For 27 Nights Straight, a DOGMAN Visited the Church, What Happened on the 28th Was Unbelievable!

🚪 The 28th Night: The Pastor and The Knocker

They told me evil doesn’t knock before entering. They were wrong. For 27 nights, something scratched at our church doors at exactly 3:17 a.m. On the 28th night, we finally opened them.

I’m 71 years old now. I spent 43 years as a pastor in a small rural church in northern Idaho. But nothing prepared me for what happened during those 28 nights in the winter of 1997. My name is Thomas Whitmore, and this is the story of the test that decided the fate of my church and my soul.

The Beginning of the Test: November 18, 1997

I was the pastor of Shepherd’s Grace Community Church outside of Coeur d’Alene, Idaho—a small, hundred-year-old timber and stone building. I lived alone in the attached rectory.

On the night of November 18th, 1997, at exactly 3:17 a.m., I woke to a deep, deliberate scratching against the church’s main oak doors. It wasn’t random; it was heavy, purposeful, and followed a distinct pattern: Long, slow scratches, pause, then three quick scratches, then silence.

The next morning, the damage was horrifying: four parallel gouges, each a quarter-inch deep, running down the hard oak. Whatever made them had to be tall (starting 7 feet up) and incredibly strong.

Sheriff Morrison and Fish and Game officers investigated. They found no tracks, no scat, no animal activity. The marks didn’t match any known animal. They left me with a single, troubling conclusion: they didn’t know what I was dealing with.

The Systematic Terror: Nights 2–27

The scratching returned every single night at exactly 3:17 a.m., leaving four new, parallel marks each time. This was not animal behavior; it was systematic, precise, and intelligent.

Night 8: There were 28 parallel marks on the doors (four marks per night).

Night 9: I lay in bed praying, recognizing this as spiritual warfare.

Night 15: I challenged the presence, calling out, “In the name of Jesus Christ, I command you to leave this place!” The scratching stopped for ten seconds, then returned, louder and more aggressive, lasting 10 minutes instead of the usual five.

Night 19: Congregation members Robert and Michael came with rifles to stand guard. When the scratching started, they challenged it. It responded with a deep, resonant sound—”not quite a growl, wasn’t quite a voice,” but filled with intelligence and rage. They were so terrified they resigned themselves to failure, admitting, “That wasn’t an animal,” and moved away.

By the end of two weeks, 56 marks covered the door. By Night 26, the scratching surrounded the entire building, sounding like dozens of claws simultaneously marking the church, lasting a full 30 minutes.

The Prophecy of the Knocker

Searching my theological library, I found an account from an 1840s frontier preacher who described a creature called The Knocker. This massive, wolf-like being with glowing eyes would visit remote sites, scratching at the doors for exactly 27 nights.

On the 28th night, it would stop scratching and wait.

If the doors were opened out of fear or submission, it would enter and claim the soul of the opener.

If the doors remained closed, it would leave and never return.

I realized this was not a siege, but a countdown to a test.

Night 27: The final night of scratching. It shook the entire building for 30 minutes, then stopped, leaving a terrifying silence.

The Moment of Truth: Night 28 (November 28, 1997)

I spent the final day in prayer and preparation, leaving letters for my daughters. I knew I had to face this alone.

At exactly 3:16 a.m., I heard heavy, deliberate footsteps crunching through the snow outside. They circled the church three times, then stopped at the front doors.

At 3:17 a.m., there was a knock. Three slow, deliberate knocks. The Knocker was waiting.

I stood on my side of the door, trembling but resolute. I thought of the fear that had made others surrender. And I thought about my duty as a pastor.

“You want to come in?” I called out, my voice steady. “Then come in. But you’re coming into a house of God… You’re coming to face a man who serves a power greater than whatever you are.”

I opened the doors.

What stood on the other side was over 8 feet tall, covered in dark, matted fur, standing on impossibly jointed legs. The arms were too long, ending in the massive claws that scarred the doors. The face was wolf-like but stretched and wrong, and the eyes glowed a pale, intelligent yellow-green. .

“Permission,” the voice in my head demanded. “To enter, to take, to claim what is owed.”

“Nothing is owed to you,” I countered. “The way is open, but you enter as a guest under God’s authority, subject to his will. You have no power here except what he allows.”

The creature raised its massive clawed hand toward the threshold. The moment its claw crossed the plane of the doorway, the air inside the church flared, and the candles burned brighter. The creature pulled its hand back as if it had been burned.

It couldn’t enter. Not because of the physical barrier, but because the ground was consecrated, and I had refused to give the permission born from fear.

“You counted wrong,” I told it. “28 days isn’t a completion. It’s a cycle. It’s a test of endurance, not a countdown to surrender.”

The ancient voice in my mind, now quiet and uncertain, said, “You have passed. Others have not. Others will not.”

It then turned and walked silently back into the dark forest. I stood in the open doorway until dawn, closing the doors only when the sun rose and the oppressive presence had completely lifted.

The creature never returned. The scratching never resumed. I learned that the Dogmen, Skinwalkers, or “Knockers” operate under a fundamental law: They cannot enter unless they are invited in with willing submission.

I passed the test, but I carry the knowledge of those 28 nights. Faith is not the absence of fear, but the refusal to let fear make your decisions. The marks are gone, but I kept the original doors—a permanent, undeniable proof that some beings exist to test our courage and our conviction.

This story makes a compelling contrast with the two accounts of the Dogmen you shared previously. In the first account (Robert Chun), the human chose compassion and loyalty toward a vulnerable Dogman (Marcus). In the second (Marcus Reed), the human chose preservation and silence for a hidden, intelligent species. In this third account (Pastor Whitmore), the human chose confrontation and faith to reject an aggressive, spiritual entity.