For those involved in dealing with cryptids, if any of you are
reading this, why do you do it? Other than the money, of course.
I feel a lot of you do it for the rush, the adrenaline, but
where's the line drawn? Where does exhilaration evolve
into panic? Don't get me wrong, a little
risk taking is food for the soul, but so many factors can go
wrong in any situation. In particular.
What do you do when you find the corpse of a Cryptid you were
hunting, eviscerated and dismembered when the abrupt
realization hits you that there's a bigger fish?
My grandpa wasn't quite on the level of monster hunting, but
boy was he a crazy idiot. Once he haunted a grizzly using
nothing but a crossbow, wet mud and leaves, and his wit.
He's had its head mounted above his forest house fireplace ever
since. I can't say how far back his
love for the wilderness is rooted, but I know he grew tired
of the city long before retiring from his job as a metropolitan
engineer. Since then, he's lived out in an
old house in the northwestern reaches of the Olympic National
Forest, about 40 miles from the park itself, Washington State.
I can only imagine how lonely it must have been living out there
by himself, but he never seemed any the worse for it.
In recent years I've come to be good friends with a guy I met in
college, Martin. I could see the same fire in his
eyes as my grandpa's when it came to the outdoors, always
pestering me to come with him on camping, trips, going fishing,
hunting, you name it. It was a no brainer.
Bringing him along for a visit to my grandpa's.
Honestly, I feared they might get along too well and Martin
would never return with me. In the end, it didn't matter,
because both of us have been ingrained with a morbid aversion
to the woods since that day. Martin was particularly eager,
this time practically vibrating in the passenger of my Jeep.
Last trip, Grandpa promised he'd show him the ropes of skinning
and pelts. Martin often went on about how
he'd feel sitting up front, a roaring fireplace with a great
deerskin rug laid out beneath it.
My motivation was simply to check up on my grandpa.
He hadn't been responding to my attempts to contact him for the
past week, so naturally I was a bit worried.
We ran into a problem early, driving up the long dirt road to
my grandpa's. Rounding a corner, I slammed on
the brakes, seeing a slew of fallen trees lying across the
road. Damn, what happened here?
Martin exclaimed. There haven't been any storms
recently, right? I sat with my hands, 10 and two
on the steering wheel, lost for words.
No, it's been pretty clear weather around these parts since
March. Weird.
Shutting the engine off, I hopped out of the Jeep.
The only sounds were the leaves flittering in the mid spring
breeze. Nature's white noise.
We were a little over 2 miles away from the house, an easily
walkable distance. Grandpa had enough equipment
that we didn't need to bring much of our own, so our bags
were light. I had my phone, a flashlight,
water, spare clothes, and my utility watch strapped around my
wrist. My plan was to get up to
Grandpa's and come back down in his truck to chop up the fallen
logs with a chainsaw. We thought it would be more fun
to go through the woods alongside the track.
A long dirt Rd. means only boredom after all.
We scrambled down the left side slope and began our trek,
keeping an eye on the road to follow its route.
Only a few minutes later. The smell hit us.
Putrid carrion. It was nothing unexpected.
Animals in the forest die all the time.
Even so, that hard wired part of my brain was repulsed at the
smell. Damn, something's festering out
here, I said. Can't imagine how it would smell
in summer. Martin let out a small Wretch,
but agreed the stench only grew stronger as we went on.
It was at its peak when I almost tripped over a sharp object on
the ground. I thought it to be a cluster of
branches at first, but the notion quickly dissolved upon
seeing their pale ceramic reflections, a decapitated
stag's head lay right in front of us.
It was wrong, though. The teeth were too long and the
bone of its face was exposed. Even with the odor, I could tell
it was fresh from the viscous black liquid that seeped from
its neck and mouth. Martin spoke up.
Damn, that's freaky. You think a bear did this?
I mean, there's only black bears here, right?
I doubt they could pull off something like this.
A cougar, maybe? I don't know, never seen one
straight up decapitate A stag like this, though my eyes were
drawn to a trail of red forming A jagged streak ahead of us on
the ground. My gaze followed it until it
terminated at the stags, grisly mess of a body.
Well, it looked quadrupedal from a distance, but as we move
closer, I found myself sorely incorrect.
The body was that of a monster, large in stature but Bony and
gaunt, long razor sharp claws lying splayed across the ground
like kitchen knives and all covered in patches of dark
wizened fur. Is it bad?
Martin called out, approaching from behind me to get a look.
When he saw it, he went still and quiet, as had I.
There was no statement that could do the sight justice.
I'd heard the old tales of the horrors lurking deep inside the
forests, but never experienced them face to face.
It was still lying dead as the fallen leaves beneath it.
