My name is Henry Preston. I’m thirty-seven years old, and I watched werewolves circle our hunting cabin for eight hours while we rationed twelve bullets between five men.

I know how it sounds. You’re probably thinking I’m crazy, or maybe drunk, or just another guy spinning campfire tales. But I’m not. I’m a construction foreman from Marquette, Michigan. I’ve bow-hunted whitetail since I was fourteen. I don’t believe in ghost stories or legends. And I sure as hell didn’t believe in werewolves—until late October 2023, when something surrounded Brad’s cabin in the Ottawa National Forest and taught me there are things out there that hunt back.

It started as a normal weekend. Five guys—my brother-in-law Dave, my cousin Tyler, my childhood friend Brad, and Brad’s younger brother Owen. Five days, deer season opener. Brad’s cabin sits eight miles off the main road, deep enough that cell service is a memory and the nearest neighbor might as well be on Mars. We arrived that afternoon, unloaded gear, cracked beers, and settled in for the kind of weekend men live for: wood smoke, whiskey, cards, and the quiet that only comes from true isolation.

By eight that evening, the poker game was in full swing. Dave was losing and blaming the whiskey. Tyler, the Iraq vet, was quietly cleaning up with his stone face. Brad kept the fire going while Owen bounced between hands, restless energy of a twenty-six-year-old on his first real hunting trip with the older guys. The cabin smelled like pine smoke and Brad’s venison chili. Everything felt right. Safe. Normal.

Owen stepped outside around eight to grab more firewood. He was gone maybe two minutes. When he came back, his face was pale, hands trembling as he set the wood down. He said he’d heard something big circling the cabin—something moving too deliberately to be a deer, too heavy to be a coyote. We laughed it off. Brad said it was probably a bear. Dave joked about Owen watching too many horror movies. Only Tyler wasn’t laughing. He caught my eye, stood up, and I grabbed my flashlight to follow him out.

The October air bit at my face, our breath coming out in clouds. We swept our lights across the clearing, checked the woodpile, the shed, and the tree line. Tyler crouched by the wood stack, suddenly still. I moved closer and saw what stopped him: tracks in the frost-covered ground. Big ones. My mind tried to make them bootprints, but the shape was wrong. Too wide at the toes, too narrow at the heel. The stride measured close to five feet. Whatever made these was bigger than me and moving on two legs.

Tyler’s flashlight followed the trail. The tracks circled the cabin, staying just outside the clearing, methodical, deliberate. Like something was studying the place, counting windows, checking doors. Tyler looked up, and I saw fear in his eyes—a man who’d done two tours in Fallujah.

We lied when we went back inside. Told everyone it was nothing—just weird deer tracks. The game continued, but the energy had changed. Dave’s jokes came faster, Owen kept glancing at the windows, Brad refreshed drinks without being asked. Around nine, a howl cut through the forest. It wasn’t a coyote, wasn’t a wolf—deeper, longer, almost human. My skin crawled. Owen wanted to leave, but Brad reminded us that the forest roads at night were suicide, even sober. We’d stay, lock up, sleep it off, head out at first light.

At 9:15, every light in the cabin went out. The generator outside died with a mechanical cough. Brad swore he’d filled it that afternoon. Emergency lanterns came out. Flashlights clicked on. Brad and I moved toward the door to check the generator when something slammed into the cabin wall so hard the whole structure shook. Dishes rattled, cards scattered, and another impact hit from the opposite side. Not random—coordinated. Whatever was out there knew exactly where we were and wanted us to know it was coming.

Then we heard the growling. Not from one direction—from all of them. Tyler moved first, barking orders with military precision. Away from the windows. Get the guns. Inventory everything.

I grabbed my Remington 870—four shells in the tube. Tyler had his Glock 19, eight rounds. Brad’s hunting rifle was locked in his truck, forty yards away across open ground. Owen had his compound bow and twelve arrows. Dave stood empty-handed, eyes darting, waiting for someone to say it was all a joke.

