Doghead: The Creepy Pasta That Broke Me — A Nightmarish Encounter with a Feral Horror I’ll Never Escape

The smell still clung to me, a rancid reminder of that night. The stench of burning fur and rotted wood followed me down the dark corridors of my dreams, where Dogghead floated in a haze of embers. Even now, with memories spread like an oil slick across my brain, I can’t sleep without tasting ash in the back of my throat. This thing that latched onto me has a breath all its own. Every time I close my eyes, I see the warped edges of its muzzle smoldering in the dark. And in those half-dream states, I feel something behind me, pressing close, its breath a wet rasp.

Bryce and I had been on the road for days, escaping the heartache of my recent divorce. The spontaneous cross-country trip was supposed to be a cleansing experience, a chance to leave my past behind. Bryce was there to keep my spirits high, his easy charm coaxing genuine laughter from me after my ex-husband’s betrayal. He wasn’t classically handsome, but there was something comforting about the way his brown hair curled around his ears and the freckles beneath his eyes, making him look perpetually amused with the world. Sometimes, I caught myself noticing how broad his shoulders were, how he carried himself like he was ready to shield me from anything. I pushed those thoughts away, refusing to label them attraction.

We took turns driving, splitting gas and cheap motel fees. The miles blurred, stretches of farmland and the occasional billboard proclaiming something about the Lord’s righteous vengeance. Bryce tried to keep my spirits high with a running commentary on every bizarre roadside attraction we passed.

“There!” he said, tapping the window as we rumbled down a lonely Nebraska highway. “See that sign with the woman in the clown wig? Or maybe it’s just a sun-bleached scarecrow?”

“Could be a haunted scarecrow,” I replied, half-joking. “Maybe we should turn back and pick it up for you. Another treasure to hoard.”

He grinned, that warming smile of his, and my own lips twitched upward despite my mood. We drove on, the highway stretching endlessly ahead. But as we passed a battered billboard that read “Wolf’s Curiosities,” Bryce’s eyes lit up with excitement.

“Come on! Let’s check it out!” he urged, turning the car onto a narrow, muddy track that disappeared into tall grass.

The curiosity shop was a rickety shack surrounded by an overgrown yard. The sign outside was an exact match to the billboard’s sun-bleached letters. I hesitated as we approached, the building looking ready to collapse. Rotting beams and a sagging porch welcomed us, while a large bell hung above the door, caked in rust.

“Are we sure it’s open?” I peered through the darkened windows.

Bryce shrugged, still wearing that grin. “Only one way to find out.”

Inside, the air was thick with dust and the scent of decay. The cramped space was cluttered with old dolls, chipped porcelain statues, and worn knick-knacks. My gaze was drawn to a taxidermy mount hanging on the far wall—a dog’s head, its fur the color of old rust, its eyes glistening in a way that made my skin crawl.

“Do you see that?” I whispered, feeling a chill creep up my spine.

Bryce stepped closer, his interest piqued. “What a strange piece. It looks… alive.”

The shopkeeper, an older man with a lined face and stringy hair, emerged from the back, carrying a box of dusty trinkets. “Afternoon,” he rasped, his gaze flicking between us and the dog’s head. “That’s the proudest piece in here.”

I shivered. “Why a dog’s head?”

“Sometimes you get hold of an artifact that chooses you, not the other way around,” he replied, a strange smile playing on his lips.

Bryce’s curiosity was palpable. “How much?”

“Thirty bucks,” the man said, almost too quickly.

Bryce’s eyes sparkled. “That’s a bargain,” he joked, glancing at me. I felt a knot tighten in my stomach.

“No,” I said abruptly. “I don’t want it.”

Bryce looked disappointed. “Come on, it could be interesting. Just a conversation piece.”

I shook my head. “It gives me the creeps.”

But Bryce was intrigued. “Let’s just take it. We can always throw it away later if you don’t like it.”

Against my better judgment, I caved. We purchased the plaque and carefully placed it in the trunk, wrapping it in towels to keep it from rolling around. As I glanced back at the shop, I felt a strange unease settle over me, but I brushed it off.