It looked crushed and broken, littered with what seemed to be
wide and deep puncture wounds. Martin managed to speak up.
Is that? But before he could say any
more, a sudden snap broke the tension.
The snap of a twig? No a branch.
My spine shot straight upright. Against my better judgement, I
found my head gradually swivelling in the direction the
noise had come from. When I caught a vast, hulking
shape in my peripheral vision. I whipped around to face
whatever was there. I saw something just for a
moment. Enormous, long limbs draped in
shaggy hair the color of pine bark.
But as quickly as I turned, the image vanished.
Rising dread threatened to pry my lips apart in a scream.
I looked far and wide, but nothing was there.
Kel, what is it? Wait, the cougar isn't still
here, is it? Martin whispered.
No, it's nothing. Let's keep going.
We can talk about this later with my grandpa, but the cat
could still be loitering about somewhere.
It's best we don't stay in the same place for too long.
Before departing, I snapped a few pictures of the corpse on my
phone, zooming in on the head without backtracking to get a
better angle. Something told me that turning
back, however briefly, would be a terrible mistake.
We went on with an urgent pace, pretending to ignore the heavy
movements between the trees nearby.
Large animals will inevitably give away their movements, but
they snap twigs, not entire branches.
Even so, the movement sounded anything but clumsy.
No, they sounded calculated, those of a stalking predator.
As hard as I tried to filter them out, I caught myself
glancing to the sides and behind very often.
I don't know whether I was hoping to see something or
nothing. Still, the woods around us were
empty other than ourselves. Hey, Kel, if there's a Mountain
Lion around here, we should go up onto the road for a bit.
It'll be easier to bolt if we need to.
I agreed, and we veered off to the right, climbing up the
roadside slope. Deep down, I knew that whatever
was out there, it wasn't a big cat.
We only told ourselves that skirting the subject of monsters
now made it very real to us. The forest fell silent as we
walked along the road. That was far from comforting,
though. If the woods are quiet,
predators are about. This is a well known idea among
wilderness enthusiasts. What did ease my mind to a
degree was the sight of a herd of deer standing on the track.
They cocked their heads to look at us, but didn't seem all too
disturbed by our presence. At the same time, the feeling of
being exposed and vulnerable grew as a hard lump in my gut.
They started to move on as we got closer, wandering off the
road and into the woods. One of the deer stayed in place.
It wasn't frozen, no, but constricted.
It twitched and whimpered as it started to rise off of the
ground as if weightless. It happened so quickly its
screams were cut off as its limbs were snapped and crushed,
and deep wounds erupted over its body.
And then, like it had been there the whole time it stood.
It was a nightmare, Huge, unimaginably so, rivaling 2
elephants stacked up. It was hunched over, resting on
impossibly long and thick forelimbs, ending in spindly
sloth like claws. Its body was long too, ending in
a pair of shorter legs, knees inverted with feet, supported by
spur like appendages. The lulling head that sat atop
an arched neck looked like some bizarre cross between a horse
and a crocodile. Hollow pits in place of eyes,
the torn skin around its mouth revealing horribly uneven and
misshapen teeth that jutted out at irregular angles.
The fading sunlight glinted off of the long gashes covering its
sides and head. The dead creature from earlier
had definitely put up a fight, but it could never have been
enough. As we stood stunned, it
reciprocated our stare, the only real movements being the sets of
rib like appendages undulating on its underside, rendering the
deer into a torn sack of flesh and bone fragments.
The poor animal seemed to wither before our eyes as the sharp
ribs forced deeper into its body like a juice box having the last
drop sucked out of it. At that moment we were part of
the herd, paralyzed. Some had already run off, but
others were as statues In the presence of this beast.
Another smell hit us then, different from the stench of
decay like earlier, but equally a sickening like moist earth,
sulphur, methane and dead fish. Its source was clear as wisps of
gas from the beast's mouth became thick billowing fumes
rising into the evening sky. The tension was broken, with the
deer's mutilated husk thudding to the ground.
The remaining deer took flight, scampering off into the trees,
and in response the beast snapped its head in their
direction. Something was wrong with its
head flopping around clumsily as it turned.
I took a step back as it let out a deep, guttural rattle before
bounding off after the herd, its matted hair swinging violently.
It splintered a tree as it went, but was totally unfazed by the
impact. We waited until it's thundering
gallops faded into the quickly darkening night before saying
anything. What the hell?
What was that thing?
Martin sputtered, tears welling up in his eyes.
I don't know, man, but we have to get to the house before
sundown. I have a feeling our chances at
escaping it are little to none in the dark.
Are you crazy? We have to go back.
I want to get as far from this place as Poe.
What about my grandpa? We can't just leave him here
with that thing. Martin didn't look over to me,
but wasted no time disagreeing, starting his jog up the road.
