentralization and open innovation

In the contemporary milieu characterized by the overwhelming dominance of Big Tech monopolies, the paradigms of decentralized innovation and open innovation emerge as potentially transformative alternatives.
The concept of distributed strategy borrows from nature, suggesting that in the same manner that organisms such as trees maximize their efficiency by creating multiple self-similar structures like leaves instead of solely relying on a single core trunk, businesses too need to shift their focus from purely scaling their core processes to nurturing multiple iterative strategies at the organizational peripheries. This can be encapsulated in the mantra of ‘Think Local, Act Global’.
In essence, companies must attune to the nuanced demands and opportunities of each local market, while simultaneously integrating these learnings into a broader global strategy. This is particularly evident in industries undergoing rapid transformation; for instance, the automotive industry's evolution from merely selling cars to offering comprehensive mobility solutions, a shift that is predicted to significantly alter its revenue structure by 2035.
In parallel, in our data-driven age, there is an increasing realization that the sheer volume of data is less crucial than its meaningful interpretation. Organizations need to pivot from prioritizing data accumulation to developing advanced algorithms capable of drawing insights from fragmented, patchy datasets. In the rapidly shifting landscape of today's global business environment, numerous established multinational corporations find themselves at a perplexing crossroads.
The crux of their predicament stems from a foundational dilemma: how to juxtapose traditional scale-driven strategies with the emergent imperative of Distributed strategies. To dissect this conundrum, one must appreciate the inherently divergent organizational philosophies underpinning scale and distributed strategies. Transitioning from a scale-centric model to a distributed-oriented one is not merely about implementing a series of organizational modifications, no matter how profound.
The shift demands a comprehensive reimagining of the organizational ethos and operational mechanics. Moreover, it is a fallacy to view these strategies as mutually exclusive. In actuality, they exist on a continuum, each holding its unique value. The challenge for modern enterprises lies in striking an optimal balance between harnessing the benefits of scale and the agility of Distributed strategies. Regrettably, the journey to this equilibrium is riddled with pitfalls, and many companies, even with their vast resources and global reach, have faltered in this endeavor.
Contrary to scale-centric entities that depend on static assets, with streamlined yet inherently slower supply chains, Distributed organizations harness networks characterized by adaptability and continuous transformation. These networks are primed for swiftly addressing specific local requirements and seizing niche market prospects.
Such frameworks incorporate a blend of proprietary micro-production facilities, possibly utilizing innovations like 3D printing; leasing assets from providers offering asset-on-demand services; and coordinating flexible ecosystems of regional digital collaborators. The overarching aim is twofold: continuously devise innovative solutions tailored for local clientele and escalate them to various markets with optimal speed.
Distributed-oriented organizations prioritize decentralization, contrasting with the top-down hierarchies commonly seen in scale-driven entities. Within these structures, decision-making isn't confined to a centralized corporate core. Instead, considerable authority is delegated to customer-centric teams positioned away from the primary headquarters. This design fosters agility, allowing for a rapid response to localized demands and new opportunities.
Some multinational corporations have observed marked improvements in their performance metrics after such decentralization. They empowered regional leaders with financial oversight, decision-making rights, streamlined communication channels to the central office, and enhanced access to market analytics.
Another trend, seen in the case of an appliance industry giant, involves an even more radical shift. This entity introduced a unique organizational framework aimed at minimizing the distance between the enterprise and its customer base. In a bold move, an entire level of middle management was eliminated, redistributing power to numerous newly-formed, semi-independent, customer-aligned business segments. These units operate in synergy, linked by a unified digital platform.
Further reading: Knowledge and venture capital as a driver of innovation.
Meanwhile, ‘Open Innovation’ offers a complementary model, championing a departure from insular corporate research and development approaches. Instead, it advocates for the amalgamation of external insights, be they from academia, startups, or independent innovators, into the innovation process. This synergistic approach addresses the often-criticized inertia inherent in large tech monopolies, promoting a more dynamic and collaborative innovation ecosystem.
Both these paradigms, however, necessitate a significant cultural shift within organizations, demanding a more flexible, adaptive, and outward-looking ethos to truly harness their potential in countering the inertia often associated with tech giants.
The rise of open innovation, propelled by reduced communication costs and advancements in memory and computation capabilities, has ushered in significant changes in market dynamics and societal interactions. Unlike the traditionally centralized, firm-driven innovation models, open innovation champions a decentralized, peer-based approach that emphasizes intrinsic motivation and societal benefits.
Indeed, the literature has delved into the nature of these peer innovation communities, understanding their social structures and intricacies.
However, the repercussions of this shift towards open innovation on established and emerging firms remain inadequately explored. Current organizational and strategic theories don't fully encapsulate the nuances of community-driven innovation. Despite the transformative potential of open innovation, its influence on mainstream organizational and strategic discourses has been somewhat muted.
As we progress, it becomes imperative to develop a more comprehensive understanding of firms in this new context, addressing the interaction between traditional organizational structures and emerging community-based innovation paradigms.

