My Dad Was Stalked By A Werewolf For A Year And A Half

Link to article: My Dad Was Stalked By A Werewolf For A Year And A Half.

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HOW QUAINT... UEUE-HEHE. HOW LOVELY INDEED!
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##yellow|**HowellingAtTheMoon**## 2 Nov 2025 (Sunday) 16:50:23 #33847592
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Hi, everyone, and happy (late) Halloween.

First of all, I'd like to apologize for disappearing for a little while. Most of you were already aware that I was taking a hiatus from my Parawatch account and YouTube channel, but I've gotten some lovely messages of concern over my inactivity.

The last video I posted was my most ambitious yet, taking me out to [[[killing-dracula |Kazakhstan]]] with 🗿##green|**OddAndEvelyn**## in search for the Upir.

I won't spoil the details of the episode (yeah, I know it's been out for a month), but it was a lot of fun. Obviously, though, it was also draining. //Really// draining, financially and emotionally. For most of my career as a cryptid hunter, I've stuck to my [[[scp-7256 |hometown]]] and the surrounding area of [[[scp-8391 |Illinois]]], and that was my first time leaving the country.

If you're interested in me making more content like that, you can support me through my YouTube channel, my Substack, or more directly through my Patreon. The more income I get now, the more I can invest in bigger adventures. I've been asked to come down to Florida, which would be more manageable than an international trip, but is still pretty expensive.

Sorry for yapping, but I wanted to put anyone worried at ease, and hopefully establish my goals going forward.

In the meantime, I want to go back to the basics. With everything going on, I've been thinking about how things have changed. I got to thinking about how I got my start on the site. It's been a whole year (woah!) since I wrote my last Parapost.

To apologize for missing Halloween, I'd like to tell you guys another true story about my family.

This is the story of how my dad was stalked by a werewolf for a year and a half.

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[[image Barn_in_the_Stars.jpg]]
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The year was 2001.

My father, a drifter, came into the town of Oakford for the first time in early December, shortly after the first snowfall of the year.

Though my father may have been a drifter, he was also a skilled farmhand. Oakford was suffering from a population crisis, which meant many of the corporate farms were pulling out of the area to seek more stable markets, in turn leaving much of the land available for cheap purchase. My father, hoping to establish roots in the area, bought out a tract of land so small it couldn't even be measured in acres.

With the land, he received a shack, two barn houses, a kennel and pen, a handful of livestock (sheep, chicken, and cows), and inherited a renter's agreement with a local equipment supplier.

In the bitter cold of December, he was unable to find other farmhands to work under him, so he killed half of the livestock to make a quick turnaround on selling their meat.

With a population so small, he ended up moving all of the animals into one of the barns, the one closest to town. He left his other barn locked up yet mostly empty, using it as a storage shed for surplus equipment.

One day, an older woman stopped by from the town. She had heard about his risky business maneuvers, and came to caution him against such practices. She said, wasting land and lives was sure to come hand in hand with wasting money, and he should caution to preserve at least one of the three. She told him that leaving the edges of his farmland uninhabited was sure to invite wolves and foxes back into the area, who previously had been so painstakingly driven off by farmers past.

My father acknowledged this, but insisted he had to make these hard choices now, to set the farm up better for later. She shook her head, and replied that she had heard it all before.

Curious, my father asked her to elaborate. They sat themselves down in his shack, and he prepared them both hot coffee, while she began telling him a story about a previous owner of this same tract of land. She said, in the early 1900s, a homeless family of Irishmen arrived at the edge of town and set up camp. The patriarch of the family, a man named Seamus, came to the mayor to ask about property in the area.

The mayor did not like Seamus and his family living there, disliking the Irish, but saw an opportunity for economic expansion. The mayor told Seamus about a tract of land not too far from where Seamus and his family were resting already.

There were two barns there, and they had equipment inside, but the barns had been conquered by a pack of wolves, who now permanently used them for shelter.

If Seamus could drive out the wolves, the barn would belong to him. Seamus accepted the challenge and went into town to buy a gun, but no one would sell to him.

A local boy told Seamus that a hermit in Bobtown would sell him guns, but warned that the hermit was a strange man who made his tools from a pile of imported silver he hoarded, and he charged a lot of money for them.

Seamus, not ready to give up even with such a strange lead, left town to find the hermit.

As he crossed through the woods, he came upon a large, circular mound in the dirt, between two trees. Stuck in the dirt, behind the mound, was a makeshift cross, lashed together with fraying rope. There was no name on it that Seamus could see. He inspected it closer, and found underneath the fraying rope, was a little silver chain attached to a tiny tube full of water.

