Dogman Changed My Life: A Firsthand Encounter in Hazelwood Hospital

I grew up in southern Ohio, near the Ohio River — the kind of place where everyone knows everyone, and most of the town’s excitement comes from local legends. On the other side of the river, in Maysville, Kentucky, there’s a long-condemned building known as the Hazelwood Hospital.

Every small town has a place like it — boarded windows, graffiti, that sharp smell of rust and mold. For years, it was a dare-spot for local teens who wanted to prove their courage. You go in after dark, take a few pictures, maybe catch a shadow on camera, and then brag about it at school.

At least, that’s what it was supposed to be.

The Night Everything Changed

I was nineteen when it happened. My friends and I decided to check out Hazelwood one last time before it was scheduled to be torn down. There were three of us that night, just dumb kids looking for a thrill.

From the moment we parked, something felt wrong. The air was too still. The night too heavy. I’d been there dozens of times before, but this time the silence hit differently — like the whole place was holding its breath.

We split up after forty-five minutes inside, exploring different wings. I headed toward the basement — the old morgue — hoping to catch something interesting on camera. I didn’t expect ghosts, but I wanted a good story to tell.

That’s when I smelled it.

The stench was overwhelming — rot, wet fur, and something chemical. At first, I thought it was just an animal carcass, but it was worse than anything I’d smelled in my life. The air burned my throat.

Then I heard the slam of a steel door.

The sound echoed down the corridor, followed by the splash of heavy footsteps moving through water. The morgue floor had about three inches of standing water, and whatever was walking down there was big.

I froze, waiting for one of my friends to jump out and yell “Gotcha.” But the footsteps didn’t sound human. Too heavy. Too deliberate. Then came the panting — deep, labored, like an animal catching its breath after a chase.

The smell of wet dog hit me next, mixed with rot.

Something in the Dark

I remember crouching behind one of the old body coolers, trying not to make a sound. My heart was pounding so hard I swear it echoed off the walls. Five minutes passed. Then another slam — the same metal door.

Whatever it was, it was back.

The sound of claws scraped against the floor, followed by a low growl that rolled through the hallway like thunder. I peeked out from behind the cooler and saw a shape move past the doorway — tall, hunched, and broad-shouldered.

The smell was unbearable.

Then came the howl — long, guttural, and so loud I had to cover my ears. It didn’t sound like any coyote or dog I’ve ever heard. It was almost… human.

I ran.

I sprinted across the basement and into the boiler room, tripping over broken tiles. I slammed the steel door shut behind me and pressed my back against it, gasping for air. But the door didn’t hold for long. Within seconds, something slammed into it hard enough to rattle the hinges.

The next sound will haunt me for the rest of my life — a deep, snarling breath right against the metal, like it was smelling me through the door.

The Thing That Shouldn’t Exist

When I finally saw it, I didn’t believe what my own eyes were telling me.

It forced its arm through the door gap — a long, gray-brown, fur-covered limb ending in a hand that wasn’t human. The fingers were too long, the claws like black knives. The muscles under the fur rippled with every movement.

It shoved through the opening and howled.

That was enough. I bolted through the boiler room toward the loading docks, overturning gurneys as I went. I hit the dock doors hard, trying to force them open. Behind me, the sound of claws on metal echoed closer and closer.

The doors wouldn’t budge.

I heard it slam against the lockers and gurneys I’d toppled — knocking them aside like toys. I climbed onto the counter and broke through a window pane, slicing my hand on the glass. The second my feet hit the cold ground outside, I turned — and saw it framed in the doorway.

Eight feet tall.

Gray fur.

A narrow snout like a Doberman.

Eyes that glowed faintly gold in the dark.

And it was looking right at me.

I can still feel that stare — not just seeing me, but recognizing me. Like it was deciding what kind of prey I was.

The Chase

I ran for the fire escape ladder at the far end of the building, but the thing was faster. I could hear it leap, metal groaning under its weight as it climbed after me. It grabbed my ankle before I reached the first floor window — the pain seared through my leg as its claws ripped through denim and skin.

Pure survival took over. I kicked, twisted, and pulled free, tumbling through the window as it slammed into the escape rail behind me. I hit the ground running, dragging my injured leg toward the main street.

It was right behind me. I could hear it breathing — that deep, angry rhythm that sounded half-human.

I made it halfway down the hill before my vision blurred. I just kept running. I don’t even remember reaching the old woman’s house at the bottom of the road — only slamming against her door and collapsing inside before she shut it behind me.

When the police arrived, I was bleeding from my leg and hand, hysterical, trying to explain that I’d been attacked by something that walked on two legs but wasn’t human. They didn’t believe me, of course.

The hospital said it was a wild dog.

The wildlife officers said it was probably a coyote.

But the claw marks on my leg told a different story — five digits, long and curved, too human to be canine.

Aftermath

That night left me with thirty-six stitches in my leg and seventeen in my hand. The doctors were baffled. The officer who took my statement called it “one of the strangest bite patterns he’d ever seen.”

For eleven years now, I’ve lived with that memory. I can still smell the rot and wet fur when I close my eyes. I’ve never gone back to Hazelwood Hospital, and I never will.

That experience changed me. I don’t walk into any building without knowing where every exit is. I pay attention to the woods. I listen when the night goes quiet.

Because I know what I saw.

It wasn’t a bear.

It wasn’t a dog.

And it wasn’t human.

Whatever stalked me that night — I know in my bones — was the Dogman.

edited and reformatted for clarity by ParanormalLink.com. Used with attribution for educational and storytelling purposes.