Conclusion

In an evolving landscape where tasks are increasingly modular and knowledge about solutions becomes more widespread, the traditional closed systems of innovation shift towards open, community-driven models. The implications are profound: we can no longer rely solely on conventional understandings of innovation rooted in cost efficiency, control mechanisms, and external incentives.
As innovation gets embedded in a spectrum ranging from strictly internal processes to open community collaborations, our conceptualization of firms and their boundaries need revisiting. This doesn’t negate the value of traditional models, but it requires a hybrid approach where both internal and open strategies coexist.
A pivotal question arises: under what circumstances should firms toggle between these different modes of innovation? The answer, it appears, lies in understanding the nature of the product and the distribution of problem-solving knowledge.
For products that are inherently integrated and where specialized knowledge is centralized, the conventional in-house R&D model, bolstered by a strong innovation-centric culture, remains relevant. Here, innovation is typically cocooned within the firm's boundaries, spanning from distinct functional divisions to intricate, ambidextrous designs.
However, when a product can be broken down into modular components and the requisite knowledge is dispersed, the limitations of a closed innovation system become evident. In these contexts, the power dynamics of innovation are reshaped by the principles of openness, collaborative sharing, intrinsic motivation, and community engagement.
The challenge, then, for modern enterprises is to discern when to internalize and when to externalize, ensuring that they harness the best of both worlds while navigating the complex terrain of innovation.In today’s evolving and competitive landscape, the value of innovation is shifting from the traditional closed systems approach to a more open, decentralized, and community-driven approach. Paul Lalovich and Tesha Teshanovich from Agile Dynamics outline what is driving the trend, its implications for organizations, and how leaders can successfully operate at the forefront of the shift. Innovation transcends the mere conceptualization of fresh ideas; it is the actionable process of enhancing existing products or conjuring entirely new offerings. While there is a strong correlation between R&D and innovation – with the former serving as a wellspring for pioneering thoughts – the journey from groundbreaking research to practical utility can be intricate and protracted. However, it’s worth noting that innovation isn't solely tethered to structured R&D. It can spontaneously arise from sheer curiosity, a spark of inspiration, or even the simple act of refining or tweaking existing methodologies.
Firms might invest in R&D to catalyze innovation, but they can also harness external advancements – referred to as ‘spillovers’. After all, groundbreaking knowledge isn't always the exclusive domain of its creators, making external inspirations invaluable. Emerging from a robust foundation of innovation, soft power presents tangible advantages. Leaders in technology often establish benchmarks that others deem beneficial to adopt. As a result, global standards lean favorably toward those pioneers. Moreover, countries recognized for their innovative acumen become prime territories for patent filings. These innovation hubs magnetize not just domestic but international investments and capital. Perhaps the most profound testament to their soft power is the allure they hold for top-tier talents. For instance, Silicon Valley has evolved into a global nexus, drawing in exceptional minds from the realms of information, communication, and digital technologies. Such concentrations of talent can significantly influence a nation’s trade dynamics. Tech monopolies slow down innovation In the arena of global economic dominance, competition emerges as the cornerstone, propelling nations to the forefront of innovation and growth. While Chinese strategies appear to have adapted, embracing the dynamism of competitive markets, the United States stands at a crossroads. Some of its tech behemoths promote their size and market leadership as pivotal for cutting-edge innovation. Yet, it is crucial to discern the nature of this innovation and whose interests it truly serves. Does it prioritize shareholder returns, or is there a broader, national interest at play? As smaller, agile firms emerge, emphasizing true boundary-pushing innovation, one must ponder: Is the spirit of unbridled competition – a force that once fueled the American economy – being overshadowed by the looming giants? In the nuanced interplay between governmental oversight and market forces, recent actions within China's technology sector provide a captivating study of regulatory boundaries. This phenomenon, aptly termed ‘de-tycoonification’, captures a deliberate effort to harmonize enterprise innovation with centralized checks. A leading digital commerce platform in China encountered regulatory attention. The swift determination that its practices were anti-competitive, accompanied by a significant financial penalty, symbolizes a broader intent to redefine market paradigms. Prompt official communique following these events conveys a clear perspective: monopolistic behaviours can inhibit the holistic evolution of a market-based economy. This stance also emphasizes that thoughtful regulations, rather than restricting growth, might actually serve as pillars to stabilize and nurture it. The regulatory web further ensnared another major digital entity in China, underscoring the principle that technological ingenuity should operate within established ethical and legal frameworks. Such internal checks within China challenge certain dominant narratives in global tech centres. The notion that maintaining a robust market stature acts as a shield against global tech adversaries comes under scrutiny. The introspective regulatory steps within China necessitate a broader re-evaluation of such assumptions. The tech landscape today is unmistakably marked by the towering presence of Big Tech, but what underlies this dominance might point towards a concerning reduction in competitive intensity. For two decades, the profits raked in by American tech behemoths have remained unparalleled, with market valuations suggesting this trend is expected to continue, if not amplify, in the coming years. Such sustained, sky-high profitability isn't typical in a genuinely competitive market. In such a setting, rivals and newcomers usually exert downward pressures, ensuring no single entity retains an overwhelming edge for extended periods. The tech industry's trajectory further points towards a rising penchant for consolidation. This is evidenced by the substantial acquisitions of budding companies by the tech titans. Data sourced from Mergermarket underscores an uptick in acquisition activity by these colossal tech firms, particularly post-2010. The symbiotic relationship between persistent high profits and a trend toward industry concentration suggests that the tech market might be veering away from the vibrant competitive arena it once was. Cardwell’s law The tech landscape’s evolution, in its relationship with innovation, is witnessing a palpable shift in entrepreneurial motivation and vision. Historically, the fervour of pioneering something transformative, encapsulated in the ‘moonshot thinking’, drove entrepreneurs. This audacious spirit envisioned groundbreaking entities akin to the tech luminaries of the late 20th and early 21st century. Yet, today’s entrepreneurial aspirations seem more tempered. Instead of fostering ambitions of building the next revolutionary tech empire, there’s a growing inclination towards securing an acquisition by an existing tech colossus. This shift in sentiment dims the likelihood of a new tech juggernaut rising to challenge the incumbent titans. Post the era of computer-centric, web-driven, and smartphone-related innovations, a cloud of uncertainty looms over the emergence of new tech powerhouses. Notably, the promising technological domains of the upcoming decade – be it autonomous vehicles with their exorbitant R&D costs, virtual or augmented reality's significant development expenditures, the data intensity of artificial intelligence, or drones and the Internet of Things with their challenging profit margins – present formidable entry barriers. These hurdles, combined with a changing entrepreneurial landscape, cast a shadow on the future dynamism of tech innovation. Cardwell's elucidation on the patterns of technological evolution offers a poignant lens through which to view the current landscape dominated by Big Tech. Donald Stephen Lowell Cardwell’s seminal work from 1972 suggests that technological vigor within societies is not an enduring flame, but a fleeting burst of brilliance. Within the European context, as one nation's innovative energy began to wane, another would rise, ensuring a consistent relay of progress across the continent. Visualize this relay of innovation as a torch, brilliant yet intense. Historically, regions such as Northern Italy, Southern Germany, Spain, and Portugal, and later Holland, Britain, the United States, and Germany, took turns in holding this torch, leading the march of innovation. Yet, no single society clung to this leadership for extended durations. The relay ensured that as one nation's innovation diminished, another took up the mantle, propelling the collective forward. This phenomenon, coined as ‘Cardwell’s Law’ by Joel Mokyr, posits that when left in isolation, a society’s technological creativity is but a brief spark. Over time, conservatism’s stifling grip, intent on preserving existing structures of power and privilege, often curtails this innovative drive. This is where the analogy becomes particularly relevant for the Big Tech landscape. In today’s digital age, a few colossal entities dominate, much like the leading nations of old Europe. Yet, as these tech giants solidify their positions, they risk becoming victims of the very conservatism Mokyr speaks of. Instead of being conduits for continual innovation, their sheer dominance and entrenched positions could lead to a stagnation in technological creativity. As they grow in size and influence, there is an increasing tendency to preserve the status quo, which inadvertently suppresses the innovative spark found in smaller, more agile entities. Decentralization and open innovation In the contemporary milieu characterized by the overwhelming dominance of Big Tech monopolies, the paradigms of decentralized innovation and open innovation emerge as potentially transformative alternatives. The concept of distributed strategy borrows from nature, suggesting that in the same manner that organisms such as trees maximize their efficiency by creating multiple self-similar structures like leaves instead of solely relying on a single core trunk, businesses too need to shift their focus from purely scaling their core processes to nurturing multiple iterative strategies at the organizational peripheries. This can be encapsulated in the mantra of ‘Think Local, Act Global’. In essence, companies must attune to the nuanced demands and opportunities of each local market, while simultaneously integrating these learnings into a broader global strategy. This is particularly evident in industries undergoing rapid transformation; for instance, the automotive industry's evolution from merely selling cars to offering comprehensive mobility solutions, a shift that is predicted to significantly alter its revenue structure by 2035. In parallel, in our data-driven age, there is an increasing realization that the sheer volume of data is less crucial than its meaningful interpretation. Organizations need to pivot from prioritizing data accumulation to developing advanced algorithms capable of drawing insights from fragmented, patchy datasets. In the rapidly shifting landscape of today's global business environment, numerous established multinational corporations find themselves at a perplexing crossroads. The crux of their predicament stems from a foundational dilemma: how to juxtapose traditional scale-driven strategies with the emergent imperative of Distributed strategies. To dissect this conundrum, one must appreciate the inherently divergent organizational philosophies underpinning scale and distributed strategies. Transitioning from a scale-centric model to a distributed-oriented one is not merely about implementing a series of organizational modifications, no matter how profound. The shift demands a comprehensive reimagining of the organizational ethos and operational mechanics. Moreover, it is a fallacy to view these strategies as mutually exclusive. In actuality, they exist on a continuum, each holding its unique value. The challenge for modern enterprises lies in striking an optimal balance between harnessing the benefits of scale and the agility of Distributed strategies. Regrettably, the journey to this equilibrium is riddled with pitfalls, and many companies, even with their vast resources and global reach, have faltered in this endeavor. Contrary to scale-centric entities that depend on static assets, with streamlined yet inherently slower supply chains, Distributed organizations harness networks characterized by adaptability and continuous transformation. These networks are primed for swiftly addressing specific local requirements and seizing niche market prospects. Such frameworks incorporate a blend of proprietary micro-production facilities, possibly utilizing innovations like 3D printing; leasing assets from providers offering asset-on-demand services; and coordinating flexible ecosystems of regional digital collaborators. The overarching aim is twofold: continuously devise innovative solutions tailored for local clientele and escalate them to various markets with optimal speed. Distributed-oriented organizations prioritize decentralization, contrasting with the top-down hierarchies commonly seen in scale-driven entities. Within these structures, decision-making isn't confined to a centralized corporate core. Instead, considerable authority is delegated to customer-centric teams positioned away from the primary headquarters. This design fosters agility, allowing for a rapid response to localized demands and new opportunities. Some multinational corporations have observed marked improvements in their performance metrics after such decentralization. They empowered regional leaders with financial oversight, decision-making rights, streamlined communication channels to the central office, and enhanced access to market analytics. Another trend, seen in the case of an appliance industry giant, involves an even more radical shift. This entity introduced a unique organizational framework aimed at minimizing the distance between the enterprise and its customer base. In a bold move, an entire level of middle management was eliminated, redistributing power to numerous newly-formed, semi-independent, customer-aligned business segments. These units operate in synergy, linked by a unified digital platform. Further reading: Knowledge and venture capital as a driver of innovation. Meanwhile, ‘Open Innovation’ offers a complementary model, championing a departure from insular corporate research and development approaches. Instead, it advocates for the amalgamation of external insights, be they from academia, startups, or independent innovators, into the innovation process. This synergistic approach addresses the often-criticized inertia inherent in large tech monopolies, promoting a more dynamic and collaborative innovation ecosystem. Both these paradigms, however, necessitate a significant cultural shift within organizations, demanding a more flexible, adaptive, and outward-looking ethos to truly harness their potential in countering the inertia often associated with tech giants. The rise of open innovation, propelled by reduced communication costs and advancements in memory and computation capabilities, has ushered in significant changes in market dynamics and societal interactions. Unlike the traditionally centralized, firm-driven innovation models, open innovation champions a decentralized, peer-based approach that emphasizes intrinsic motivation and societal benefits. Indeed, the literature has delved into the nature of these peer innovation communities, understanding their social structures and intricacies. However, the repercussions of this shift towards open innovation on established and emerging firms remain inadequately explored. Current organizational and strategic theories don't fully encapsulate the nuances of community-driven innovation. Despite the transformative potential of open innovation, its influence on mainstream organizational and strategic discourses has been somewhat muted. As we progress, it becomes imperative to develop a more comprehensive understanding of firms in this new context, addressing the interaction between traditional organizational structures and emerging community-based innovation paradigms. Conclusion In an evolving landscape where tasks are increasingly modular and knowledge about solutions becomes more widespread, the traditional closed systems of innovation shift towards open, community-driven models. The implications are profound: we can no longer rely solely on conventional understandings of innovation rooted in cost efficiency, control mechanisms, and external incentives. As innovation gets embedded in a spectrum ranging from strictly internal processes to open community collaborations, our conceptualization of firms and their boundaries need revisiting. This doesn’t negate the value of traditional models, but it requires a hybrid approach where both internal and open strategies coexist. A pivotal question arises: under what circumstances should firms toggle between these different modes of innovation? The answer, it appears, lies in understanding the nature of the product and the distribution of problem-solving knowledge. For products that are inherently integrated and where specialized knowledge is centralized, the conventional in-house R&D model, bolstered by a strong innovation-centric culture, remains relevant. Here, innovation is typically cocooned within the firm's boundaries, spanning from distinct functional divisions to intricate, ambidextrous designs. However, when a product can be broken down into modular components and the requisite knowledge is dispersed, the limitations of a closed innovation system become evident. In these contexts, the power dynamics of innovation are reshaped by the principles of openness, collaborative sharing, intrinsic motivation, and community engagement. The challenge, then, for modern enterprises is to discern when to internalize and when to externalize, ensuring that they harness the best of both worlds while navigating the complex terrain of innovation.

In today’s rapidly evolving digital landscape, staying ahead of marketing trends is essential, especially in vibrant markets like Oman. Dentsu M21World stands out as a beacon of innovation and strategy in digital marketing, pioneering approaches that resonate deeply with the local and regional audience. Here, we explore how Dentsu M21World is revolutionizing the field through cutting-edge strategies tailored to the Omani market.

Embracing Local Insights

One of Dentsu M21World's key strengths is its deep understanding of the Omani culture and consumer behavior. By leveraging local insights, the agency crafts campaigns that are not only culturally relevant but also highly engaging. This localized approach ensures that digital marketing strategies are not just seen but also felt, creating a stronger connection between brands and their audiences.

Data-Driven Decision Making

At the heart of Dentsu M21World’s strategy is a strong emphasis on data analytics. The agency utilizes advanced tools to gather and analyze data, allowing them to understand consumer patterns, preferences, and behaviors. This data-driven approach enables them to optimize campaigns and tailor their messages to specific demographics within Oman, ensuring higher engagement rates and better ROI for their clients.

Innovative Use of Technology

Dentsu M21World is at the forefront of incorporating new technologies into its marketing strategies. From augmented reality (AR) to advanced social media algorithms, the agency leverages these tools to create more interactive and immersive experiences. For instance, AR can transform traditional ads into interactive experiences that allow consumers to visualize products in real-time, enhancing engagement and boosting sales.

Social Media Mastery

With social media usage continually rising in Oman, Dentsu M21World has mastered the art of social media marketing. The agency not only focuses on popular platforms like Instagram and Twitter but also explores emerging platforms to reach a broader audience. They craft content that resonates with the Omani youth, using trends, hashtags, and influencers to drive their campaigns' reach and impact.

Commitment to Sustainability

Understanding the growing concern for environmental issues in Oman, Dentsu M21World incorporates sustainability into its marketing strategies. This involves promoting eco-friendly products and practices and using digital platforms to raise awareness about sustainability issues. Such initiatives not only help build a positive brand image but also align with the values of the Omani people who are increasingly leaning towards sustainable choices.

Training and Development

Dentsu M21World is also committed to nurturing local talent, providing training and development programs that equip Omani professionals with the skills needed in the modern digital economy. By investing in local talent, the agency ensures that its strategies are executed by individuals who inherently understand the local market and can innovate from within.

Conclusion

Dentsu M21World's innovative strategies in digital marketing are setting new standards in Oman. By integrating local culture with advanced technology and data analytics, the agency not only meets but exceeds the expectations of its clients. For businesses looking to make a mark in Oman’s dynamic market, partnering with an innovator like Dentsu M21World could be the key to unlocking unprecedented success.