The drive continued, but the atmosphere felt heavy. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching us. When we arrived at our motel, I felt a sense of relief wash over me.

That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The darkness felt oppressive, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was lurking just beyond the edge of my awareness. Sleep came in fits, filled with nightmares of the dog’s head, its eyes glistening with malice.

Around midnight, I awoke to the sound of scratching at the door. My heart raced as I strained to listen. The scratching grew louder, more insistent. I sat up, terrified, and called out, “Bryce?”

Silence.

The scratching continued, and I felt a cold sweat break out on my forehead. I glanced at the clock—it was just after midnight. I crept toward the door, fear gripping me.

“Bryce?” I whispered again, but there was no response. I turned the handle slowly, my heart pounding in my chest.

The moment I opened the door, I was met with darkness. The hallway was empty, but the scratching had stopped. I stepped out, my pulse racing, and called for Bryce again.

“Bryce!”

No answer.

I turned back to the room, the door creaking ominously as I stepped inside. I reached for my phone to check the time, only to find it missing. Panic surged through me. Where was Bryce?

I stumbled back into the hallway, my heart racing. That’s when I saw it—the silhouette of the dog’s head plaque standing in the middle of the hallway, its eyes glinting in the faint light.

I froze, feeling paralyzed by fear. Then the scratching began again, this time accompanied by a low growl. I turned to run, but before I could reach the door, the growl shifted into a deep, resonant bark that echoed through the corridor.

I bolted, throwing myself against the door, my heart pounding in my ears. I could hear the sound of claws scraping against the floor behind me, the growl growing louder.

“Bryce!” I screamed, desperation clawing at my throat. “Help!”

But there was no answer. The door swung open, and I stumbled into the parking lot, breathless and terrified. I turned to see the silhouette of the dog’s head looming in the doorway, its eyes glowing with an unnatural light.

I ran to my car, fumbling for the keys, my hands shaking. I could hear the growling getting closer, the sound of claws on pavement echoing in the night.

“Start, damn it!” I cried, slamming my palm against the steering wheel. The engine roared to life, and I slammed the car into gear, tearing out of the parking lot.

As I drove away, I glanced back at the motel, the dog’s head still standing in the doorway, watching me as I fled.

I didn’t stop until I reached the nearest gas station, my heart racing and my breath coming in ragged gasps. I stumbled inside, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.

“Are you okay?” the clerk asked, concern etched on his face.

“I need to call the police,” I gasped, my voice trembling. “There’s something… something in the motel.”

The clerk nodded, dialing the phone as I paced the small store, trying to calm my racing heart. I could still feel the weight of those eyes on me, the growl echoing in my mind.

When the police arrived, I explained everything, my voice shaking as I recounted the events of the night. They assured me they would check the motel, but I could see the skepticism in their eyes.

After what felt like an eternity, they returned, shaking their heads. “There’s nothing there,” one officer said. “Just an empty room. No sign of any disturbance.”

I felt a wave of disbelief wash over me. “But I saw it! The dog’s head! It was there!”

“Ma’am, are you sure you’re feeling alright?” the officer asked gently. “It’s been a long night.”

I felt frustration boil within me. “I’m not crazy! I know what I saw!”

But they dismissed me, telling me to take care of myself and to call if I needed anything. I left the gas station feeling hollow, the weight of my experience hanging over me like a shroud.

Days passed, and I tried to return to normalcy, but the memory of that night haunted me. I couldn’t shake the feeling that Dogghead was watching me, waiting for the right moment to strike.

And every night, as I lay in bed, I could smell the burning fur, the rancid odor of decay filling my nostrils. I knew I had to confront my fears, to face the darkness that lingered in my mind.

So, I returned to the motel, determined to find answers. But as I stood outside, staring at the dilapidated building, I realized that some things are better left buried in the shadows.

Because what if Dogghead was still waiting for me? What if it had already claimed another victim, and I was next?