We were already over halfway to my grandpa's house, and even if
we wanted to escape, it would be a menial task for the creature
to smash the Jeep off road. The solitary light in the
distance looked like the gates of heaven.
It radiated safety, but I knew we couldn't continue out in the
open. Completely exposed.
I looked down at my utility watch, making a mental note of
the direction of the house north northeast, before grabbing
Martin by the arm and leading him off the left side of the
road. Nature's cruel irony manifested
in the steepening terrain and the thickening brush.
The house is. Light quickly faded, leaving us
with only our bearings to navigate.
I thought we might have gone off track for a terrifying moment,
but I saw the column of smoke above the distant tree canopy
that could only be from my grandpa's chimney.
Come on, this way. As we neared, no light became
apparent. Maybe he'd already gone to bed,
I could only guess with his lack of communication.
We came up onto the lip of a hill, sloping down towards a
flat clearing, but there was no house there, the pillar of
smoke, but there was no source. It began in mid air from nothing
as we stopped to look. The point where the smoke came
from jerked around in the air. When I picked up on the organic
stench, it clicked in my mind just like before.
There it was, looking directly at us, the thick fumes spewing
from its mouth. But I noticed something else
this time. Now that the moon hung in the
sky, its light glinted off of something beneath the creature's
head. 6 black orbs, shiny like Obsidian 3 on either side of its
neck. They darted about, independent
of each other, and I knew immediately what they were.
Eyes. What kind of abomination was
this? If those were its eyes, and it
ate the deer with that structure resembling a rib cage, then that
must mean it had a false head, a distraction, a defense
mechanism. Maybe it made sense how this
head flopped around limply with the beasts unnatural movements.
I blinked in quick succession and looked down to my watch due
E we had been misled. It had circled around us to lie
in wait. In one motion, I gripped onto
Martin's shoulder and pulled him in the direction we were meant
to be heading in a wild Sprint for survival.
The beast erupted into movement, ribs rippling as it let out
another rumbling trill. Martin looked over at me,
confused. Hey dude, what are you doing?
There's nothing that shut up. Just run as fast as possible.
Now, don't stop for anything. Our pounding feet were matched
by heavy thumps and loud cracks of trees being smashed.
I dared not steal a glance behind, fearing that even the
slightest break in pace would mean death there.
I struggled to see what Martin was talking about until the
yellow light became visible between the tree trunks.
We were only a few 100 yards away, but I was surprised the
creature hadn't already caught up to us.
Even the trees in its way stood no chance of impeding it.
It had almost caught up. I could feel the air pressure
from its massive body charging through the trees behind.
It was close enough that at any moment I might feel its claws
cleave my body into pieces, a saving grace.
Coming up on our left was a dense patch of old oak trees.
I swerved towards them, leaping through the spaces between
trunks just large enough for us to get through.
I hit the ground, rolling sideways.
There wasn't even time to be dazed as an immense slam sounded
from where we just been. I scrambled backward, looking to
see a great arm slinking through the gap.
It was thick, but not as thick as the oaks.
The claws tapped about, searching blindly for our frail
bodies. Go.
I shouted, and the both of us shot to our feet and bolted
towards the light. As we ran, the sounds grew
distant. Was it stunned, or did it still
think we were behind those trees?
I didn't care. All that mattered was being
inside and not out. Gravel clattered against the
front of the house as we skidded to a stop.
I rapped on the door, devolving into pounding when they went
unheard on what was probably the 20th knock.
My fist met only air, and I stumbled in through the now open
doorway. I looked up to meet my grandpa's
gaze. His eyes were wild.
He didn't look like himself. He glanced behind me at Martin,
then behind him. Whatever he saw out there, his
pupils contracted in response. Hurry, boys, get inside, he
whispered. We filed in and he went to bolt
the door, but hesitated. His hand fell limply.
A no use. He was right.
If the Beast wanted to pay a visit, it would do so regardless
of our home security. We followed him quietly to an
uncovered floor hatch. What's this, Mr. Barnett?
Martin asked regarding the Hatch.
Huh. Oh, this here's my old wine
cellar. Martin went to ask further
before being interrupted. Get down the ladder first, son.
You can shoot your questions once we're safe.
He pulled on a handle, opening the Hatch to reveal a sturdy
wooden ladder leading into a dim space beneath.
One by one, we clambered down, its dusty rungs meeting the cold
concrete floor at the bottom. Grandpa was last, tugging a
heavy rug over the open hatch before closing and securing it.
I take it you've seen the thing, right?
Jesus, Granddad. We barely got away.
I gasped, still out of breath from our escape.
Unscathed. Yeah, mostly.
Other than some scratches. Good.
He walked over to an upturned crate and plopped down onto it.