There's a lot of talk about this in here and I wanted to give my opinion that I got mostly from Jungs ideas.
I talk about the pleroma and my assumptions of it are from the red book, so if you don't know what that is this won't make any sense to you assuming you would've agreed in the first place.
trigger warning: violence sex and trauma
Less-common forms of sexual expression have almost no research to the point where it's concerning. Especially considering the ones that cause physical or psychological danger to others or oneself. Sometimes it seems like Jung and Freud are the only pioneers to even cross that boundary in my mind. The half-life to psychology is 7 years anyway so one day we'll figure it out.
The problem most people have is they either believe that all kinks or fetishes are bad in any capacity or that all of them are natural healthy and deserve every right to be expressed, except "the bad ones". The one thing that these two parties agree on usually is that these expressions are solely random, they don't have any correlation with beliefs, events, and how those play a role in behavioral expression. The former party believes it's because they're defected, the ladder believes a pleasurable mystery. When it comes to whether or not a sexual expression is bad, it ultimately comes down to the individual. Sometimes they stem from viewpoints, ego identification, or trauma. Others are influenced by what they were told about sex, love gender and what power is in this world. Sometimes, it is a beautiful mystery, or they are defected by choice or not. I'd say for the tamer ones between good chemistry couples, it is a very healthy expression of sexuality. My point here is this one-sidedness on approaching human sexuality is why nothing is changing. Anyway, here's why I think fetishes can stem from belief and ego systems:
If you look at all types of fetishes, there's so many themes and patterns to find. Even if you can't draw definite conclusions from them. Tropes of power, disgust, fear, anger, shame, depravity, and desperation seem to make up the majority. Mostly negative stuff, a blending of pleasure and suffering. If you look deeper into subcategories, you can find verbal tropes in relation to current society. femaleinferiority, some kind of sissy/emasculation/castration category, or guro are interesting places to check out. There's many more, but if you read the comments in the first one a lot of dialogue they can phrase political and social issues into erotic content. I'm talking movement groups and slogans to direct personal memories of being sexually traumatized, reciting every moment they remember while arousing themselves. The second group will go into these long paragraphs focused on making themselves feel inferior. It's the equivalent to a person explaining how they were bullied or ridiculed to a therapist, except they are horny while doing it. The third will talk about how satisfying it is to take advantage of an injured/dead woman and how desperate and badly they want to have her like this. They'll use all kinds of language elaborating on how much rage they have toward women, erotically. It's disturbing shit, they sound possessed by something. I wanted to put the darker stuff first because it seems like sexuality, the union of opposites, also unites us with the pleroma. A flat out bad and brief description, the pleroma contains reality united where all opposites cancel each other out, including good and evil. I guess what psychonauts call "ego death" is an experience of the pleroma. I think our sexual instincts have access to it and keep you separate from it -ideally- It would make sense because sexuality is about the merging of two things into one, and has god-like qualities when observing the feminine and masculine in sexuality. Its a gateway, but not a gate you could or should enter. It should be treated with respect and thinking about sexuality in yourself and others requires innocence and no presumptions.
I think when it comes to these fantasies, most instincts we choose not to authenticate on the path to individuation and extract from the pleroma are associated with knowledge of suffering. Despite constant talk of masculinity and hardness in society, individuals subscribing to this dogma cower at anything that makes them look ridiculous. Homoerotic, power relinquishing, animalistic violence and control, awkward primitiveness, among many other instincts get trapped or petrified in there. The fantasies are compensatory sad attempts of the mind to reach wholeness. They make it worse engaging in it because it teaches them to keep these lives in the confines of sexuality. It gets to a point where they no longer can discern from what they love and what they fear. "If you do not differentiate yourselves from sexuality and from spirituality, and do not regard them as an essence both above and beyond you, you are delivered over to them as qualities of the Pleroma"-The Red Book-what hes saying is if you engage in a compulsive fantasy like the one above, you unconsciously go into the pleroma, (which is only possible because you don't know you're in it, because it's not something you can truly understand) into a world of unrecognized instincts. You'll suffer from dissociation and confusion because you're regressing into your "inferior" (underdeveloped) self. Like a child, you are unknowingly taken from the world you know and into the gods, where you are a slave and victim.
I know I've painted them all as bad but I just want to make clear the very real danger that people can find themselves in. The next thing is probably very familiar to you guys where the image of a fetish is a representation of something deeper. Sexuality knows rhythm, it knows your individual body, sexuality knows the smell of your ideal partner, I mean seriously I think we'd select better partners following our nose more than our eyes. My point is sexuality is a mechanic that works with the senses, just like eating food. Speaking of food, when I eat a well-seasoned steak or some chicken alfredo, a lot of personal and collective significance comes to me. Personal: memories, smells, emotions.. collectively, when I'm really hungry, there is an element of power "devouring" something that was once living. It doesn't make logical sense it just is, I'm also submitting to the indescribable experience of eating food. Eating is a mechanic, it knows or cares nothing of your subjective and collective experience of it. You could be eating anywhere, with anyone, anything is happening, your gut is completely indifferent. Going back to sexuality, although it fuels your personality and drive, there is a part of it that isn't related to who you are and is just like your gut: indifferent, tactile, mechanical. A part of your sexuality that's not gendered, moral, or more unique than another. The fantasies above could be related to the horrible idea of saying yes -or no- to someone under absurd circumstances. You have an ever working sex drive that doesn't care about the circumstances of having it, and you have certain fears and unconscious desires, put the two together..extreme fetish? Maybe, probably with some people.
The word perversion stems from the Latin word pervertere "turn back". In ancient times, sexuality was much more shameless and expressive than it is now, yet that word popped up for actual perverts in ancient Rome. The ancients wouldn't say "turn back" because it was gonna hurt your pride, ego, or morality, they said that phrase as a warning of danger, because something can kill you, and in this case take your soul.
"In every masochist there is a sadist and in every sadist there is also a masochist"-Freud
"Logically, the opposite of love is hate, and of Eros, Phobos (fear); but psychologically it is the will to power"-Jung

AI's contribution in optimizing inventory management and logistics

Introduction

In the fast-paced world of commerce, efficient inventory management and logistics are crucial for business success. Artificial Intelligence (AI) has emerged as a transformative force in this arena, offering advanced solutions to optimize operations. This article delves into the role of AI in enhancing inventory management and logistics, highlighting its benefits, applications, and future trends.

Understanding AI in Inventory Management and Logistics

AI encompasses a range of technologies, including machine learning, predictive analytics, and automation, that can process and analyze vast amounts of data to make intelligent decisions. In the context of inventory management and logistics, AI helps streamline processes, reduce costs, and improve accuracy and efficiency.

The Role of AI in Inventory Management

Predictive Analytics for Demand Forecasting

One of the most significant contributions of AI to inventory management is predictive analytics. By analyzing historical data, current trends, and external factors, AI can accurately forecast demand. This helps businesses maintain optimal inventory levels, avoiding both overstocking and stockouts. Predictive analytics also enables companies to anticipate seasonal fluctuations and adjust their inventory accordingly.

Automated Replenishment Systems

AI-driven automated replenishment systems can monitor inventory levels in real-time and trigger reorders when stock falls below a predetermined threshold. This automation reduces the risk of human error and ensures that inventory is always available to meet customer demand. It also frees up employees to focus on more strategic tasks, enhancing overall productivity.

Inventory Optimization

AI can optimize inventory by identifying slow-moving and fast-moving items, helping businesses make informed decisions about product placement and stock levels. Through sophisticated algorithms, AI analyzes sales data, lead times, and carrying costs to recommend the best inventory strategies. This optimization minimizes waste and improves cash flow.

Real-Time Inventory Tracking

Real-time inventory tracking is another area where AI excels. Using technologies like RFID and IoT sensors, AI can provide up-to-the-minute information on inventory status. This visibility helps businesses manage their stock more effectively, reducing the risk of lost or misplaced items and improving order fulfillment rates.

AI in Logistics

Route Optimization

In logistics, AI plays a crucial role in route optimization. By analyzing traffic patterns, weather conditions, and delivery schedules, AI can determine the most efficient routes for delivery vehicles. This reduces fuel consumption, lowers transportation costs, and ensures timely deliveries, enhancing customer satisfaction.

Warehouse Management Systems

AI-powered warehouse management systems (WMS) streamline warehouse operations by automating tasks such as sorting, picking, and packing. These systems use machine learning algorithms to improve warehouse layout and workflow, maximizing space utilization and reducing handling times. AI also helps in tracking inventory within the warehouse, ensuring accurate stock levels.

Autonomous Vehicles and Drones

AI is driving the adoption of autonomous vehicles and drones in logistics. Autonomous trucks and delivery vans can operate around the clock, reducing labor costs and increasing efficiency. Drones, on the other hand, offer a rapid delivery option for small parcels, especially in hard-to-reach areas. These innovations are transforming the logistics landscape, making deliveries faster and more reliable.

Benefits of AI in Inventory Management and Logistics

Improved Accuracy and Efficiency

AI enhances the accuracy of inventory management and logistics operations. By reducing human error and automating repetitive tasks, AI ensures that inventory records are precise and up-to-date. This accuracy leads to better decision-making and more efficient operations.

Cost Reduction

Implementing AI in inventory management and logistics can significantly reduce costs. Automated systems lower labor expenses, while predictive analytics and route optimization minimize inventory carrying costs and transportation expenses. These savings can be reinvested into other areas of the business, driving growth and profitability.

Enhanced Customer Satisfaction

AI contributes to improved customer satisfaction by ensuring that products are available when needed and deliveries are made on time. Real-time tracking and efficient order fulfillment processes enhance the overall customer experience, leading to higher retention rates and increased brand loyalty.

Case Studies of AI in Inventory Management and Logistics

Amazon's Use of AI in Warehousing

Amazon is a pioneer in using AI to optimize its warehousing operations. The company's fulfillment centers use AI-powered robots to move items, reducing the time it takes to process orders. AI algorithms also help Amazon predict demand and manage inventory levels, ensuring that products are always available for quick shipment.

Walmart's Predictive Analytics

Walmart leverages AI-driven predictive analytics to manage its vast inventory. By analyzing data from sales, weather forecasts, and other external factors, Walmart can anticipate demand and adjust its inventory levels accordingly. This approach has helped the retail giant reduce stockouts and overstock situations, improving efficiency and customer satisfaction.

Challenges and Considerations

Data Privacy and Security

One of the main challenges of implementing AI in inventory management and logistics is ensuring data privacy and security. Businesses must protect sensitive information from cyber threats and comply with data protection regulations. Robust security measures and regular audits are essential to maintain the integrity of AI systems.

Implementation Costs

While AI offers significant benefits, the initial implementation costs can be high. Businesses need to invest in technology, infrastructure, and training to integrate AI into their operations. However, the long-term savings and efficiency gains often outweigh the initial expenditure.

Future Trends in AI and Logistics

The future of AI in inventory management and logistics looks promising. Advancements in machine learning, IoT, and robotics will continue to drive innovation in this field. Businesses can expect more sophisticated AI systems that offer even greater accuracy, efficiency, and cost savings. Additionally, the integration of AI with other technologies, such as blockchain, will enhance transparency and traceability in supply chains.

Conclusion

AI is revolutionizing inventory management and logistics, offering businesses the tools they need to optimize their operations. From predictive analytics and automated replenishment systems to route optimization and autonomous vehicles, AI enhances accuracy, efficiency, and customer satisfaction. While there are challenges to overcome, the benefits of AI make it a valuable investment for businesses looking to stay competitive in today's fast-paced market.
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AIinLogistics #InventoryManagement #SupplyChainOptimization #BusinessEfficiencyIntroduction

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Impact and introduction
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His first thoughts about his little predicament were that it was nothing like the anime he’d watched.
Finding yourself suddenly free falling from hundreds of thousands of feet in the sky was significantly more terrifying than it had seemed while cozied up in his bed, wrapped up in three-plus blankets and contently slurping his microwave ramen.
That said, he felt justified in screaming like a little girl. “Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit! Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit!” What was happening? Where was he? He had just stepped out of his house for a ramen run at the nearest gas station, and now this was happening. Great, just great, now he wasn’t going to be able to watch anymore anime- he stopped suddenly. “Oh, of course,” he muttered to himself, “That’s what’s going on here.” He was suddenly as stoic as a knight in shining armor as he plummeted through the sky, and he pushed the slightly problematic matter of falling out of his mind and focused on what would be important: His story. First: his name was Caen Eloso. He came from a strange other world with wondrous technology that left nothing to the imagination. Caen was what was in his third year at his school, Hansen Academy High School in Colorado Springs, Colorado, where teenagers his age were taught arithmetic, science and language punctuation before they went off into the world on their own. Colorado was one of fifty individually operating states in his home country called America, which was home to more than three hundred million people and overseen by a President.. America was located on one of 7 continents in his world, called Earth. There were a great many other countries besides America, of which he knew varying amounts about their cultures that he could give little tidbits of information about, but he figured he knew the most about Japan. Japan was basically heaven. The Japanese people were responsible for creating the best possible thing that his world had to offer, a wondrous thing called anime. He had dedicated his life to exploring every nook and cranny that was connected to the world of anime, and there was nothing that brought him more happiness than binging.
However, he figured he oughta remember some cooler stuff about Earth (he couldn’t really expect many people to weeb out with his stories without watching anime in person) if he ever found himself in a tight spot and needed to, say, entertain a dragon or something. Because…
He was ninety-nine percent sure that he had just been isekai’d.

