For 10 Days Straight, a DOGMAN Hung Animal Skulls in the Trees, Day 11th Was Unbelievable!

The Tenth Skull

You know what’s worse than finding one animal skull hanging in a tree? Finding ten of them over ten days. Each one bigger than the last. Each one placed closer to your house.

I’m 68 years old now. And for the past forty years, I’ve been living with a secret that would sound insane to most people. But I’m not crazy. I’m just someone who learned the hard way that some things in this world don’t follow the rules we think exist. Some things mark their territory in ways that make your blood run cold. And some warnings, if you ignore them, will cost you everything.

.

.

.

My name is Thomas Brennan. And this is the story of how I survived something that still visits me in my nightmares.

The Beginning

October 1984. I was 28, recently divorced, looking for a fresh start far away from Ohio. I found a property in northern Idaho, about forty miles outside Coeur d’Alene: eighty-five acres of dense forest, a small cabin that needed work, and a price I could actually afford. The realtor, Patricia, chain-smoked through the whole tour, kept mentioning the previous owner had left suddenly—left most of his belongings, just vanished. That should have been my first red flag.

But I was 28 and stupid and thought I was tough enough to handle anything.

The cabin was rough but had good bones. I moved in on October 3rd, everything I owned in the back of my Ford pickup. The first week was peaceful in a way that felt almost religious. No cars, no neighbors, no ex-wife, just me, the trees, and the wind in the pines. I fixed up the cabin by day, sat on the porch with a beer by night, listening to normal, peaceful sounds.

That peace lasted exactly seven days.

The Skulls

On the morning of October 10th, I walked outside to grab firewood. That’s when I saw it: a rabbit skull, picked clean, hanging from a low branch thirty feet from my cabin. It was tied with dried sinew in a loop. At first, I thought maybe a bird of prey had dropped it, but this was deliberate—displayed at eye level, meant to be seen.

The forest was silent. Too silent. I cut the skull down, tossed it into the woods, and tried to forget about it. But that night, I stayed inside with the doors locked and my rifle close.

The next morning, there was another skull. A raccoon this time, bigger, hung from a different tree but still in clear view. Same setup. My hands shook as I cut it down. This wasn’t a coincidence. Someone or something was leaving these for me. Why?

I walked the perimeter, found deer, elk, raccoon tracks, but nothing human. That night, I barely slept.

Day three: a fox skull, forming a triangle around my cabin. I kept this one for evidence, wrapped it in newspaper, shoved it in a drawer. The eye sockets stared back, accusing, warning.

Day four: a coyote skull, closer to the porch. Bigger, sharper teeth. The pattern was clear—each skull was bigger, each one closer. I grabbed my rifle and searched the woods for hours, but found nothing. As the sun set, I heard it for the first time: a sound that started as a growl, then shifted into something almost like words, but not. Like something trying to speak with a mouth not made for human language.

I ran. I’m not ashamed to admit it.

The Siege

That night, I heard heavy footsteps circling the cabin, stopping at my door. Slow, deep breathing. Then silence. I sat in the dark, rifle aimed, heart pounding, until dawn.

Day five: a massive deer skull with full antlers, hung directly in front of my porch. I would have to walk under it to leave. I didn’t leave. I just watched it spin in the wind, antlers casting finger-like shadows.

I tried to reason it out. Bears don’t hang skulls in trees. People don’t make those sounds. I was running out of logical explanations.

Day six: an elk skull, antlers like a small tree, forming a new point in the growing pattern. I finally worked up the courage to leave for town, but two miles down the road I found enormous, fresh footprints—eighteen inches long, five toes, claw marks, not human, not bear. I turned back.

Day seven: a mountain lion skull, fierce even in death, hung above my porch. I was trapped. I rationed food and firewood, melted snow for water, and waited.

That night, it came back. Footsteps. Scratching at the door, then at the windows, at the walls. Almost-speech, like language forced through the wrong mouth. I fired a shot through the roof—everything went silent. In the morning, four deep claw marks slashed across my door.