Martin and I looked at each other and then back at him.
Well, Martin said. You seem to know what we were
dealing with. So what the hell is it?
Grandpa gave Martin a scowl of disapproval, quickly relenting
into understanding. I'd scrutinize you on your
manners, boy, but now ain't the time.
He released a tired gasp, letting his head drop down
before inhaling sharply and looking back up at us.
I saw it only once before in my varsity years.
I had some Danish friends on my course who said I should come
visit them over there and do some backpacking in their home
country. Denmark has beautiful
landscapes, really. Peaks rise out of the trees.
You know, before he could lose himself in a Daydream, I cleared
my throat to bring him back to reality.
Oh, right. So we were pretty deep in the
woods when it happened. We'd all gotten paranoid because
we thought something was following us.
Something. Big Elk, maybe, But we never saw
anything, only heard it. And then, God, one of the girls
in front of me started to levitate.
I don't know. She was just rising up off the
ground, gripped by something, whatever it was, made a mess
from her. Crunched her up like a meatball
being squeezed. I saw it then.
Curved bones wrapped around her, stabbing in deep.
Ain't never going to forget the sight of it.
It's like a stain on my mind. We saw the same thing, Martin
piped up. Only it was a deer.
Looked like it sucked everything out of it when it was done.
Yeah, I can't say I know how it works.
You can only see it if you know something's there.
If it's there. Anyway, we ran as fast as we
could back down the trail and we seem to lose it the whole time.
There was this rancid stink though.
Eggy and Earthy. We wound up back in the town
we'd started from, went straight to the police station and
reported it. Apparently all they found was a
little chunk of meat. A piece of thigh or something
like that. One of the other guys told me
about the tale. Later on, he brought up the
smoke we saw rising out of the forest when we were back in the
town. An old Danish legend went that
people through history seen smoke columns in the woods, and
most who went to check it out never returned.
They said it would move around, not like how a fire would
spread, but like it was wandering to and fro.
Damn, that's a horrible story, Grandpa, I said.
It doesn't help us figure out what it is, though.
We already know the stuff you've just told us.
Well, he replied. I'm sure it's got many names,
seeing how it can just pop up where it likes.
But I only heard it called the Scorston Deer means chimney
beast, if I'm remembering right. That makes sense.
We thought we were seeing the smoke from your chimney, but it
LED us right to it. Kel, Grandpa sighed.
This house ain't even got a chimney.
Martin looked over to me, scoffing, then back over to
grandpa. So it lures people in like that,
Sure, but I don't think it means to.
I'm going to take a gander and say it started up with the fumes
after it ate that deer. Yeah, I replied.
Whatever that thing is, it ain't from here.
It ain't from anywhere on the planet.
I think it eats something, then starts giving off smoke.
A waste product from digesting? I guess so.
Crap gas. Martin chuckled.
He always was able to find a way to lighten the mood in dire
situations, even if just a little.
I looked up at the monochrome ceiling above us, mulling over
what Grandpa had said. I remembered how this whole
thing had started and pulled out my phone to bring up my photos.
We found this after starting our way up to yours on foot.
I have an inkling, but do you know what it is?
Grandpa squinted at the screen, then took it from my hand.
Scroll to the right. That's only the head, I said.
His silent focus was only punctured by the dull taps of
his finger on the screen. Recognition lit up in his eyes,
his head bobbing up and down. Well, I'll be damned, Wendigo,
right? I asked.
I up, I gotta say, never seen one around these parts before,
but then again, I was never looking for one.
I doubt you need it, but keep that as a reminder for what this
beast is capable of. I put my phone back in my
pocket, sighing and letting my chin drop into my hands.
In any other situation, I'd be shocked to find out such a
creature was real. But not now.
This is all great, Mr. Barnett, Martin said with quivering
uncertainty. But it doesn't help us.
What are we going to do? What can we do?
I don't know. Well, I have a stupid idea, but
it's just grasping at straws. Anything over, Sitting here and
waiting to die, Martin breathed, staring off into space.
Anything. Grandpa looked up toward the
basement window, the only source of natural light in the room.
What little of it remained while I was checking my traps out east
from here, about 6-7 hundred yards into the woods.
Only when I got there was there this smudge.
I don't know what to call it, but that's the best I can
describe what it looked like. It was like looking into it.
I couldn't register what I was looking at.
Hurt my eyes after a while, never seen nothing like it was
after that. I started seeing the Scorston
deer, so he trailed off like he was struggling to find the words
to say. So what?
I pressed, leaning forward in anticipation.
Again, this is guesswork, but I think that's where it came out
from. I threw a rock into it when I
was there, but ain't here. It hit the ground like it went
someplace else. If we can just lead it back
there. Just get it to go back in.