That’s why, while plummeting to what seemed to be his inevitable doom, he kept a level head. Ignoring the previous screaming-like-a-five-year-old fit. Because, of course, anyone that was summoned to another world via falling from the sky always survived; it was kind of a given, otherwise the story wouldn’t get anywhere, duh. Whether it be due to some miraculous vitality, impossible superpowers, a one-time “safe-landing” provided by the dude that summoned them, or (and what he personally was hoping for) a rescue from some either super-shy or super-pissy elf hottie in possession of a huge rack… of swords, you pervert, that dressed in some skimpy armor (that really would do nothing to protect the vital organs, from a defensive standpoint) and who would kick off the protagonist’s harem.
When he actually gave it thought, he realized he wasn’t really all that interested in a harem, and kinda found the thought of one IRL gross. Like, did he even have to explain? But he knew that if he’d said that in an online chat with one of his internet buddies, they would definitely try to overrun his laptop with viruses. In what was now his previous life, he had had little to no experience with talking to girls, let alone “getting some action”. He really hadn’t seen the point, considering how difficult 3D girls were to handle. That said, he never really got into the hardcore otaku-type 2D obsession stuff, like buying lewd figurines and pasting posters all over your room and buying body pillows of your favorite waifu. He was just a hardcore watcher, and that kind of made-up for his lack of other tendencies. He would frequently spend 12+ hours a day shacked up in his room in 6 hour sessions of binging anime at 1.5 times speed; (he wanted to get in as much watching as possible) and that was only on weekdays. Yeah. With school. (Needless to say his grades weren’t exactly top notch) But weekends were another story, with him usually staying up till four in the morning on Friday night and then sleeping until twelve, when he would wake up and choose whether or not to eat before watching until he was told to get off, and then stuffing his fat face in the kitchen to his heart’s content. The point was, he had originally decided he didn’t want to “waste time” on a girlfriend. (Not that he was exactly confident he would be on anyone's radar if he were to try)
Anyways, more and more, (before he found himself falling from the sky of his new world) Caen had found himself feeling lonelier and more depressed as time went by, and so, he decided that in his new life he was going to quit his otaku and introvert tendencies and find the love of his life in what was to be his new world. Quite the goal.
With his mind made up, (this was some relatively quick thinking given the situation; he’d been falling for about four and a half minutes before coming upon this decision and entirely giving up on his old world and everything he had loved in it) (Besides his love of anime) he realized something… interesting. He hadn’t noticed it due to being lost in thought and not being capable of feeling it (probably his magical protection or something that came with being summoned), but he was currently a ball of flame. If he had been wearing clothes earlier during his fall, and he hadn’t actually bothered to check because of his little fit, they were long since burnt to a crisp. Even though he was certain he had a grasp on the situation, he couldn’t stop himself from freaking out just a little bit, especially as he felt himself growing closer and closer to the ground. ‘Alright, you can rescue me now,’ he muttered to himself, though his words were lost to the wind. His eyes widened. He realized he was too fast, far too fast. This entry was apparently going to be very flashy, which he wasn’t against, but… He could hardly gauge distance before he had halved it. Twenty thousand feet, ten thousand feet, five thousand, he broke through low hanging cloud cover, two thousand.. He shut his eyes as tight as he could and pulled his limbs in tight while covering his ears to brace himself and-
Boom.
_ _ _ _ _
Learning to walk and not-squirrels
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The sound of impact deafens him. He instantaneously loses awareness of anything else besides the sound, but somehow remains conscious, unaware of if he had completely shattered into a million billion pieces or not. For time out of mind he couldn’t move any part of himself. His ears ring and his head throbbed something awful. He could not conceive what would make him capable of surviving a fall like that. Then, slowly, ever so slowly, he opened an eye to gauge his surroundings…
He was in a crater. Caen had expected as much, but his jaw literally dropped in surprise, something he thought no one actually did. It was at least eight hundred feet from edge-to-edge and four hundred feet deep, the ground smoldering, red-hot and smoky, but surprisingly only warm where he lay (thank you, summoners). He must’ve stayed stagnant longer than he thought for it to have cooled enough to touch. He slowly pushed himself into a seated position, sitting on his right leg and letting his left arm rest on his left leg, which he had bent at the knee. He once again surveyed his crater by twisting his head around.
Quite the entrance. “I guess this fits into the one-time no fall damage category…” he muttered to himself, running his hand through his hair, making note that it was surprisingly silky. “Cause there’s no way this is a vitality thing, right? Way too overpowered.” For a minute he sat like that, until he realized that something was tugging on the back of his mind. At first he ignored it like he would a buzzing insect, but it kept poking at his subconscious. And then he was hit with it with as much force as when his sister sent him to Jupiter for accidentally breaking her new phone; that wasn’t his voice. ‘Huh?’ Neither was that. His eyes darted to the sides of his vision where it gently rested on the sides of his face. His hair. It was much, much longer than it was in his old world, reaching as far as to hang below his pecs. It was shiny and straight, and didn’t look like it had ever been cut. But that didn’t startle him as much as its color did.
Caen thought back to the fairy tales and stuff of his childhood, and about how they tended to over exaggerate the features of their characters and the objects in them so that the average kid could understand it better, with phrases like “as beautiful as a freshly-picked flower”, “as strong as a bull”, “as bright as the sun itself”, and “as white as snow”. Well, now he wasn’t so assuming that those were mere stories and not just incredible experiences from the writers, because he was witnessing something impossibly… beautiful. Because his hair was white. A stark white, with an almost silvery sheen to it. Like when you wake up the morning after a snowstorm and open your window to see if school is canceled, and the snow blinds you when you look at it because it's reflecting the morning sun. Beautiful. He quite literally couldn’t think of another word for it. Slowly, he reached up to touch it again, once again feeling the impossibly smooth sensation. It glided over his fingers like water. And then he saw the fingers of his hand. Long and slender, perfect and unblemished. He was dumbfounded. ‘Are these really… mine?’ he asked quietly with his new voice. ‘A new body was always possible, I suppose, but I thought if that were to happen I would first have to be reincarnated and grow up with it myself. Did this body… come into existence just for me when I got here? I would hate it if I kicked out someone's soul so mine could stay here or whatever.’ He stood shakily. He was tall. Taller than in his other life, where he’d stood at around five-ten, Caen figured he was now around six-two. And, what he found almost as shocking as his hair, was that he was fit. Or perhaps thin would be a better word, something he had never been before. His stomach felt strange to him as it no longer bulged, and when on a whim he attempted the stretches he wasn’t close to being capable of before, he did so with ease. He could reach his feet when he sat and stretched out his legs, and he could even easily touch his toes. He was in the middle of attempting to put his foot behind his head when he realized he should probably get a move on and get out of there. He guessed that he most likely looked like a meteor for any settlement within a few hundred miles of his crash site. He quickly tapped his foot on a particularly smoldery-looking piece of earth to test if he could withstand the heat like before. He once again found it to be only pleasantly warm. With that reassurance in mind, he decided to get himself out of the crater. That was, before he realized he’d need to learn to walk again. He fell hard and broke his fall with his arms. His muscles felt unused and unfamiliar, though the movement of his arms came more naturally than the rest. At first, his legs were very wobbly and his knees shook and moved sharply if he strained them too much or too little, causing them to buckle and him to fall and roll back down to the center of the crater when he tried to walk out. It didn’t help that it was a pretty consistently steep climb to the edge. He must have been at it for at least an hour. But the distance was good practice for him, and with a lot of rolling in the scorched earth he finally managed to get himself to the edge. The adjustment period wasn’t that awful, considering, and he felt he should be kind of proud for learning so quickly. (At least that's how he thought of it) He stood up on the rim of the crater to see exactly where he was. A pretty considerable distance away he could see trees ringing the crater site, and he decided that he had landed in a forest. The further away from the edge the less burnt and bent the trees were, from the shockwave that came with the force of the impact, he decided. He sat down, leaned back and let his feet rest on the decline of the crater. It was incredible. It felt like he’d just woken up after twelve hours of sleep, and his mind was buzzing with activity like he hadn’t experienced before. Everything was so fresh. He didn’t feel tired or winded at all, and he saw everything in vivid detail, even though all there was to see was the smoldering earth and the forest in the distance. He even tried breathing in deep with his nose, but all he got was burnt dirt and he started coughing from the smokiness of it. Despite this, he smiled. He hadn’t felt like this in ages, a thought he had believed was reserved for seventy-year-olds after getting their backs adjusted by a chiropractor. He jumped up, deciding that the first thing he should do would be to find a settlement of some sort, or at least a stream so that he could drink some water. He wasn’t particularly thirsty, but the thought of a cool liquid down his throat made him shiver. He also wanted to eat something, and decided to keep an eye out for nuts or berries in the forest that looked innocent enough. And so he started his trek. Soon he was walking on long, springy grass and gazing at all kinds of fauna that was surprisingly familiar. He couldn’t really see a difference in the trees or bushes at first, but when he plucked a leaf from the low hanging branch of a tree that looked like the one in his backyard, he saw that the pattern of the veins was definitely different, if not by much. He could at least tell that, since he had played under that tree when he was little. He also saw a lot of strange forest critters, and his heightened senses picked up on their presences like a radar. Soon there were dozens of them watching him from the trees, giving him a wide berth but for some reason following, so he still caught a few glances. Most had bushy tails and large ears with short whiskers on their little snouts, and tiny little heads that looked like those of baby foxes. The overwhelming majority were a sandy brown, but a few times he also saw one that looked blue and one that looked red, and even one that was pink, but these were always directly in the shadows of the trees and bushes and would dart away as soon as he tried for a closer look. A different species that looked like a miniature boar no larger than a bowling ball, complete with tusks, a stubby tail and hooves, trotted directly trotted directly through his path with its head held high in what looked like a show of contempt before disappearing into a bush. It was totally adorable and he regretted not trying to pick it up before it had disappeared. He winced internally as he thought of how many of these balls of fluff were incinerated in his landing. Slowly, as he trekked on, the creatures became more and more daring, darting past him and soon getting in his full view shamelessly, but they didn’t seem to have any ill intent, so he really didn’t mind. At least, they didn’t look predatory. (though he inwardly didn’t trust that idea from his knowledge of anime) Suddenly, one that was much larger than the others, probably the pack leader, scurried directly in front of him and stood on its short hind legs, its arms drawn together. It was similar to the way squirrels “stood”. Caen paused mid-step. It had some sort of presence, and its pose seemed to indicate that it wanted him to sit down so they could have a conversation. Unlike the other not-squirrels, (as he decided to temporarily call them) this one’s coat looked much fluffier and was a rich, chocolate brown, and its ears had white tufts at the ends. Its tail twitched and he also noticed that towards the tip of it the hair was also white. It gave off some sort of aura. Caen crouched. ‘Hey there, little guy. What can I do for you?’ He asked in the same voice he would use for a cute dog or other friendly animal. It tilted its head and he had to stop himself from launching at it in a surprise hug attack. It stared at him for a little longer. Then, out of nowhere, it beckoned to him with a little arm, turned, and started running off. For a second, Caen stayed crouched, dumbfounded at what he’d just witnessed, until dozens of the hiding squirrels started running in the same direction as the big one. He shook it off and decided this was supposed to be his first big event in his story, and so he started sprinting after it, because these little guys were speedy. He ran for more than ten minutes, almost losing track of the pack until he caught glimpses of a bushy tail or fluffy ears that kept him on their trail. Since his endurance was off the charts now, he actually enjoyed the chase, and took the opportunity to breathe in the rich forest aroma as he ran. Soon, he broke out into a small clearing, where he saw the leader “standing” beside the mouth of a cave. The once again shy not-squirrels all hid in the trees and bushes that surrounded the clearing, and all he could see were their cute little button eyes glimmering in the leaves. There must have been hundreds of them. He hesitatingly walked over to the giant not-squirrel (because that was what it was in comparison) and crouched down again. ‘Do you want me to go inside there?’ He asked, pointing at the cave, and turning his gaze to the eyes of the creature. It stared at him uncomprehendingly, its black eyes giving no indication of some great intelligence that secretly lurked. He sighed. ‘Might as well,’ he muttered, walking over the cave entrance. It was as dark as one would imagine, but there appeared to be a faint candle light of sorts dancing on the walls around a bend about a hundred feet in. It also smelled heavily like some sort of crushed herb he was unfamiliar with. It almost overshadowed the rancid smell of rotting flesh. He narrowed his eyes at the giant not-squirrel and the rest of the pack hiding in the bushes before walking in. There was definitely something alive in here, and from the smell, it or they were dying.
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Elf hotties and magic
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The further into the cave he went, the more overwhelming the stench of death became. Caen gave himself a second to regain his composure, then covered his nose as he turned the bend. His eyes widened in shock. A pretty girl with silver hair and sharply tipped ears lay upon a bed of leaves, naked save several fern leaves that provided her the barest of modesty. Her form was softly illuminated by several low burning candles that framed her. A singular giant fern rested on her stomach, covering where James guessed the mortal wound was inflicted. Her eyes were closed and she breathed shallowly, and sweat was beaded all over her body. The different colored not-squirrels he had seen earlier were all gathered there, watching her intently, but quickly turned their heads as they heard his bare feet shuffling on the stone floor. All three of them were there, the red, blue, and pink furred not-squirrels, as well as a green one that he hadn’t seen before. They stared at him for several seconds before all but the green not-squirrels scurried behind him. The green one leaned its head down and seemed to whisper something in the ear of the elf. Caen’s world slowed. Her eyes crept open, a rich, deep purple that seemed to shimmer with silver dust like stars. She ever so slightly turned her head to look at the not-squirrel questioningly, and then her gaze drifted to Caen. As their eyes met, he felt a shiver and a volt of electricity passed invisibly between them through their gaze. Her eyes widened with what looked like disbelief, and she smiled at him ever so softly. Caen felt entranced. There was something special about this girl, something so very special, and he felt a stirring in his chest that made his stomach twinge, but not unpleasantly. She beckoned to him with a finger and he slowly approached her and knelt. Those few steps, with her eyes fixated on his, and his on hers, felt like eternity, and he couldn’t break the gaze if he wanted. ‘Greetings, White One.’ She said softly, still not breaking eye contact. Her voice sounded as though it were made to sing. ‘I apologize… I… was meant to be there to greet you upon your arrival. The best I could manage was providing you a safe entrance from the heavens.’ She said sadly, and a tear welled up in the corner of her eye. He hesitatingly reached out a hand and cupped her face, gently wiping away the tear with his thumb. She shouldn’t cry. He knew that, somehow, that it was wrong, that she shouldn’t ever have to experience sadness like that. She breathed in sharply at his touch, and then her gaze softened. ‘Who… are you?’ He asked quietly. She smiled sadly and tears flowed freely on the back of his hand. ‘Unfortunately, I don’t have the leisure to cry with you. I am glad that my friends were able to escort you here and provide you with safe company, for the forest is a very dangerous place, but… more than that, I am glad that I was able to see you… at… least once…’
Her eyes drifted closed. He quickly grabbed her arm and was hugely relieved to find a pulse, ever so faint.
She is so close to death, White One.
She has been holding out so that she could meet you, White One.
She has been waiting so very long for you, White One.
She spent what little mana she had left providing you safe entry into our world, White one.
These sweet-sounding voices echoed in his mind, though all of melancholy tone. He slowly stood and turned to face the not-squirrels.
Please save our Silver Lady, White One.
This voice was deep and strained with pain and suffering. In front of him stood the pack leader. He sat just in front of the other four not-squirrels, all mimicking his position. All Caen could do was nod, even though he was dazed and had no idea how he would be able to help her at all. ‘Show me the wound.’ he declared in a voice that sounded much more confident than he felt.
The four different colored not-squirrels glanced at the leader, and, the words still echoing inside of Caen’s mind like before, he said, ‘Do as the White One proclaims.’ They unhesitatingly scurried to their “Silver Lady” and carefully removed the large fern. Caen did not react how he thought he would. He saw it and his body shook, but not with disgust, or surprise, or horror, but with rage. He clenched his fists and the muscles in his arms grew taut as his fingernails dug into his palms. Her stomach had been ferociously torn open, revealing a sight that was best kept undescribed. His voice shook with power as he spat, “Who… Who did this… to her?”
His head snapped to the not-squirrel leader, his wild, hateful eyes boring into the creature. “We do not know, White One,