He pulled himself away from what was now clearly a gravesite, and exited the forest. He now stood on to the road into Bobtown.

Bobtown was mostly a ghost town by then.

Seamus stopped at an inn, the Robinson-Bonnett Inn, and was greeted warmly by the elderly caretaker John Bonnett. John was friendly with Seamus, giving him a drink of water and ale. John questioned Seamus on his business at this time of day, and Seamus regaled him with his story of coming to the States, and his quest to win the farmstead.

John was enamored with this story immediately, but sadly informed Seamus that Bobtown no longer held the strange hermit, who had passed two years ago, executed by a farmhand's gun for impropriety. Despite this, John insisted the two of them go together to find the hermit's hut, which was likely still standing. As the sun began to set, John grabbed two pitchforks, lit two lanterns, giving one of each to Seamus, and they set off to the edge of town.

John let him to a cavern hidden under a cliffside, which was collapsing with the growth of trees around it. With their pitchforks, they cut through the roots of the trees, which blocked the entrance to the cavern.

Inside, lit only by their lanterns, they found a small circus tent nailed to the ground. John told Seamus this was the hut. John said he would remain outside to keep watch for forest critters, while Seamus looked for the silver inside.

Seamus wiped the dust off the tarp, and lifted it, stepping inside.

The inside of the tent was just as dusty and decrepit. Seamus scanned the interior: there was a full-length mirror with a stool in front of it, there were wooden chests piled together, and there was a wood cot, with blankets and pillows lumped on top of each other. The dirt floor shifted beneath his feet, kicking up in thick clouds.

He made his way to the nearest wooden chest and lifted up the lid. Inside, was a glittering pile of silver bullets.

He sorted through the pile without care, bullets clinking against each other, some tumbling out of the chest. This was the most beautiful, bountiful treasure he has ever seen. He didn't even notice the shifting of blankets, nor the creaking of the cot, behind him.

A hand rested itself on his shoulder, and he jumped in fear, his pitchfork nearly meeting the bearded face of an elderly man, half-risen from the cot. He made a wild sound, and John tore his way into the tent immediately. John was shocked: The hermit lives? The hermit did not agree nor disagree.

Ashamed, John and Seamus prepared to flee, Seamus shaking himself free from the hermit's grip, but the hermit offered them seats on his cot as he sat down in the pile of silver bullets. They felt obligated to sit down, and did so. John attempted to question the hermit, but the hermit waved him off, then began to issue clarifications on his status:

# He was not //the// hermit, or at least not the one they sought;
# Subsequently, he could not create bullets and guns with or without silver;
# The guns disappeared long ago, because they were useless;
# The silver bullets were what they needed.

Seamus attempted to explain further, but the hermit shushed him, and explained his own situation back to him perfectly. You are here to drive wolves out of the barn on the edge of Oakford, he said, and Seamus nodded. You are aware that the wolves are cursed, and can only be killed by piercing their hearts with silver, he said, and Seamus shook his head. The hermit now was confused.

Seamus explained that no one would sell him a gun and bullets because he was Irish, and begged him to elaborate on how the wolves were cursed. John also begged the hermit to elaborate.

The hermit sighed, and begun to tell them a story long ago, from when John was only a child, and Seamus hadn't existed yet at all.

The hermit was the confidant of a silversmith, the very same John and Seamus searched for, by the name of Mac Clery (or McClaury). Mac Clery was sexually inverted and a natural fool, but was also a talented alchemist and smith. He inherited the spoils of a silver mine in Cardiff, Wales, from a distant cousin, and convinced of the magic properties of silver, began to build all his tools from the material.

Mac Clery obsessively sold his silver for cheap, and he was ran out of his home, and he lived in the forest between Oakford and Bobtown from then on. During this time, he begun a relationship with a pack of wolves, feeding them his scraps and inviting them into his tent.

In time, a farmhand from Bobtown discovered Mac Clery copulating with a wolf outside his encampment, and so he shot Mac Clery. Mac Clery fled, bleeding, and the farmhand gave chase, but deep in the woods, he lost sight of Mac Clery.

As he left the forest, he saw a black, yellow-eyed wolf in the tree line, bleeding from a wound in his midsection, the same spot the farmhand claimed he shot Mac Clery.

The wolf population boomed immediately after, but they were driven from Bobtown towards Oakford by hunters, where they took residence in a barn on the edge of the town. Oakford struggled to rid the barn of wolves for years, before surrendering. The hermit John and Seamus spoke to now believed someone would come to fetch Mac Clery's silver bullets at some point, to kill the cursed pack, and possibly Mac Clery himself.