“We have twelve bullets and five people,” Owen said, his voice shaking.

“Then we make every shot count,” Tyler replied, cold and immediate.

We started barricading. Heavy furniture scraped across the floor as we shoved Brad’s couch against the front door, the dinner table against the back. Tyler positioned us strategically, assigning fields of fire like we were setting up a perimeter. Outside, footsteps circled, branches snapped. Whatever was out there wasn’t hiding anymore.

At 9:45, I saw one. Movement flashed past the northern window, caught in my flashlight beam for half a second. Tall, hunched, covered in dark matted fur. An elongated snout, pointed ears, but the way it moved was too human. Easily seven feet tall, shoulders broader than any man. It didn’t run from my light—just moved past the window, deliberate, like it wanted me to see.

Dave saw it too. He started hyperventilating, backing toward the center of the room. Owen’s voice came out strangled: “Was that a werewolf?” I wanted to laugh it off, but couldn’t. Tyler stayed tactical. “Doesn’t matter what it is. Matters how we stop it.”

Another figure passed the eastern window, then another at the back. Brad did the math—“There’s at least three of them.” I corrected him quietly. “Four. I saw one by the woodpile earlier.” They began testing our defenses: scratching at door frames, tapping on windows, finding weaknesses. Then one jumped onto the roof, and the cabin settled under the weight. We heard it walking above us, back and forth. Dave lost it, said he was making a run for Brad’s truck. Tyler grabbed him, explained why that was suicide—forty yards of open ground against things that moved like that.

We stayed fortified. Waited for dawn. Owen asked, “What if they get in?” Silence followed, broken only by the intensifying scratching at the back door. Wood splintered. They weren’t just testing anymore—they were trying to enter.

Tyler called us together for rules of engagement. “We only shoot if they breach. No warning shots. We can’t afford to waste ammunition.”

I took the front door. Tyler the back. Owen covered the windows with his bow. Brad and Dave armed themselves with a kitchen knife and fire poker—last resort weapons.

At 10:45, the scratching stopped. Thirty seconds of complete silence, stretching like hours. Then both doors exploded inward, impacts so violent I felt them in my chest. Furniture barricades held, but barely. Tyler met my eyes. They weren’t just animals. They were hunting us with strategy.

At 10:50, the eastern window exploded inward. A massive clawed hand punched through, tearing at the wood. Coarse fur, muscles shifting like cables. Owen fired an arrow, sinking it deep into the creature’s forearm. The roar that followed rattled the floorboards and my teeth. The arm yanked back, blood smeared on the glass. Tyler and Brad hammered boards across the opening as the thing circled, searching for another way in.

Seconds later, it appeared at the southern window. Its face pressed against the glass, backlit by moonlight. The muzzle was wolf-like, but the jaw too structured, the eyes reflecting green in our flashlight beams. Lips pulled back, teeth too many and too sharp. It studied us with intelligence. Then it started pounding on the window, methodical and brutal. I raised the shotgun and fired. The boom was deafening, glass and wood exploded outward. The creature dropped from view. Eleven bullets remaining.

Dave was crying now, Brad’s hand bleeding, Owen’s knuckles white around his bow. Tyler assessed the situation. “That wasn’t even a real attack. They’re wearing us down.” He was right. They were making us panic, waste ammunition, exhausting us.

Owen checked Brad’s watch. Five hours until sunrise. That’s when the howling started—organized, call and response from every direction. They were surrounding us, making sure we knew how trapped we were. Dave started praying, voice cracking.

Footsteps thundered across the roof. More than one up there now. Tyler looked up. “They’re going to try to come through the roof.” I shook my head, hoping it was too strong. The creature above let out a howl so loud I felt it in my chest cavity. Then silence again.