Chapter One
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-Rooftop of the White Flame Factory-
Grigory smiled nervously at his men as they lounged on the rooftop patio. As the sun sank lower, he was happy to see them relax after the day's tensions. He’d wanted to give them their imps when they first arrived, or after the demonstration, but they seemed a little too skittish. Their reactions were causing him to doubt his strategy. If his most loyal supporters were repelled by them, wider acceptance was going to be a non-trivial hurdle. He’d been working on an improved version of the imps for months, but making them less threatening, or light forbid, ‘cute’, seemed deeply at odds with his plans. He hoped time might be the missing ingredient. Once they get a bit more familiar with them, they’ll come around. The imps were really nothing for them to fear.
The demonologist sat alone, observing how his men were dealing with the news. He was deep in thought, adjusting his plans and ruminating on his concerns. Was he forcing them to do things they weren’t comfortable with? The basis of his entire plan was that the whole world was to benefit from the imps, so it had to start somewhere, or he might as well give up. They seemed to be taking it as well as he could have hoped.
Catching a wisp of savoury smells, he thought it was scarcely fair to relax while Stanisk was busy in the kitchen. He rose to see if he could lend a hand with dinner. During their overland trek to the capital months ago, it was clear that Stanisk was a superlative cook, but Grigory was a dexterous helper. Much of what he knew about surgical techniques had been picked up preparing meals.
Grigory arrived at the great hall that served as the eating area. In the centre of the chamber, two long tables stretched across the room, capable of seating fifty, though only four simple chairs he had crafted a few weeks ago were present. His men had yet to grasp the potential of the imps' labour; instead of proper seating, they had improvised with crates and timbers haphazardly arranged around the tables. Near one table, a jute sack of potatoes lay abandoned on the floor, possibly mistaken for a makeshift seat. Grigory hoped they'd be eating the potatoes, not sitting on them.
Separated from the hall by a low half-wall, the kitchen bustled with activity. Stanisk sat on the thick timber counter, a casual sentinel over dinner’s preparations, while Jourgun and Klive stood nearby, deep in conversation with their commander.
Stanisk’s five imps, in their fancy clothes, dashed around the kitchen. Under his expert guidance they were preparing a grand feast. One was peeling potatoes, another stirred a great bubbling pot, while two were doing dishes.
“Sir, did you know that Stanisk’s imps have names? And fancy clothes! Can I have one like his?” Klive blurted when he saw his employer. “Uh, as it pleases milord, of course.”
“Plus mine bow when they bring us beers! They don't do that fresh out of hell!” Stanisk's toothy smile implied he might have been bowed at by imps a half dozen times already.
Grigory tilted his head and blinked for a second.
Surely a bit of clothes can’t have that much of an impact on their acceptance?
“Oh, Of course! Certainly!” he paused again. “Feel free to ask Stanisk for tips on how he made his.” Observing the bustling activity, “It looks like dinner is well in hand?” The kitchen was huge, far larger than the one at Planed Pine Peak Inn. A half dozen dishes simmered or baked, their aromas — exotic spices, rich gravies, and roasted meats filled the expansive space.
Stanisk replied without glancing away from the imps handling the tasks. “Well in hand, boss. Take ‘er easy tonight!” The imps' movements were quick and fluid, their antics distractingly comical at times. Grigory watched, smiling, as one imp hugged a yam to its chest that likely weighed more than it did, and made its way along the countertop from the vegetable sack to the cutting board. Each step was an exaggerated sway, the creature was badly top-heavy and teetering.
With effort he pulled his focus back, “Capital! I’ve a matter to attend to! Smells great already!”
Grigory went into the factory proper to whip up enough chairs for everyone. Simple wooden ones for now, but with cushions. Cushions were quick enough to make and he had a few cart loads of wool and woollen fabrics. He watched his imps work, glad he could share them with his whole team now. Obviously it made everything a bit riskier, but it was worth it. One of his concerns was that he’d been overlooking opportunities and uses. He was bound by only being able to think his own thoughts, so he was excited to see what non-demonologists would think of.
They carved and joined the pine chairs with their normal speed and accuracy, but watching them sew was its own reward. The imps wielded needles like longswords in their tiny hands, the points moving too fast to see clearly. They stacked up the plain cushions in a neat pile at the end of their low workbench.
He also didn’t have any utensils, placemats, serving spoons nor trivets either, since this was their first proper meal here. He commanded the imps to make those as well, and carry them like a row of ants from the workshop to the dining hall. The demonologist walked around the table, surveying his work. With a minor gesture of flame he lit the lamps, and frowned at the beige-grey of undyed wool of the chair cushions.
He pulled the chairs out, and one at a time enchanted the cushions to bright, cheerful colours. He was going to make them all company purple, but thought better of it. Enchanting colours was a fun spell to cast, because the act of changing its colour also unravelled enchantment as it went. Much like building and knocking over houses of cards, the end effect was a mundane unenchanted object, but in whatever colour he’d chosen. Having done the spell countless times for entire days to prepare for the midsummer tourney, he didn’t even have to check his notes for any of the hues.
Satisfied with his work, though slightly frustrated that his first and last red cushions weren’t quite the same shade, he sat down. He pulled a notebook out of his satchel and started making notes on his ideas for some improvements, mostly for his own use, but some to the things he’d be soon selling. Lost in his own world, he had no idea how much time had passed when Ros and Taritha joined him at the table.
“Good evening, milord,” Ros said deferentially.
The young herbalist elbowed him, “Come on, he had one rule! He was writing!”
“Oh! Terribly sorry, sir!” Ros stammered.
“Not at all, I was basically doodling. How’s your evening going, is everything to your liking?” Grigory closed his notebook and put it away.
“Amazing milord, These rooms are huge! They're bigger than some of the houses I was looking at!” Taritha said.
“Of course! No one wants to live in dingy cells! Glad to hear! It’s easy to make a place bigger when you are building fresh. Let me know if you find anything that needs fixing, our builders are still in town working on the harbour fortress now, but I can have them send someone if there is anything amiss!”
“I don’t reckon neither of us knew palaces this nice existed anywhere, milord!” Ros said with a shrug. “We might not be the best eyes for finding faults!”
“Heh! This is just the rustic first stage! Don’t worry about its crudeness for now, we’ll get there over time!” the demonologist promised, patting his satchel where the notebook of ideas was. His confidence was both unshakeable and unnecessary.
“Not to question your plans, but there are a lot more rooms than people. Are we expecting company? Are we hiring?” Taritha asked. Her eyebrows twitched slightly, having just questioned his plan for the first time.
“Big plans indeed! So that empty stretch east of the main building? That’s also part of our land grant. In a while we’ll be building a barracks there for our troops, while senior officers will stay in the main factory. That’s also why Stanisk will be taking a much more active role with civil defence. It’s central to our plan to secure the town, and by extension our own safety.”
“Our troops? Like us?” Jourgun asked, having joined them at the long table.
“Maybe? Probably not? We’ll see. The plan is to extensively recruit as we can afford it, since the pirate raid was just the beginning. We have something of incredible value, in the form of me, the imps and the factory itself. Many violent people feel they should possess every valuable thing, so we must be vigilant. Not to worry though! That’s just us planning for the worst. In reality, nothing like that will likely happen. Just by being well defended we’ll scare off the greedy.”
“Ah, like why it's dangerous for a beggar to wear a silk robe!” Rikad added as he joined them, along with a few others. The smells from the kitchen were intoxicatingly rich now, as Stanisk and Klive used the imps to finish and plate the meal.
“Just so, a lord can only have what he can defend, and because the first phases of my plan require a certain level of material wealth, I’ll need extensive defences,” Grigory explained as diplomatically as he could.
“The Empire itself will fear our might, milord!” Ros said excitedly.
“Nah, it won’t. That’s a dangerous thought. The Imperial army’s smallest deployable force is a legion, near enough to five thousand men. Even if we hit every hiring and training target, we’se not going to be in the business of fightin’ wars. Just enough to make us a spiky nut. The sort not worth chompin’,’” Stanisk called over from the kitchen.
“Oh,” Ros said, shrinking back into his seat.
“That’s more than all the men in the whole town!” Taritha lamented.
“Yeah, that’s why lil fishing villages don’t win wars. A legion is five thousand infantry with warships, supplies, siege cohorts, and command companies. If’n it’s a real fight, then they might deploy all ten Imperial legions. Then start raising more if’n they’re losing. We ain’t never gonna try to fight that. No nation in the world has ever picked that fight and won.”
To counter the grim tone settling over his celebratory dinner, Grigory chimed in with a reassuring smile, “We’re loyal Hyruxian subjects, and the legions protect us. We pay taxes in full, we’re on the right side of all this. We just want a bit of security against more, uh, regional actors. Besides, a large well equipped force lends our diplomacy weight we wouldn’t otherwise have.”
Now that the table was filling up and his men looked satisfied with his answers, he raised his voice to the kitchen, “How’s it going in there?”
“Good! I bought a deer from one of the hunters this morning, and it turned out just right!” Stanisk replied, personally putting the finishing touches on his creation. Aethlina moved across the kitchen to watch Stanisk work, making Grigory do a double take. He hadn’t realised she was even in the building.
“Oh! Capital! Everyone in the entire company is here now! Even better!” Grigory said, motioning Aethlina to sit by him. He was glad he’d made the full number of chairs!
Stanisk and Klive brought out plates heaped with slices of braised venison, steamed tubers and sautéed onions. Tubs of butter, bowls of gravy, and finally a heaping basket of fresh buns followed. Stanisk took his seat and, smiling with pride, “What’re you helpless kittens lookin’ at? Never seen dinner ‘afore? Dig in!”
The feast was a perfect end to a troubling day, and even though the conversation died down as they ate, Grigory observed every single one of his hirelings intently, relieved to see not a single one seemed put off by a meal made by demons. Catching Stanisk’s eye, he made an empty cup gesture.
“Imps! Bring us all some drinks! Wine, beer and water!” Stanisk shouted to his imps. With speed and efficiency, the little demons filled clay cups and brought everyone three drinks, exactly as ordered.
“Ah, dammit, I meant—It’s fine. Drink what you want and I’ll just dump the rest!” The chief of security’s good humour faded for an instant before returning twice as bright.
“No, I love having three drinks! And the water and beer are cold! In the summer! The gods themselves envy me!” Rikad declared.
“Uh oh! It looks like Mage Thippily made imps, but the imps made the real monster!” Kedril retorted, gesturing at Rikad holding three cups between his hands, rotating them to drink out of each, while spilling beer all over his own arm.
Their high spirits encouraged Grigory. He’d worried they would be morose and frightened tonight, after making them to live in what could be described as a hive of demons. Joking about the imps was beyond his expectations, so he smiled without speaking, sipping his red wine. Not his cherished Malaentian Red, but a nice varietal from the mainland he’d recently imported a few cases of. Once the plates were empty, Stanisk had the imps clear the table and start washing up while everyone remained seated at the long pine table, bellies full to bursting.
“That was spectacular Stanisk! Thank you!” Grigory offered, and everyone else chimed in a breath later.
“Nothing like a lifetime of bland ration bars for months to really spark an interest in what good food ought to be! I’m glad ya’se liked it,” the big veteran said dismissively.
“How is everyone finding their new accommodations? I know I don’t have all the furniture done just yet, but is everyone good for tonight?” Grigory asked, ever the eager host.
The men nodded and looked at each other. Complaining was frowned upon and nothing here was remotely a hardship.
“Capital! Glad to hear it, and by all means bring it to my attention if your needs are unmet!” Grigory sat still and everyone kept looking at him.
Now’s as good a time as any. It’s not even a surprise, I think I mentioned it a few times already.
“Ahem! So! I’d like to present each of you with your own imps! Some ground rules though; there may be people that aren’t ready for this style of magic, so I ask that you don’t mention anything about them anywhere outside of the factory. Or even imply there are any magical creatures, just that things get made here?”
He waited until they all at least nodded.