John scoffed at this, insisting it was not true, and the hermit offered no resistance. The hermit told Seamus that he would allow him to take a single magazine of silver bullets, and his own pistol. The hermit produced his pistol, and scooped a handful of bullets up in his hand, and gave them to Seamus. He asked for no payment in return.

Seamus was miffed, but grateful. He believed he could make do with a single magazine. John took him from out of the cave and into the dark night. Seamus and John made the trek back to Oakford together, armed with their gun and their pitchforks.

The route back to the barn was shorter than the route towards Bobtown. It was a cold, quiet night. It almost seemed like the barn was empty.

John approached the doors first, while Seamus loaded his pistol. He spun the magazine, and slid it closed. He pointed forward. John turned back to him, one hand on the sliding door. When John opened it, he would hide behind the barn with his pitchfork, while Seamus fired at the wolves rushing out. Seamus nodded to John. He was ready. John threw the door open, and crouched into position, but no wolves emerged.

Seamus kept his grip steady as he closed the distance between himself and the door. He peered inside, illuminating the interior with his lantern. The barn was littered with the corpses of grey wolves.

In the back of the barn was a yellow-eyed wolf, slobbering silently, so still it didn't even seem to breathe. Seamus stared at it.

In a flash, it launched itself onto its hind legs, its front legs revealing themselves not to end in paws, but in human hands. The wolf let out a low hiss, like a laugh, and Seamus was completely overcome with terror. He screamed: Wolfman!

The wolfman sprinted at Seamus. The wolfman, he was much larger and stronger than Seamus, with broad shoulders and bustling, bulging muscles, and it was clear in a hand-to-hand fight Seamus would lose. So, Seamus fired. He fired over and over and over again. Five times, in fact, five times out of the six times he could afford to, but each shot hit. The wolfman's pelvis, abdomen, shoulders, and leg were torn through, and he screamed in agony, but he kept sprinting forward, and he bounded on top of Seamus, crushing him and chewing through his body. John lunged out from behind the barn doors, and began to stab the wolfman over and over as it clawed through Seamus.

The wolfman screamed, and he released Seamus. He grew weaker by the second. He gripped the pitchfork in his side, pulling it out and throwing it away. He slapped John down with the back of his hand, and bounded off into the woods, howling in pain the whole way.

John scrambled to Seamus's side and held him. The sun began to rise over the barn. Seamus coughed, and opened his pistol, lifting the silver bullet above his head. He prayed. "Lord, let this be the one that kills him, someday. Amen." He laid his head down on John's lap, and died. This silver bullet would be passed onto Seamus's son, Baby Jonah, who would go on to found a local retail chain of some renown.

This is why you must not be wasteful, explained the old woman as she ended her story, because someone else will have to clean up your mess, unless you do.

My father smiled and nodded at the old woman's story, but told her he could handle himself. She sighed. Do what you will, she responded, and she thanked him for the coffee. Then she returned to the town.

As December waned, he stood out in the fields with his sheep. The snow dripped from the leaves of trees on the edge of his property. Beyond the worn down fence, he saw a gigantic shifting mass beneath the trees.

A black wolf, slobbering and yellow-eyed, staring back at him.

Shortly after January began to settle in, his animals would rarely venture far into the fields, and it was rarer that they would go anywhere near the barn at the edge of the property. They would bleat and honk and moo in protest if he tried to bring them too close.

This was growing problematic, as the population was growing large enough that he'd need to start moving some of them into that barn.

Whenever he would check around the barn in the mornings, nothing seemed amiss, though he had a bad feeling crawl up his back if he stayed inside for too long. In time, he would begin to force animals inside, locking them up in the pens, where they would scream in horror all night.

As March rolled in, inviting the springtime, his animals began disappearing.

They would simply vanish. There were no corpses in the pens. The other animals, while appearing obviously shaken, had stopped screaming in the night.

It was not until early April that their corpses would begin turning up, piked onto the fence at the edge of the property, their organs strewn about on the wires connecting each pole.

These grotesque displays were almost surgical in their composition, and it was generally agreed that this was the work of a human being. The police were unable to find any fingerprints or identifying information, but they did tell my dad this: it seemed they were covered in toothmarks belonging to a particularly large wolf.