Wait, hold on. I interrupted.
Shouldn't we call someone police?
The damn army. What do you think will happen to
the cops when they come out here, huh?
What's a chief and a rookie in one police car going to be able
to put up against it? And good luck convincing U.S.
military to send out Marines. You'd be lucky if they thought
it was a joke. I shut my mouth, swallowing my
next words, allowing Grandpa to continue with his proposition.
Either the beast leaves or we die.
I'm not even going to talk about trying to drive away.
You've seen what it does to the trees.
Stealth might work, but it's better at that than we are, big
as it is, and I don't want to risk either of you losing your
lives. His last remarks sent a chill
down my spine. He'd said nothing explicitly,
but I already began to understand what he meant.
Granddad, You don't worry about me, champ.
I got something, but you got to listen closely.
Both of you. Martin and I focused on him.
I wanted to hear his plan, but I really hoped it would be
different from my expectations. Now I want to make this clear
before anything else. I'm going alone and you boys
need to sit tight and do as I say.
My heart dropped, plunging into the stone cold sea of despair.
Are you crazy? No.
I have to go with you. I grandpa cut me off, shushing
me as I say he commanded. I knew he was right, but in the
face of loss, my thoughts wrestled against the idea.
OK, now I'm going to call you when I'm a ways off.
All right? You have to pick up and stay on
the call with me. It's vital you keep your
attention on my voice. I need both of you to be brave
for the next part. I need you to make as much noise
as you can. Martin's eyes bulged in fear.
Won't that just get us killed? I haven't finished.
That's only up until I call you. When I do, you shut up and you
hide in the darkest corner of this cellar.
OK, I was heaving for breath now, cold beads of sweat budding
on my forehead, but I closed my eyes and stilled myself.
Yeah, OK, good. Once we're connected, I'll
start. We were silenced by a single
muffled thump from overhead, so forceful that the ceiling spewed
cement dust down on us. Then another thump.
And another. And another.
I fell off my perch in shock when a booming crash sounded
from above, chased by the clattering of rubble.
The steady thuds drew nearer, louder, until the only sound was
that of the floorboards, groaning under immense weight.
I looked over to Grandpa, who looked over to me and whipped a
finger to his lips. I nodded, then slowly turned
toward the basement hatch. The beast was trying its best to
move silently. A stifled whimper escaped my
lungs as I saw the Hatch buckle. A loud bang shook the houses
foundations, then nothing. In the silence I could make out
the beasts ticking growl. It was toying with us, trying to
catch us out, make us think we've been foiled so we'd burst
out in a panic and try to flee. Its intelligence terrified me so
much more than its grotesque appearance.
It tried this bait a few more times before huffing angrily.
The heavy creeks grew distant until we could no longer hear
it, aside from the single crash of a fallen tree somewhere
outside. I stood up, eager to set this
plan into motion, only to be dragged back down by a firm grip
on my arms. My eyes fell to meet my
grandpa's looking at me with a wide eyed scowl.
Sit down, he hissed. Not yet.
It's clever. It's probably waiting at the
tree line, watching for us to come out.
The three of us sat in silence, ears attuned for even the
slightest noise to indicate its presence.
After an excruciating wait, Grandpa rose to his feet and
crept over to the ladder. He scaled it, wincing at the
Creek of a rung, then pushed open the Hatch ever so slowly.
The rug that had been above was tattered, torn fragments
slipping down into the now open space.
He peeked out from side to side, checking rigorously that we were
safe. As he pressed his hand upward,
what sounded like a broken tile was disturbed, clattering to the
floor above us. Grandpa froze in place, visibly
tensing crack. The heavy step followed by the
guttural rattle I prayed to God I wouldn't hear, forced Grandpa
into action. He pushed himself off of the
ladder, tucking and rolling to the floor right before the Hatch
was slammed by immense force. Cracking it and warping the
hinges. Grandpa shot to his feet,
adrenaline far outpacing his old age.
He glanced around wildly at the floor before looking up at us
with new found determination. Ah, crap, damn it.
Change of plans. Martin distracted.
Make some noise, Kel. Give me a leg up to the window.
Martin's jaw fell open and his breathing quickened.
Damn. He yelped, pressing fingers into
his temples, But to his credit, he turned toward the Hatch and
started up a racket straight after.
Come get it, you idiot, you ugly sack of crap.
While Martin was busy cussing out the chimney Beast, Grandpa
and I hurried over to the window and braced myself in a kneel,
fingers locked together, forming A foothold where he planted a
foot. 123I heaved him up, holding my posture, while he
unlatched and swung the window open.