“Alright! Here you go, I have one for everyone! The imps are identical, so don’t worry about which ones you get. Um. Good luck?” With a shrug he reached down beside his chair and from a leather case he pulled a series of carved wooden boxes, and passed them out to everyone sitting at the table.
***
With a muted clatter, Taritha watched as the small dark boxes were distributed. She wasn’t sure if there was one for her, being fairly new to the company. She wasn’t sure how she felt; owning demons seemed like a big step, but the ancient urge to possess something nice or powerful was one she wasn’t immune to. Her heart leapt as a heavy box slid in front of her.
With trepidation, she touched it with one finger; it appeared to be regular wood, perhaps stained oak. The box was small and rectangular, quite thin, and she held it easily in one hand. It was narrow enough to fit comfortably between her thumb and fingers, its weight noticeable but not oppressive. She had expected dread, palpable evil, or something, but it just felt a bit heavy. Turning it over, she saw no visible clasps or hinges. The outside was covered in the flawless ornate carvings she was starting to grow familiar with. This time, the carvings depicted joyful industrial scenes—strong men swinging square hammers, smoke stacks, and laden ships and carts. The central image on each side was gilded with gold leaf, making it strikingly dignified.
Ignoring the excitement and increasing movement around her, she felt as if she were in her own universe. She slowly pulled on the lid, finding it opened on tiny hidden hinges, revealing three ebony totems inside. They were the size and shape of a fairytale wand, resting on a bed of lush green velvet, held in place by a broad ribbon tied in a perfect bow.
Even without considering the priceless nature of the artefacts, she was impressed, almost distracted, by the quality of the presentation. He didn’t have to go to such lengths; she’d expected them to be simply handed to her.
She slid one of the totems out without undoing the bow. It was cool and heavy but otherwise seemed normal. She could see layers of impossibly fine carving, this time gilded with silver. She could sense the potent magic in the object, but it felt strange. She’d examined other enchanted items before, and their enchantments were all transcendently beautiful in a complex and technical way. This was so dense it felt like nothing. Or perhaps everything? She wasn’t sure, but it wasn’t at all like the other objects. Stilling herself and trying to puzzle out its secrets brought her no closer to any revelation. She shook her head and resolved to investigate further in private. She returned the totem to its place in the box and gently closed it.
Only now did she notice the table was thick with imps, more than twenty darting and leaping energetically. Her colleagues had summoned theirs and were already giving orders.
“You two, throw the third imp as high as you can!”
“Merp!”
“All of you, cross the table as fast as you can, but walk on your hands!”
“Merp!”
“Duel with these forks!”
“Merp! Merp!”
The men were laughing and pointing between shouting out fresh orders. All the commands were pointless and frivolous, making Taritha powerfully uncomfortable. These were forces of nature, extraplanar beings of unimaginable power, and they were being made to sprint into empty mugs to see how far the mug would fly!?
She shot a questioning look to the master demonologist to gauge his reaction. He was smiling and complimenting their creativity, so maybe she was overreacting? Still, she had no interest in wasting them on silly games. Emergencies only. Or at least serious concerns only. Not for dodging knotted linen napkins, that’s for sure!
With the burden of responsibility successfully dodged, she was free to watch everyone else’s fun. The cacophony of excitement was so infectious that she found herself giggling and pointing at them racing as makeshift horses, with an imp bent over holding the tiny waist of the imp in front of him, while a third one sat atop as a rider. They were so silly looking and energetic.
“You’re sure this doesn’t hurt or anger them?” Taritha asked.
“Oh my no, it’s not like that at all. They have minds, but lack awareness, or awareness of their own mind I guess? It’s fine! They are just made out of the same stuff as demons, but not actually demonic.” The mage stood up and stretched. “They are remarkably durable, it’s unlikely anything short of silvered steel will harm them. I, on the other hand, am at risk of being badly over-tired already! I trust you will be okay, left on your own! I’ll see you in the morning!”
“I’se properly tired too, but if you want, let's pop into the factory and I’ll show you how to get them to make their own clothes. It’s just tellin’ ‘em to do that, so you’se might not need too much hand holding!” Stanisk pushed himself away from the long table, and motioned for them to follow him.
They went into the cavernous factory, just across the hallway. What was an impressive and huge room in the daylight was now an infinite blackness, like a starless night. A few men had grabbed leviathan-oil lamps off the table, and they huddled in a small circle of warm, safe light. They gathered around a long low table, and Stanisk laid out a few bolts of fabric. The fine weaves were familiar to Taritha; they were the same as those used in the clothes she’d been getting from the company.
“It’s simple enough,” Stanisk said as he put a heavy leather bag of tools on the table. “Just say what you want, with as much or as little detail, and they’ll just make that.”
“Imps, make a suit of legion plate armour, imp-sized, out of shoe leather!” Rikad said with glee.
“Merp!” replied several at once, as they began cutting and forming the leather without hesitation. The imps even used grey wool for the under-mail parts, and tiny flares of hellfire to warp the leather into the right shapes. Soon, a tiny suit of black armour lay on the table, looking like what an imperial heavy infantryman would wear, but distorted to the proportions of the gawky imps.
“I dub thee, Imperial commander, Real Imp. Don thy armour!” Rikad ordered. “Do they remember their names?” he asked over his shoulder to Stanisk.
“Oh yeah, they’re proper sharp!” he confirmed.
“Create an imp-sized lord's robe with a sash of office! When it is done, you shall be known as D’Imp Lomat! I might need a minute to think of the last one though…” Rikad said to everyone watching his imps.
Reluctantly, Taritha opened the box and invoked her three imps. She looked at them closely; as far as she could tell, they were perfectly interchangeable with every other imp.
Looking over the fabrics, she chose a striking blue, a deep red, and a golden yellow. “Imps! Make imp-sized sundresses, mainly white with these colours as a main theme. and matching coloured sun hats,” she added hastily. Their heads were distractingly inhuman, so covering them might help. She watched them work, even interrupting a few times to ask for embroidered details and minor adjustments. Once they finished, she had them don their new outfits.
Oh! The hems seem scandalously short on their long lanky legs! Better than before, but not by a lot.
“Imps, please put on the hats that match the colour of your dress.”
“Merp.”
Much better! They look like ladies now!
“You are now Lady Bluebird, Lady Crossbill, and…” She paused at the last one, thinking of songbirds that were as bright yellow as the fabric. “Miss Goldfinch!”
She leaned back and admired her little ladies. They were far less threatening now, and their dull crimson skin really made the dresses look extra vibrant.
“Dang Taritha, how did you make yours so pretty? I want some pretty ones!” Jourgun commented as he looked over.
“Drool over your own demons! These are mine!” she said playfully. There was an undercurrent of possessiveness that she didn’t expect, but these ones were hers now. “Anyways, I’m going to bed too, you guys are too slow! Have fun, boys!” she said as she devoked her imps. The new clothes fell to the work surface.
“Oh yeah, they don’t take that with ‘em, wherever they go, so just keep it in a lil bag or whatever,” Stanisk said when he saw her distress. “They gotta get dressed every time you invoke it,” he shrugged.
So much to learn today!
With a brave smile, she replaced the totems in the box and gathered the dresses and hats. “Mind if I take…” she said as she slowly lifted a lamp from near Rikad.
“Oh yeah, all yours,” he said dismissively, fully engrossed in examining the tiny lordly robes of D’Imp Lomat.
She went back to the hall, up the wide even stairs to the third floor. She’d only spent a bit of time investigating it earlier, as she and Ros had been anxious about being late for dinner. She saw the heap of her worldly possessions against the wall where she’d left them. The only furniture here was the bed, but by the sounds of it, getting some tables, chairs, and wardrobes would be easy enough tomorrow. She placed the totem box and the tiny outfits on the floor beside the bed.
The bed itself was unlike any she’d ever heard of. Crafted with thick pine beams and topped with a mattress of imported cotton, it was probably wider than her entire hovel. A family of five could sleep on it and barely touch. She couldn’t imagine a more lordly bed. Its refined look and the luxurious softness were worlds apart from the coarse fabric and straw she was used to. Sometimes in the fall, she’d add freshly fallen leaves to her straw mattress for extra comfort, but that was a fleeting pleasure. This bed, however, promised constant comfort. She eyed the pile of heavy blankets at the foot of the bed. Recently, she had bought a single blanket from the market, thin and scratchy, but these were the mage’s blankets—thick, plush, and impossibly soft.
She shut the heavy door and took off her tall boots. The floor felt smooth under her bare feet. Even having a floor was a new luxury; she was accustomed to hard-packed dirt floors like most everyone else. This wasn’t just a floor; it was a delicate herringbone pattern of different kinds of wood, obviously done by the agile imps. It was cleaner, smoother, and more level than any table she’d eaten off before the mage came to town.
She stopped admiring the floor and stripped to her shift. She felt exposed being so undressed around so many men. She reasoned it out—the iron and oak door was stronger than a hide flap, and this would doubtlessly be the safest sleep of her life. Just a reaction, not a reality. She left the lamp on the floor and got in bed.
With a panic, she yelped as the whole bed flowed underneath her, as if she’d stepped on the tail of a sleeping cat. She tried to get up but her feet were already off the floor, and she couldn’t find a stable purchase with her hands. She froze up to think her way out of it, and the bed stopped moving almost as soon as she did.
Her heart pounded in her chest.
Was this an enchantment gone awry? Some bed demon?
Slowly, she log-rolled towards the edge of the bed, and the mattress under her also slowly moved, but not enough to stop her. Slow and steady, she might get free yet. Finally, she was close enough to put a foot down and stand. The bed flowed back to being perfectly flat.
She stood up, with a hand to her sternum, trying to catch her breath.
Think! What did the mage say about this today? It would magically adjust? Maybe that was all it was doing?
She leaned over and gently pushed down with a single fist. It was super pliable, then increasingly firm. But it felt unlike anything else—stacks of clothes or hides all felt different when they got pressed.
It must be magic. No time to be timid, and it would be humiliating to go to either the mage or the chief about this.
The only spell she could reliably cast was a gesture of Mana-Visualization. It caused the invisible lines of arcane energy to glow visibly, in bright colours that hinted at their use and purpose. She cast it to better examine her bed. It wasn’t enchanted as she expected; rather, hundreds and hundreds of things inside it were, and they linked and overlapped in ways she wouldn’t understand if she studied enchantments for a decade. She involuntarily took a step back from it, like finding a hundred warhorses inside a small cabinet.
She dismissed the gesture. With renewed determination, she slowly sat down on the bed. It shifted but only a bit. It was very soft and comfortable. Slowly, she turned and laid back, fighting her panic as the mattress kept shifting everywhere her body touched it, unnervingly lifelike. Fully laying down, she stopped and the mattress stopped. Even as her eyes were still wide with terror, she started to calm down. To test her theories, she rolled onto her side, and the mattress under her hip grew softer, and the part under her ribs grew firmer, until the pressure equalised. Rolling back, she felt it shift again, and once more the mattress's firmness changed all up and down her body, stopping once it was the same shape as her body’s pressure, resulting in sublime comfort.
Oh. This is incredible. I get it now!
She reached to the foot of the bed, pulled one of the soft blankets up to her chin, reached down to extinguish the lamp and drifted off into a better sleep than anyone in the history of her family ever had.
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Ive noticed alot of new faces here, and Ive seen alot of "what ______ do I need to buy" posts. Let me start by this is not a flame on yall, but rather a resource! I wanted to compile a decent get started/how to thread for all yall. What I want to do is go over as many parts as possible, their function, and effectiveness. This should probably be a video, but I feel like it would be more useful to yall in written form. :) If you have questions about specific parts, just scroll to what you need. This post will be very long, but hopefully helpful. No comments in this post are meant to bash any brands, so please do not get offended if you have a different mindset than me. Please keep in mind: This is a hobby that you will need to do research on, and struggle through trial and error. Everyone has a different aim in this hobby between looks and performance. They also have a different driving style. Google is your friend, as is the search function in this sub. If you cannot find what you are looking for please speak up, one of the established members of this sub can point you in the right direction. As you tinker, you will learn, and thus your skill and understanding will increase.