Months passed, and with each passing month was a growing horror:

# May: One night, all the animals in the barn screamed and screamed and screamed. My father rushed out to the barn, but when he threw open the doors, every pen was completely empty. All of them were clean, except for the very last one on the left, which was completely full of blood;
# June: My father awoke one morning to strange pawprints all around his shack, leading back to the barn, then abruptly turning out and into the woods;
# July: My father swore he left the barn doors open in the night, but that morning they were closed. He went to open it back up, but felt a dread so powerful that it drove him away in tears;
# August: Yellow eyes stared at him through a crack in the curtains of his bedroom window;
# September: In the empty barn, he heard the screams of his animals again. He stood on his porch, staring out at the barn, until it stopped;
# October: His neighbors claimed that every morning, a man in a ragged cloak walked around my father's property, hours before he woke up. My father started waking up earlier. He never saw the man, but a neighbor claimed he saw my father and the man converse. My father bought a gun shortly after, from the same store he rented his farm equipment;
# November: Wolves were spotted for the first time in generations gathering in the forest beyond my father's property;
# December: Those same strange pawprints in the snow;
# January: The barn doors swung open one night, and hellish light poured out. My father went to sneak a look, just once, and saw hundreds of wolves inside, engaged in a bizarre mating ritual. That many wolves could not have possibly fit inside a barn that size. He abruptly awoke in the pens of his other barn, where his sheep had gathered around him to keep him warm.

It was late January where my father finally gathered the courage to march into that barn. He had enough.

In the night, he grabbed his pistol and went out towards the barn. He threw open the doors and stepped inside, his pistol raised, and was immediately greeted by the sight of the wolfman, just as gigantic and dark as had been described. He did not hide himself. He was sitting like any normal man, his legs crossed over a trough. He stared at my father hungrily, slobber silently dripping to the near frozen ground.

My father did not fire. He stepped back, lowering his pistol. The wolfman did not move for a moment. My father took another step back, pressing his foot on the door.

The wolfman, in one sudden movement, crept from his sitting position and onto the ground, leaning forward on all fours. My father swung his foot, shutting the barn door.

He turned and ran, and kept running, faster than ever before, until he saw the town. He cried out for help again and again, trampling his way through the buildings.

The town was empty, dead quiet except for the hiss of the wind.

My father ran, pounding on the doors of every store he came across, and any homes tucked between. None answered. No lights came on. It was as though he had crossed an invisible boundary into the fairy world, where there was only him and the beast.

Somewhere behind, the wolfman growled through slick globs of saliva. My father turned and fired as many times as he could, snow-blind in the darkness. His gun clicked. It was empty. My father tossed his hefty jacket off and slid down a back alley, crossing two streets as he came closer to the center of town.

He dove past a diner and crashed headfirst into the building of his equipment supplier. He cried out and pounded on the window, but still no response. He grabbed the handle and pulled, and to his shock, he fell onto his back as it swung open. He quickly righted himself, launching through the open door, kicking it shut behind him. He swung around and locked it, before retreating behind the counter.

As he sat down, the back of his head crashed into the counter. He cursed under his breath, and a small box spilled off the counter, down in front of him. Trinkets, tiny toys, and a single silver bullet.

He grasped the bullet, inspecting it.

He produced his pistol.

It was the perfect size.

He flipped open his empty magazine and slammed the silver bullet inside. He stood, his legs shaking, grasping the counter. He turned to face the door.

He marched out onto the street. The snow fell in hateful clumps around him. His pistol at his side, he looked back and forth, emptiness surrounding him. He cried out to the wolfman: Come out! Face me! There was a long, pregnant pause, the only response being the hiss of the wind.

Then out of the shadows, the wolfman appeared. He was slobbering and yellow-eyed, with black matted fur and bloody jowls. He made a low, wheezing sound, almost like a laugh. They were finally face to face.

My father gripped the pistol tighter, his finger on the trigger. The wolfman stared at him, unblinking, unmoving. The wolfman didn't so much as breathe or twitch.

In the blink of an eye, my father dragged the pistol up into position, aiming at the wolfman.

The wolfman crouched, but my father's aim followed.

He remembered the prayer, from the old woman's story.

"Let this be the one that kills you."

//Bang.//

The wolfman howled in rage and pain as the bullet tore its way through his eye, bone and fur and skin splattering across the street. He grabbed his face with his paw, turning, then stumbling, then lurching onto all fours. He sprinted off into the darkness. He did not leave any blood.

My father finally breathed, and fell to his knees.

The snow covered the eerie black world. Someone from the town came to investigate a strange loud bang, dissimilar to any sort of sound anyone had ever heard before, and found my father leaned against a streetlamp, out like a light from exhaustion. When my father woke in the morning, he was in a local hospital being cared for by a team of nurses. He had bizarre bruises around his midsection and under his pelvis, but he wasn't hurt, so they let him go.