My body was already tired from running away, and Grandpa was
heavier than he looked. Still, I hauled him up further
until he was out past the waist and he pulled himself out into
the hazy night. I kept my focus on him as he
turned around, refusing the urge to look as I heard claws
cleaving away ravenously. All right, I'll be calling in a
minute, he panted. When I do, tell Martin to zip.
I love you, bud. You too, Granddad.
My words latched on to him, fuelling a forgotten instinct
that slammed his heels into the forest floor and sent him
sprinting into the trees, fading until he was merged with the
dark itself. I have grounded again when
Martin let out a shriek and I turned to see him backpedaling
from those spindly claws extending through the jagged
hole that once was the Hatch. A thick trail of Crimson smeared
from him as he shuffled back the same Crimson that slicked one of
the Titanic claws. It got me.
Ah God, it hurts, he cried, flipping over and resorting to a
belly crawl towards me. I rushed over and dragged him as
far away as I could, but he flopped to the floor in shock.
When I released my grip, his calf was a mess of exposed,
glistening flesh, and bone sliced through like warm butter.
His mouth hung half open but without a sound, so I rushed to
build a cacophony in his place. As booming as I tried to make
myself sound, I devolved into whimpering shouts.
The beast's arm had reached almost halfway across the room,
yet still it slithered further and further through the broken
hatch. Claws.
Tick, tick, ticking around in search of our flesh backed up
into the furthest corner alongside Martin.
The monstrous hand grew closer, slowly, agonizingly so.
I only became aware of the incoming call from the vibration
in my jacket pocket. It felt as if somehow, safety
lay in the act of answering my grandpa's call.
My hand shot into my pocket and yanked the phone out, fumbling
with the touch screen and picking it up.
Granddad, I It's so close. It's about to get us do
something, please. I wailed into my phone instead
of a reply. A loud crack rang through the
night, and then the phone. The beast's arm lurched
backward, freezing for a moment before it tore out from the
basement, peppering the floor with wood fragments.
As simple a sound as it was, I recognized it.
His Black Hawk. He'd taken it with him.
I don't know when he picked it up.
He may have had it on him the entire time.
Out the window I saw the hulking silhouette barrel into the trees
at speeds rivaling my Jeep in 5th.
I jumped when I heard Grandpa abruptly begin shouting over the
call. The words were indiscernible,
blending in with the scuffled sounds of movement.
I took the moment to take off my jacket and then my T-shirt,
which I pulled tightly around Martin's upper calf as a
tourniquet. Hey, Kel, Grandpa said over the
phone, sounding hollow and tinny.
Make sure you keep up your aerobics.
It sure is crap. Doesn't get easier with the
years I let out 1/2 Hearted Chuckle.
I will. I want to go hiking through
these woods with you. Camping, surviving off of the
hunt. I know you do.
I God, I do too, he said, stifling a SOB.
You're going to have to stay strong for your ma, OK?
There ain't no chance I'm getting out this time.
But you you two are. I broke down then thick, watery
streams lining my cheeks. I'm going to miss you so, so
much, Granddad. I But we had some good times.
Amazing times. No?
I sure as hell did. And, well, this is a pretty
badass way to go out, right? An unfamiliar comfort swelled up
inside me, almost breaking through the tears.
Yeah, all right, I'm here. The smudge.
No idea what I'll find through there.
I could hear the thundering beast across the call as it
gained on him. It's clicks and rattles, too.
I'm going in. Promise me one thing, though.
Anything, Granddad. You be a good kid and make my
daughter proud, that's all. A bizarre noise came from the
phone speaker. Something akin to the sound of a
stone sliding across a frozen lake, followed by a splash that
seemed to kill all noise. That dead silence was broken
when a shuddering voice spoke again through the phone.
What the Where are you? I yelled, pleading for any small
morsel of information he could provide.
I don't know. It's.
I'm in a pipe, I think some kind of glass tube.
I can see everything outside. It's all there, all at once.
There are more of these tubes, so many more.
They're branching and splitting, but the connection got
progressively weaker as he talked, jittering and buzzing in
my ears. I'm heading down this tube now,
and their central one, but it's huge.
Enormous. Holy crap, no, I don't think
it's the central in the distance.
So many. The hell is this place?
My exhausted brain couldn't fathom a single thing to say.
I just listened, almost as confused as he was, streams of
through some of them and the he was cut off by a tremendous
splash, but the sound quality at this point made it sound more
like a roar. I could only hear his whimpers
until that hissing trill crawled its way under my skin Once more.
It melded with the audio glitches, but then I heard
something I never could have expected.
Even after seeing what I'd seen, it sounded as if the creature
was stuttering, clearing its throat.
Before it spoke, the unearthly nightmare beast had spoken.
Its words were jarring, like it was repeating after someone
taught it how to talk, broken by animalistic clicks and hisses.