For background. Im a performance guy with these things. I do not care if its pretty; I want to climb a wall. I compete roughly 18 times a year. The summer series has about 40 competitors per comp on average and the winter series is about 25 per. Everything I will talk about is a culmination of all that I have learned between my own driving and tinkering, watching and filming other competitors, and knowledge from some top parts producers and awesome content creators that are in my local RCMCCA chapter.
Let me also say that I have no brand affiliation. I have my own RC brand, and I am working to a release, but that will be a different post. I also have various levels of acceptance of brands, owners, and their ethics, but that will not be discussed here... That is not to say that there are not tiers of quality in this hobby. Stock is stock, boutique level brands that sell on their websites are the top, and amazon brands fall somewhere in the middle with varying degrees of effectiveness.
Chassis: This is the basis of your build. It affects virtually every other part and its effectiveness. That being said, short of tires, it is the single most important part on your build. It is also the most ignored part of a rig. I cannot stress enough, upgrading every part on your truck but this will look cool, but it will take away from performance improvement that each one of those fly parts are supposed to provide. Upgrading this should be so high on your list that you did it yesterday. There are some great frame sets out there, and you will not find them on Amazon.
Skid plate: This connects your frame, mototrans unit, and links. Alot of aftermarket frame rails come with them, or those companies have it as an option. Whatever skid you buy, just buy a flat skid. The traditional ones that drop low does provide a lower center of gravity, but it isnt worth hanging up on every obstacle you touch. If you arent sure what to buy, the OGRC flat skid is there as an affordable option that you will never complain about.
Transmission: Translates your motor power into go power, but also holds your motor to the whole truck. The stock unit is fine till you blow out a plastic gear or strip a screw hole. When this happens, get a metal unit. Most all of them are all the same, but a few companies make unique ones like hardpark and LGRP. These units are both great and proprietary, but pricy. There is also one with a built in overdrive (overdrive makes the front tires spin faster than the rear tires, effectively pulling you over an obstacle and mitigating the rigs attempts at flopping backwards). You want the metal gears. For the spur gear, you have to decide what pitch to run. More on that in the next section.
Spur gear pitch: there are two pitches. Mod .3 and Mod .5. Mod .3 is the same as stock, but .5 has less teeth and they are larger. Pay attention to buying motors because they come with one or the other. Neither is better, just a preference.
Brushed Motor: This is a can of worms. For brushed motors, they are a dime a dozen as long as you exclude 2 companies (injora and Mofo RC). The stock size is 030. The correct size is 050. If you are looking outside of the aforementioned companies, you probably will not tell a difference between motors. Injora makes some very hard to kill motors, though they do not have the quality nor power of mofo (they ARE cheaper if cost matters). The two injora motors are the red and purple, and people who have an opinion between the two will die on that hill. If power and quality is what you are after though, buy Mofo motors. They use a proprietary magnet set as well as winding. There is nothing like them. They are plug and play on stock electronics, but in most instances you need to swap the motor mount plate because the holes on the motors are inversed from stock. Where ever you buy motors you can find a plate.
Brushed ESC (electronic speed controllers): This listens to the reciever for input (in stock form the reciever is part of the ESC) and doles out tasks to the servos and motors. V1 is black with an axial logo. It can act as a reciever when you go brushless if you dont want to spend the extra 50 dollars for a proper reciever and controller. V2 (blue) and V3 (spectrum) cannot do this. It is widely accepted as versions progressed, quality decreased. A great replacement option is the Injora MB100. You will have to provide a new receiver and transmitter, but its worth it.
Brushless ESC: If you go to a brushless motor, you will need a new speed controller. The new ESC will also require a new reciever and transmitter. It is almost the cost of a new stock rig to go brushless, so if you arent willing to make that jump do not consider it. Quality brushed setups are amazingly underrated anyway. Furitek is the big name, and they are fine. Better out there is Dinky, Mofo and others.
Brushless Motor: Once again, brushless motor conversions are about the cost of a new stock rig because of the additional ESC, motor mount, reciever, and transmitter required. If you arent ready for that cost, please see the above 3 sections as there are some highly underrated brushed setups. The best motors out there are provided by Furitek, LGRP, and Mofo RC. If you are questioning which one to buy, do yourself a favor and buy a mount from the same brand you select for the motor. I say this because there are differences in mounting screw size, patterns, and pitch between all these brands, as well as intra brand based on motor selection. The two benefits is low throttle modulation (slow crawl) and pure power.
Links: Links connect your axles to your skid plate. "high clearance" links are a cheap on amazon and ali express and good enough. If you see custom built links from a company that you are buying a frame from, those links will cost a firstborn... and they are worth every penny. They are typically hand bent allthread with plastic link ends, and covered by plastic or metal. If you are confused at the type of links I am talking about, go look up RC Steve. If you have a Dremel, I recommend buying M2 all thread, SCX 24 link ends, and cheap calipers online. Building links seems very daunting to anyone who hasnt done it. It is actually easy, just time consuming. Keep in mind you need to match your link length with your drive shafts, but drive shafts are cheap. To keep it simple, the best performing link geometry for the 133.5mm wheelbase is Deadbolt, but two very popular competition link geometries are C10 up front with Deadbolt rear links and Deadbolt front links with Gladiator rear links. This brings the wheelbase to about 145mm. Gladiator geometry is about 155mm.
Drive Shafts: Metal is nice. Plastic stock is better. Use the stock cheap drive shafts as your built in weak point. Everything else in the drive train is much pricer to fix.
Shocks: I apologize ahead of time, because this will be hard for alot of people to hear: longer shocks do not equate to better shocks. With the exception of my rear shocks on my Echo v2, all my socks are stock length because that length is excellent. You only need 2-2.5 tires of flex. More is great for your scale SEMA build, but they will often hinder performance. Oil filled shocks also fix alot of problems that the friction shocks cause, but stock shocks are amazingly good performers. The best shock on the market are the Proline Big Bore Scaler 39mm (and the 50mm in highly specific application) but they cost a kidney.
Axles: There is nothing wrong with your stock axles (as long as you modify them). The steering sucks and the half shafts inside are very weak. There are half shafts on amazon you can buy that look like a drive shaft ujoint where the hubs turn. Buy those, and cut around the axle housing cups at each end to increase turn radius. Yes cutting is scary, and if you dont pay attention you will ruin your housing. If you do it, you will be very happy you did. Stock steering is about 24 degrees, and with this mod you can almost double that. As far as aftermarket, there are 5 SCX 24 specific axles of note: LGRP Super 8, Meus Isokenetic, Mofo x15, Hardpark, and Injora +4. They each have major advantages and drawbacks but all are of similar quality with the exception of Injora. Meus and Mofo are g2g out of the box. Super 8 and Injora need better ujoint style half shafts and shaving, then they are good. You can find the improved half shafts on Exos website as well as Dlux Fab. I have no opinion of hardpark, though a guy in our group was integral in their final design. He likes them.
Overdrive: Stock the front axle drives the same speed as the rear axle. Tons of people make gears to speed up the front axle or slow down the rear, and they all seem to be similar in quality. there is a 15%, 24%, and 33% overdrive option, as well as a underdrive for the rear. Most people run 24%. It is a great goldilocks option. I run 33% in my high end class 3 that only sees crawling in comps.
Knuckles: Most of these knuckles are all the same, with exception of a few. Namely Hardpark LowBlows, Samix, and the three piece axial units. If you arent getting one of these three, just get the cheapest option that you like the looks of. There are a few brands out there that are "off brand" and heavier than most but quality is spotty. With the nicer brands I mentioned they all have options and option parts to increase and decrease weight.
Wheels: All personal preference when it comes to looks. The main performance difference is size and offset. Standard is 1.0, those bicycle tire looking ones are 1.8s and the in between that work for classes 2 and 3 in RCMCCA rules are 1.3. Most are an absolute pain in the ass to assemble, and the cheaper they are, the higher likelyhood of having 83 screws per wheel to install. Notably easy to assemble units are from LGRP and Prophet designs.
Tires: The best two tire brands out there are Jconcepts and RC4WD (not to be mistaken for RCAWD)... fight me. Both have superior compounds and great tread designs. Little Guy Racing Parts makes a good and affordable tire, but the hype is in the marketing. Injora makes good tire and many are great knock offs of other brands. With every brand, do your research on compound scales before buying. Keep in mind that the general consensus is moving to a +65mm tire, but often that larger tire lessens your ability to crawl for two reasons. It is from a company that doesnt have the best rubber compound and for every mm you increase tire size, you increase center of gravity by half that. The largest tire I run is only a 63 and the smallest tire is a 52.
Servo Tray: There are dozens of options out there, but excluding specialty parts like a battery on axle servo tray, there are 3 of note. Aluminum trays, brass trays, and adjustable trays. Brass servo mounts are good but I dont like how high the weight is. The best brands for a servo tray are NSDRC and Mofo. NSDRC trays are non adjustable but Mofo trays are. Injora also makes a clone of the mofo tray as does ramp crab. Both of these are on amazon.
Servos: the stock servo will fail (just like the stock motor) quickly. Aftermarket Servos can be broken up into 4 categories (plastic cheap, metal budget, metal quality, and NSDRC). Cross reference the voltage that your esc can run the servo at to ensure compatibility. If you are running a higher voltage than that servo is rated far, you will destroy it. Emax is the go to plastic brand. Set your endpoints on the servo arm throw and you will not burn them up quickly. Metal budget servos are a much better option than emax. Think RampCrab and Injora. They are a significant step up in power without breaking bank. Metal quality is represented by brands like Reefs, AGFRC and Mofo. They are virtually bulletproof and another significant power increase. NSDRC is in a class of its own because it is the most powerful and sturdy servo on the market.
Screws: The most complete set of replacement screws and small parts is offered by ramp crab in a neat little printed clamshell, but they are on the softer side. Use them only if you are using a quality hardened driver like, or do not overtighten them because they will strip. Injora makes good screws. The best are proline, but you will pay out your nose at a hobby shop for them.
Inserts: foams are fine and so are silicone, but the best are printed inserts. FlubRC makes one for any size you can imagine. Other companies make printed inserts like Prophet Designs. Printed TPU inserts such as these brands provide nice compression vertically and are extremely rigid lateral stability. This is what you want.
Steering links: All of these do the same stuff with exception of rollerbearing links. 3flow9rc was the pioneer here and still makes the best rollerbearing steering link on the market.
Rear link riser: adjustable risers allow you to customize the the antisquat properties of your rig while climbing. multiple companies make them on amazon as do the boutique parts producers. My favorite for cost vs value is ramp crab on amazon.
Tools: cheap amazon or ali express tools look cool but they are soft. Even most of the nicer brands in hobby stores that cost way more are soft. MIP tools cost about 15 dollars per driver but are built to an extreme exacting tolerance and are hardened to a point that they will not wear down. This ensures a tight fit when using them, so when you strip a screw you have no one to blame but yourself. Buy MIP or guarantee yourself you will ruin an occasional part due to stripped screw heads.
In conclusion, this is a hobby that will require your own research and ongoing money to some degree. If customization and tinkering is driving you crazy, research more. Do not be afraid to modify store bought parts, and dont be afraid to make your own as your skill improves. I hope this helps... K, thnx, bye, love you all!