The Tenth Warning

Day eight: a wolf skull, right next to my window, staring in. I was out of food, out of wood, out of time. I decided to leave on foot at dawn, hoping to move quietly.

But that night, I heard voices—multiple, circling my cabin, not human, not animal. They scratched at every wall, every window, testing, looking for a way in. I fired again. Silence. They retreated.

Day nine: a bear skull, massive, hung in front of my door. This was no longer a warning. It was a promise. I was next.

I left that morning, rifle and backpack in hand, heading away from the voices. The woods were silent. I found the killing ground—a clearing littered with bones, and in the center, a human skull hung just like the others. The previous owner. Jim Morrison. I heard movement behind me and ran, crashing through the woods until I found a logging road and flagged down a truck.

Aftermath

I told the sheriff everything. He listened, then told me I wasn’t the first. That land had changed hands many times, each owner leaving after a few months, telling stories just like mine. Deputies had searched, found nothing. The previous owner, Jim Morrison, had disappeared. I told him where to find the skull.

We went back with a search team. The skulls were gone. The clearing was gone. No evidence. The sheriff said maybe I needed a break from the woods.

I tried to believe him. But on October 20th, exactly ten days after the first skull appeared, I found the tenth one outside my apartment in town—a human skull, fresh, with a note: “You were warned.” On the back: “This is Jim Morrison. You found him. Now he rests. Do not speak of this place. Do not bring others. What is in the woods stays in the woods.”

The Cost

I showed the sheriff. He ruled Jim’s death as exposure. Case closed. I never told anyone the real story. I left Idaho, moved to Montana, built a quiet life. My wife Sarah knew something had happened, but never pressed. Our kids grew up never knowing the truth.

But sometimes, late at night, I hear sounds that don’t quite fit. I remember. Over the years, I researched quietly, piecing together stories from others—warnings, territorial markers, patterns. The skulls weren’t trophies. They were a language: “I can kill the small, the clever, the swift, the powerful, even the apex predators. And I can kill you.”

I left before the tenth skull appeared in the woods. The tenth was meant for me. But it showed restraint, intelligence. When I left, it let me go. But the skull in town was a reminder: “I can reach you. Stay silent.”

For forty years, I did. Until now.

The Final Warning

I’m nearly seventy. My wife is gone, my kids grown. I have nothing left to protect except the truth. There are things in the woods that don’t fit our understanding—intelligent, territorial, patient. We call them Bigfoot, dogman, monsters. But whatever they are, they have rules. When you see a warning, you listen. You leave.

Because the tenth skull doesn’t come with another chance.

I looked up my old property online. The cabin is gone. The land’s still undeveloped, sold eight more times since I left. No one stays long. Part of me wants to warn the new owner, but I don’t. That would break the agreement. I’ve seen what happens when you break the rules.

The Haunting

Three or four times a year, I dream I’m back in that cabin. It’s always day ten. The bear skull hangs in front of my door. I hear footsteps circling, slow and deliberate. In the dream, I can’t move. I just watch the door open, see something huge, upright, eyes reflecting light, face somewhere between wolf and human. It opens its mouth, makes that almost-speech, and in the dream, I understand: “This is my home. You are the intruder. Leave, or become part of the forest.”

Then I wake up, heart pounding, covered in sweat.

If You Wander

If you spend time in the woods, if you camp or hike or live in remote places, remember what I learned:

When wildlife vanishes, when the forest goes still, when you see bones or structures that don’t belong—those are warnings.
You don’t investigate. You don’t take pictures. You don’t look for answers.
You leave.

Because the tenth skull is for those who don’t listen.

Some things in the woods are older than fear, older than man, older than the language we speak. They have their own rules, their own territory, their own way of saying, “Leave now before you become part of the forest.”

I survived forty years after crossing their boundary. Most don’t survive ten days. If you ever find something hanging in the trees, walk away while you still can.