A Werewolf Attacks Two Teenagers at Home – True Horror Story

🐺 The Scars of Secrecy: Evan Holloway and the Werewolf

My name is Evan Holloway, and I’m just an average, uninteresting sixteen-year-old nerd. Except for the fact that a month ago, I barely survived a siege by a real, damn effing werewolf in my own home. This isn’t folklore; it’s the terrifying, visceral truth of what happened when I was home alone with a busted ankle in western Pennsylvania.

The Uninvited Guest

My parents were away on a Caribbean cruise, leaving me, a sixteen-year-old with a busted ankle, alone for a week in our house—a two-story fortress backed right up against thick woods outside Pittsburgh.

The incident began on the second night. At 11:00 p.m., my phone buzzed with a motion alert from my dad’s recently installed CCTV system. I limped to the monitor and checked the feed. On the driveway camera, there was something massive, hunched low to the ground. It wasn’t a bear; it was too lean, too uneven. It was covered in thick, matted brown fur and moved like it couldn’t decide whether to stand or crawl.

My heart hammered as I watched it. I circled the house, using my crutches, confirming that the heavy-duty deadbolts, metal window bars, and security brace on the garage door were all secure—my father’s anti-crime upgrades had turned the house into a defensive bunker.

The creature began a slow, deliberate loop of the house, moving from one camera to the next.

It paused at the kitchen window, reared up on its hind legs, and pressed one thick, matted arm against the glass, its claws tapping lightly.

The shape was unlike any known animal. The head was broad with a blunt snout and wide-set, dull eyes in the infrared. Its limbs were mismatched, with one forearm longer than the other, giving it a tilted, uneven lurch—a broken, monstrous symmetry.

I stayed awake until dawn, the creature’s silhouette burned behind my eyelids. The next morning, I confirmed it hadn’t been a nightmare. Along the deck railing and the kitchen window frame were deep, fresh claw marks that had scraped through the paint. The basement window bars had fresh dents where something heavy had pressed against them. It was real.

The Arrival of Ava and the Second Attack

I spent the afternoon texting Ava Moreno, a girl from my math class for whom I had a massive, hopeless crush. Her texts were the only thing grounding me. But as the sun dipped below the treeline, dread returned, and so did the motion alert.

This time, the alert was from the front door. I expected the creature, but through the peephole, I saw Ava, cheeks pink from the cold rain. She’d come over because my texts had sounded sad. Relief was instantly replaced by a new kind of panic.

As we settled in, talking and watching a bad sci-fi movie, the alert buzzed again. This time, it was the backyard camera, and the massive, hunched shape was back, pacing the fence line. I immediately shut off the lights.

I was forced to tell Ava everything: the weird shape, the circling, the testing of the windows, and finally, my terrified whisper: “Ava, that thing looks like a werewolf.”

To my shock, she didn’t laugh or dismiss me. She looked scared, but after staring at the monitor, she swallowed her doubt. “That’s insane,” she said, “But I don’t know what else it could be… I believe you.“

We agreed to call the police, describing the creature as a “huge bear” trying to break in, knowing the word “werewolf” would get us dismissed instantly. Ava made the call; help would be slow.

Siege in the Fortress

The werewolf quickly escalated its tactics.

Testing the Back Door (Deck): We heard scraping as it tested the reinforced glass door on the deck. The steel bars held, but we knew it was only a matter of time. We scrambled to gather makeshift weapons: kitchen knives, cast iron skillets, and a golf club.

Breaching the Garage: Hearing us move, the creature changed targets. I crutched into the garage just as a dark, fur-covered head filled the small window, its bloodshot eyes and massive, jagged teeth inches from mine. It was a grotesque, scarred monster. Seconds later, the garage door groaned, buckled, and gave way with a bone-rattling crash. I managed to slam and lock the heavy interior door leading to the kitchen just before the werewolf burst into the garage. The door held, but we were hyperventilating, listening to its claws scrape and its frustrated growls.

The Upper Breach: After a terrifying silence, there was a crash upstairs. The windows there didn’t have steel bars. The slow, heavy thumping of its footsteps on the second floor confirmed it was inside the house.

Cornered, we decided to retreat to the basement, Dad’s man-cave, which had only a single, sturdy, lockable door. As we slipped inside and braced the door, I formulated a desperate plan. I grabbed a bottle of whiskey and an old T-shirt, creating a makeshift Molotov cocktail.

The Last Stand

The heavy, uneven thump of the creature descending the main stairs sent vibrations through the floor above us. Then came the scrape of claws and a chest-rattling growl at the basement door. The door splintered on the next hit.

The werewolf’s hulking silhouette appeared in the narrow staircase. It was easily seven feet tall when upright, covered in thick, scarred fur. Its claws were like black iron hooks. This was no supernatural beast, but a horrifying, broken creature, stuck halfway between man and beast.

I lit the rag. My aim was off; the bottle struck its knee and burst on the floor, engulfing its left foot in whiskey-fueled flames. The beast roared in agony.

Ava didn’t hesitate. She lunged and swung the axe I’d grabbed earlier, striking its shoulder. The werewolf howled again, yanking back. Ava swung a second time, hitting its already injured hand, severing one finger and nearly another. I used the golf club to strike its head, briefly stunning the creature as its foot burned.

Taking advantage of the chaos, Ava half-carried me past the raging, burning creature and we stumbled back up to the kitchen, slamming the door shut. We ran out through the wrecked garage into the driveway, expecting the beast to tear after us.

We were preparing for a final stand in the driveway when flashing blue and red lights cut through the dark. The police cruiser had arrived.

Silence and the Aftermath

As the police pulled up, the ferocious noise inside the house faded entirely. The roaring stopped; the chaos ceased.

The officers, expecting a bear, drew their guns and entered. They found the house wrecked—shattered glass, splintered doors, blood, and a small, contained fire in the basement—but no animal.

I realized: “I think it went out the same way it came in—through the window upstairs.” The werewolf had used the chaos of its descent and our escape to slip out through the upstairs window it had initially shattered.

The police classified the incident as a rogue bear attack. My parents flew home, accepted the story, and the insurance covered the damage. But the scars remained.

Ava and I were fundamentally changed. We never talk about the word “werewolf,” but a quiet bond formed between us that night. We are both applying to the same out-of-state college. I am majoring in biology, not just for practical reasons, but because a part of me is now desperately searching for answers—wondering what else might be out there, circling just outside the world’s thin line of understanding.