At 12:15, they hit the back door with everything they had. The barricade scraped forward an inch with every impact. Tyler braced his shoulder against the table, Brad and Owen rushed to help. The door frame splintered, clawed fingers appeared in the gap. Tyler pressed his Glock into the crack and fired twice. The creature screamed and the pressure released. Blood seeped under the door. Nine bullets remaining.

We couldn’t keep this up. Tyler’s jaw clenched. “Then we better make them count more.” Dave’s voice cut through, thin and terrified—movement in the bathroom. Every weapon swung toward the door. I kicked it open. Empty. The window was unlocked, swaying. Tyler locked it, stuffed towels into the gaps. Just wind. Just nerves. But the truth was, we were cracking.

From 12:45 to 1:30, nothing happened. No sounds, no attacks. The silence was worse than the assault. We took shifts, two men watching while three tried to rest, but nobody slept. Every creak sounded like footsteps, every gust like breathing. Brad’s hand was still bleeding. We rationed water. Tyler checked his Glock obsessively. Four rounds left.

Owen sat by the boarded window, head tilted. “They’re still out there. I can feel them watching.” At 1:45, Dave snapped. He couldn’t take the waiting, tried to make a run for the truck. Tyler restrained him, I talked him down. Dave collapsed, sobbing, showing us photos of his daughters. He’d never mentioned them before. “I can’t die here. They need me.” It reminded us—we weren’t soldiers. We were just men who wanted to go home.

At 2:15, Brad broke his silence. His uncle had stayed at the cabin alone last year, came back with stories of figures in the trees, massive tracks. Refused to return, sold Brad the cabin cheap. Brad thought he was crazy—until now. I got angry. Brad defended himself. Tyler stepped between us. What mattered was surviving until dawn, but the trust had fractured.

Owen asked quietly, “Has anyone actually seen them leave?” Nobody answered. We could still feel them out there.

At 2:30, a single creature approached the front door. We heard it breathing, slow, deliberate sniffing. It just stood there, reminding us it could come through whenever it wanted. Five minutes passed before it walked away, casual, unhurried.

We tried to make sense of it. Owen insisted they were werewolves. Tyler said it didn’t matter. I’d been thinking—they were intelligent, coordinated, patient, and strong enough to break through if they wanted. Owen asked why they hadn’t just rushed us. Maybe they feared the guns. Maybe they enjoyed the hunt.

Tyler checked his watch. Two hours until first light. “If we can make it to dawn, maybe they’ll leave.” Then every creature started howling at once. The real attack was about to begin.

The howling cut off at 2:47. Five seconds of absolute silence. Then they hit us from every direction—doors, windows, roof—all at once. The front door barricade slid backward, the back door frame cracked, the western window took a hit that tore half the boards away. This was the final push.

Tyler took the back door, I covered the front, Owen at the compromised window. Brad grabbed the knife, Dave the fire poker. “Here we go!” Tyler shouted. “Pick your targets!”

The front door shuddered, then a clawed arm punched through. I fired. The arm jerked back, something hit the ground outside. Eight bullets remaining. Tyler saw movement at the back door—yellow eyes gleaming. He fired. The creature screamed, pressure eased. Seven bullets.

The western window erupted as a creature forced its head through, snarling. Owen released an arrow, catching it in the shoulder. The creature roared but kept pushing. I fired my second shotgun shell. It fell backward, taking boards with it. Six bullets left. Brad was too close to the southern window when claws ripped through, dragging three deep gashes in his shoulder. Brad screamed, blood soaking his shirt. Dave dragged him to the center. Owen fired two arrows, both hitting. The creature dropped outside, but Brad was badly hurt, going into shock.

At 3:15, the creature on the roof started tearing at the shingles. Wood splintered above us. Tyler fired three times through the roof. Something heavy hit the ground outside. Tyler was out of ammo. Owen had four arrows left. Dave looked at us, terrified. “What do we do?”

Both doors were failing. Multiple windows breached. The cabin was compromised. Tyler grabbed a broken chair leg, Owen moved to the worst breach. I stood in the center with my last two shotgun shells, protecting Brad and Dave.