Back home on the farm, he went out to the fields and found his livestock all out of their pens, roaming without a care in the world. They were all fine, uninjured and healthy. The barn at the edge of his property, its door was still open. A sheep was sniffing around inside. He smiled at that.

Back in town, no one found any evidence of any tussle with a wolfman. Most people say it simply never happened, and stories my father told got twisted over time into something more magical. Some people say that the border between our world and the [[[scp-6080 |unknowable]]] [[[scp-8060 |expanse]]] is thinner in places like these, and perhaps he dipped too far into the unknown.

I doubt any of this happened, though as far as I know, the folklore mythology this tale descends from really does exist. John Bonnett, for example, was a real person.

In the end, who knows. I never got to know my father myself. This is as true as it gets for me. This is as real as he gets.

If you didn't understand why I became a cryptid hunter after my last story about him, I'm sure you do now, lol :)

Thank you for joining me tonight.

Happy belated Halloween.
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##blue|**Liryn**## 2 Nov 2025 (Sunday) 17:02:03 #33847593
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Have you seen Peter Caine's dogman videos?
[[/div]]

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##yellow|**HowellingAtTheMoon**## 2 Nov 2025 (Sunday) 17:10:56 #33847594
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I haven't heard of him before :) Why's that?
[[/div]]

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##blue|**Liryn**## 2 Nov 2025 (Sunday) 18:00:00 #33847595
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Your story reminds me of this classic: https://youtu.be/k44PdGkmylo
[[/div]]

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##yellow|**HowellingAtTheMoon**## 2 Nov 2025 (Sunday) 18:10:00 #33847596
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That's really good, lol. Thank you Lucy :)
[[/div]]

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##red|**TodayI--**## 2 Nov 2025 (Sunday) 18:12:22 #33847597
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ayyyyyy Ariel!!! :3 i missed seeing you around here

im so glad youre doing okay and remember your health/real life comes first

stay safe, take it easy, i cant wait to see what else you do
[[/div]]

[[div class="parapost reply1"]]
##yellow|**HowellingAtTheMoon**## 2 Nov 2025 (Sunday) 18:14:59 #33847598
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You're always so sweet with me. Thank you so much :) I'm glad you're doing okay too, Day. You went through something really [[[pavement|scary]]], and I'm proud of you for coming out of the other end of it as well as you have. We will talk more this year, I promise, lol.
[[/div]]

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##green|**Drea**## 2 Nov 2025 (Sunday) 18:15:00 #33847599
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I'm glad we're finally werewolfposting because I've actually had an encounter. When I'm out driving I'll stop at the crossroads that take you out of our property and into the public roads. No one ever comes down either way so I'll idle the car while I light up, and one time one of them came out of the forest. I was too slow to kill the lights. My joint was hanging out of my mouth while it walked over to my car. It must have been 5 feet away. It'd made itself look like a normal wolf, so it had 4 legs, and lots of teeth. It had little black beady eyes. It was grey but had a white belly, and also its nose was very drippy. It never looked at me. It crossed in front of my car and then it walked back into the woods. It must've felt my high vibrational energy and was naturally repulsed. Scariest moment of my life.
[[/div]]

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##yellow|**arsenicsauce**## 2 Nov 2025 (Sunday) 22:59:08 #33847600
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oh yeah well my dad killed dracula
[[/div]]

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##yellow|**HowellingAtTheMoon**## 3 Nov 2025 (Monday) 00:00:00 #33847601
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Your dad killed Dracula?
[[/div]]

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##yellow|**arsenicsauce**## 3 Nov 2025 (Monday) 00:22:00 #33847602
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yeah he was on the strike team that killed dracula
[[/div]]

[[div class="parapost reply3"]]
##yellow|**HowellingAtTheMoon**## 3 Nov 2025 (Monday) 00:39:00 #33847603
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He was on the strike team that killed Dracula?
[[/div]]

[[div class="parapost reply4"]]
##yellow|**arsenicsauce**## 3 Nov 2025 (Monday) 00:40:00 #33847604
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YES
[[/div]]

[[div class="parapost reply5"]]
##yellow|**HowellingAtTheMoon**## 3 Nov 2025 (Monday) 00:50:50 #33847605
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Do you want to talk about it in my next video?
[[/div]]

[[include :scp-wiki:component:license-box]]
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> **Filename:** Barn in the Stars.jpg
> **Author:** 420 Photography
> **License:** CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication
> **Source Link:** [https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Barn_in_the_Stars.jpg]
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[[include :scp-wiki:component:license-box-end]]

My Dad Was Stalked By A Werewolf For A Year And A Half

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