Grandpa screamed, but the call lost connection completely and
drew out in a high sine wave tone.
My hand acted off its own accord and loosened its grip, sending
the phone clattering to the floor.
By the time I had crouched down to grab it, only my home screen
greeteded me as I pressed the home button.
The call failed. I looked down at Martin.
He was out cold but breathing. The bleeding had died down, but
he needed urgent treatment. Even so, I fell to the floor,
back slouched up against the cold concrete wall, and decided
to wait it out until sunrise. I was certain Grandpa's plan
worked, but just the slightest uncertainty held me in place.
The adrenaline was beginning to wear off.
My limbs ached and my head thumped.
I fought against my eyelids, but they felt as if dragged down by
anchors. All light vanished and I faded
into sleep. I woke to heat on my face and a
red, orange blur. I opened my eyes, grimacing at
the rays of sunlight that poured through the destroyed basement
hatch directly onto my face. Any notions of a simple
nightmare were shattered, Martin.
I rolled over on my side, seeing him lying a few feet away.
Thank God he was still breathing the red liquid coating the skin
of his left leg was dry and crusted, but a small amount of
it still seeped from his mangled limb.
I chose to let him rest while I turned to the broken ladder,
hauling myself up what remained of its rungs and out into the
house. What remained of it, At least
utter devastation. I do not exaggerate when I say
almost the entire front portion of the house was gone.
Wooden beams jutted out from piles of rubble and dust, but
all was still unlike the day prior.
Birdsong weaved throughout the woods and into the ruins.
I recall learning about how forest animals would go quiet
when a predator is nearby, but I'd been too on edge to notice
until their sounds had returned. Still, subtle chills worm their
way up my spine. I felt safe, but I'd also felt
safe with Grandpa in the basement until the attack.
No smoke plumed from anywhere across the tree line, and no
stench defiled my nose, but I couldn't shake it.
I spent some time scrabbling around in the back half of the
house that still stood quicker than expected.
I found the keys to Grandpa's truck in the corner of the
kitchen counter. I practically leaped down into
the old wine cellar, then slowed my pace, gently shaking Martin
until he stirred. He was groggy and confused.
Don't worry, man. I'm gonna get you home.
I wrapped his left arm over my shoulder, supporting him to the
ladder. It was tough getting him out,
but I did, and we hobbled through the ruins to the truck,
driving faster than truly necessary.
I swerved, slamming on the brakes when the fallen tree
trunks came into view. Almost out of nowhere, the jolt
shook Martin, and he came to attention from the pain in his
leg. I apologized for it, but wasted
no more time in getting out and helping Martin down from his
seat. The stench of death was stronger
in the air, the Wendigo corpse festering nearby.
It brought me back to the night before, the raw terror spawning
paranoia within me that grew intense over the short walk
between the truck and my Jeep. I felt exposed.
We made it across the trees and into my Jeep quickly, even with
Martin's injury, still without any warning signs of the beast.
My heart was drumming so hard I could see my chest pulse.
After a messy 3 point turn, the wheels slipped, kicking up dust
before we shot away down the track.
We drove until reaching the small police station where I
flew out of the Jeep and burst through its double doors.
Perhaps a rash action in retrospect, but my mind was
elsewhere. Before anything else.
I had them call an ambulance for my friend, followed by reporting
a severe animal attack. When I was asked what attacked
us, I spat out Cougar. The officer grunted, and I laid
out the facts. Grandpa was gone, dragged away
by our assailant. An ambulance arrived soon
thereafter to pick up Martin. The EMT's were visibly surprised
by the laceration, but attended to him none the less.
He'd lost a fair bit of blood, but they quickly got him in
stable condition. At the nearest hospital where he
stayed for the next week, a search party banded together to
look for Grandpa. But they found nothing, of
course. I was questioned about the state
of his house, but I think the trauma welling up in my eyes was
the best defense I could have had.
No scorch marks on the rubble to indicate explosives, Nothing.
It's been a few years since this all happened, and I've made it
through the stages of grief in one piece.
I'd like to say Grandpa lives on in my memory, but that wouldn't
be entirely accurate to say I can still remember him.
Our conversations, days out, the smell of his fireplace, all
that. But no matter how hard I try, I
can't remember what he looked like.
That's to say, there's only an imperceptible smudge where he
once was in any pictures I still have.
I don't know where he ended up, some massive network of tubes,
but I get the distinct impression that his grave lies
elsewhere, in another place, separate from this world.
I'm eternally grateful for his sacrifice, Yeah, but I can't
help but think that it was only our lives that were saved from
the scorstand deer. Are there more of them, or is it
somehow able to relocate itself? Only my grandpa would have
answers, but yeah, just in case. If you find yourself out in the
wilderness and you see a steady plume of smoke rising from the
trees, perhaps even smell the organic stench of digestion,
it'd be best to call off the occasion entirely once it's on
to you. Well, I only hope you're as
lucky as we were on the day my grandpa died.