This was it. When they broke through, we were done. Dave was praying louder now. Brad was semiconscious, muttering about his uncle. The creatures circled outside, footsteps heavy, breathing audible through the gaps. I could see them—three, maybe four dark shapes, regrouping for the final rush.

At 3:40, one appeared in the front doorway. Massive, over seven feet tall, backlit by moonlight. Its face was fully visible—wolflike, but wrong. Too much intelligence in those yellow eyes. It locked eyes with me. I felt my finger tighten on the trigger.

“Don’t,” I said, not sure if I was begging or warning. “Please don’t.” The creature tilted its head, as if considering my words. Then another appeared beside it, and another. Three of them, framed in the doorway, shoulders touching, waiting. Tyler raised his club, Owen’s bow creaked. I whispered, “For what it’s worth, boys, you’re the best guys I know.”

The creatures tensed, muscles coiling to charge. My finger found the trigger. This was it.

Then, from deep in the forest, a different howl cut through the darkness. Higher pitched, more insistent. The three creatures froze, heads snapping toward the sound. Another howl answered, closer, urgent, commanding. The creatures exchanged glances, and I swear they were communicating. Then, they backed away from the door, turned, and disappeared into the darkness—not running, not fleeing, withdrawing like soldiers called back from a mission.

We stood frozen, weapons raised, not believing what we’d seen. “What the hell just happened?” Owen whispered. The sounds of heavy footfalls receded into the forest. Within thirty seconds, the woods were silent. No growling, no breathing, no footsteps—just the wind and our own ragged breathing.

Nobody lowered their weapons. We stayed in position for what felt like hours, but was probably twenty minutes. Brad needed medical attention, but we couldn’t risk going outside. I kept pressure on his wounds. Tyler watched through the barricade. Owen had one arrow left. Dave hadn’t moved, clutching the fire poker.

At 5:30, the first gray light appeared on the horizon. Still no sign of the creatures. Tyler finally spoke. “I think they’re actually gone.” At six, dawn arrived. We waited another thirty minutes to be sure. Then Tyler and I opened the front door, stepped into the clearing, weapons ready. The clearing looked like a war zone—tracks everywhere, blood stains, deep claw marks on the cabin walls, chunks of wood scattered. Brad’s truck sat untouched forty yards away.

We could have run for it anytime during the night. Would we have made it? I don’t think so. I found the brass casings from Tyler’s Glock near the back door—three of them. Physical proof.

Tyler found drag marks leading into the forest. Something wounded had been pulled away by the others. Pack behavior. Family behavior.

At 6:30, we evacuated. Brad couldn’t walk well. Dave and Owen supported him. Tyler and I provided security. The walk to the truck felt like a mile. Every shadow, every sound could be them coming back. We reached the truck, piled in. As I drove away, I looked back and saw them—four figures standing at the tree line, upright, perfectly still, watching us leave. I didn’t tell the others. Just kept my eyes forward.

We hit the main road eight miles later. Civilization felt unreal, like we’d crossed back from another world. Brad needed a hospital—forty-seven stitches in his shoulder. We told the sheriff it was a bear attack. He looked skeptical, but filed the report. Dave went home to his daughters and quit hunting forever. Tyler kept the last two shotgun shells—just in case. Owen researches werewolf legends now, obsessively. Brad sold the cabin within a month, never went back.

We went in with twelve bullets and five people. We came out with two unfired shotgun shells and five people.

I don’t know if we survived because we fought back or because something in those woods decided to let us live. Maybe that howl from the forest was a command to spare us. Maybe we were never meant to die that night. I’ll never know.

I keep those last two shells in my truck, just in case. But I’ll never go back. Some hunts you walk away from, and some haunt you forever.

I still hear them sometimes in my dreams—the howling, the scratching, the breathing on the other side of the door. And I wake up, counting bullets I’ll never need.