Regnum Isus
One year into phase two of the expansion and Aurelian and his forces entered the system of Regnum Isus. Without hesitation, the leader of the system, known as Kavakk Shuun invited them to the planet's surface where they were greeted and welcomed with open arms. A feast was held and celebrations were had, they were welcomed as heroes before they had even had a chance to explain their presence or their cause, seemingly as though their hosts already knew who they were and why they were here. Aurelian was accompanied by four of his Hetaeroi, Sonnha Ventrix, Ostarii Kel, Entala and Tsu'Tan Vor. Kavakk hosted them in his own home, a grand villa atop a mountain, the splendour of the villa was unmatched throughout the system. After the reception at Kavakk's villa, Aurelian asked Kavakk if he could explain why they so happily welcomed him and his forces, Kavakk simply smiled and gestured for Aurelian to follow him. Aurelian beckoned for Sonnha to follow and they both then followed Kavakk.
After ten full minutes of walking in dead silence, Kavakk opened the door to a dimly lit, empty chamber. On the walls, however, was a grand painting, glyphs and other script and depictions of great warriors and battles. Kavakk gestured to the words written around the edge of the painting and silently left. Aurelian read the words, multiple times.
"From the stars shall he cometh. With fire and steel shall he cometh. With fury and wrath shall he cometh. Unmatched shall be his strength. Indomitable shall be his will. As the waves break against the shore, so too shall the darkness break upon his blade. Lo and behold, the warrior-king cometh, as the dawn ends the night, unto the righting of the cosmos.
Aurelian departed Regnum Isus with a new determination, while also wondering if there was more to the vision that struck him. Nothing diving or scared, such hubris, he thought to himself, but maybe more than just mere chance that it happened to him.
Regnum Paradiso
Four months later, upon arriving in system of Regnum Paradiso, previously known as Paradax by the locals, Aurelian sent a transmission to the planet's of the system, all planetary leaders joined in the transmission and poured praise and welcome over Aurelian and his forces. They invited him to a celebration on the Planet Noskopje Tau. The representative of Noskopje informed Aurelian that he was the embodiment of a hero from a prophecy they had received many hundreds of years ago and that he would be the one to defend them from the coming darkness.
Regnum Maledictum
Upon their arrival in the Maledictum system, an invitation was extended for Aurelian to attend a banquet in his honour at the ruling palace of the ice planet, Aquilonis. His host, Az'Rael Vok, greeted him cordially, sparing no expense in the feast's preparation and expressing readiness to endorse any accords that Aurelian proposed. When Aurelian voiced his curiosity over their alacrity to enlist in the Empire and combat by his side, Az'Rael glanced at him and merely inquired, "Do you not know?"
As the feast drew to a close, Az'Rael entreated Aurelian to accompany him to the recesses of the planet. Obligingly, Aurelian followed. Their journey led them for hours past decrepit, deserted machinery and through long-forgotten cities swallowed by time. At length, they reached a spacious cavern containing a lone obelisk, a colossal, pitch-black stone monument measuring four meters across and thirty meters high, adorned with complex runes, glyphs, patterns, and symbols that appeared mobile under the shifting light reflecting off its lustrous, jet-black surface. The cavern was immersed in silence, broken only sporadically by droplets of water. A transient sadness flickered in Az'Rael's eyes as he gestured towards the obelisk and urged Aurelian in a voice tinged with sadness, "Place your hand upon the stone, and know the truth of what will come to pass."
With intense scrutiny, Aurelian studied the black stone, meticulously interpreting each rune and glyph before making contact with the chilling, ebony surface. The moment his hand connected with the obelisk, his eyes retreated into his skull, and a searing white pain speared through his consciousness, piercing his essence with a revelation of catastrophic significance. He saw himself, alone, bloodied and broken, lay motionless on the earth of a desolate and dying world. His blade at his side, the last remnants of darkness evaporating from its surface and voice, a voice resonating with malice and dread, echoing in his mind, repeating a haunting mantra, "Wretch! I am cometh. I am slaughter. I am doom.". He ripped his hand from the obelisk, cradling his palm as if it were consumed by flames. But as the agony ebbed away, clarity surged forth in its stead. He knew. He finally understood.
Aurelian remained silent, merely gazing at Az'Rael, his face full of determination, but his eyes full of sorrow, akin to one who has seen too much. Silently, he undertook the extensive trek back to the surface and re-joined his ship. As he and his forces retreated from Regnum Maledictum, the era of peaceful expansion came to a close.