The moment I think back on that trip, a shiver runs down my
spine. The kind that doesn't come from
the cold, but from something buried deep in memory.
It's strange sharing stories like this, a bit like group
therapy for those of us who stared into the eyes of
something primal, something that doesn't fit into the neat
categories of our modern understanding.
But here I am, ready to share ours.
Not because I want to relive those moments, but because
maybe, just maybe, it'll serve as a warning for someone else
fresh out of high school. With the naivety of youth still
clinging to us like the scent of cheap Cologne, we thought a
camping trip was the perfect send off.
Before college, there were four of us, Preston, with his Native
American heritage and a knack for survival that went beyond
what you'd find in any manual. Jamie, who knew his way around
guns better than anyone I'd ever met.
Mark, a friend of Preston's whose quiet demeanor masked a
restless spirit. And then there was me, the glue,
trying to hold this motley crew together.
Our plan was simple. Dive deep into the heart of the
National Forest, surround ourselves with the kind of
wilderness that makes you forget the world outside, and just be.
We packed my old BMW station wagon to the brim with
everything we thought we'd need, tents, food, camping supplies,
and of course, our guns. The drive was a mix of
anticipation and nostalgia, the road unwinding like the years
we'd spent together leading us into the unknown.
Setting up camp that first day was a breeze, a testament to the
countless times we've done this before.
But as we settled down the crackling fire casting shadows
that danced just beyond our circle of light, I felt a
prickling on the back of my neck.
For a moment, I thought I saw a pair of green eyes framed by
what looked like antlers watching us from the darkness.
I brushed it off, chalking it up to the tricks the mind plays
when the sun dips below the horizon.
We spent that first night as if it were any other camping trip,
reminiscing about the past and dreaming aloud about the future.
The campfire Curry we whipped up was a makeshift feast, and the
s'mores that followed felt like a nod to our not so distant
childhoods. It was perfect, or as perfect as
any of us could have hoped for. But as I lay in my tent, the
sounds of the night a comforting lullaby, I couldn't shake the
feeling that something was off. It was as if the forest itself
was holding its breath, waiting for something to break the
silence. Preston seemed undisturbed, his
breathing steady in the quiet of the night, and I forced myself
to believe that it was all in my head.
Looking back, I wish I had paid more attention to that feeling,
to the eyes that watched us with a curiosity that was far from
benign. I wish I had asked Preston about
it, but wishes are like leaves in the wind, easily scattered
and impossible to gather again. That night, as we slept, the
wilderness around us whispered secrets in a language we were
not yet ready to understand, and by the time we would start to
decipher them, it would already be too late.
The forest greeted us with a dense mist that morning, as if
the trees themselves were trying to dissuade us from delving any
deeper into their domain. Preston led the way, his steps
confident yet cautious, a silent testament to his connection with
the land that went beyond mere survival skills.
Jamie, ever the enthusiast, kept close, his eyes scanning the
thick foliage with a mix of excitement and wariness.
Mark was quieter than usual, his usual nonchalance replaced by a
contemplative silence. And then there was me, caught
between the thrill of adventure and a growing sense of unease
that I couldn't quite shake off as we trek towards the river.
The overcast sky and the lack of clear landmarks made navigation
challenging. Preston's unease was palpable, a
stark contrast to the man who had always seemed unshakable in
the face of the wilderness. When he stopped suddenly pulling
me aside to whisper about a bad omen, I felt my stomach, not.
The distant, whooping noise that followed his warning sent a
chill down my spine, a sound so alien and yet terrifyingly
familiar in a way I couldn't explain.
Preston's reaction to the creature we glimpsed through the
trees was the first real indication that this trip was
veering into uncharted territory.
His swear words, spoken in his native tongue, added weight to
the gravity of our situation. Despite our arsenal, the
creatures swift escape after Preston shots made it clear that
we were dealing with something far beyond our understanding.
The mention of a Wendigo, a creature from Preston's cultural
lore, marked a turning point in our journey, transforming our
adventure into a fight for survival.
The decision to cross the river and sever our only means of
retreat by destroying the tramway felt like a desperate
gamble. As Preston cut through the rope,
sending the tram crashing into the waters below, I realized
there was no going back. His actions, driven by a deep
seated fear of the Wendigo, left us stranded on the far side of
the wilderness, cut off from the familiar and thrust into a realm
of ancient fears. Mark's disappearance that night
was the blow that shattered any remaining illusions of safety.
The realization that we were being actively haunted by
something that could snatch one of us away without a trace was
paralyzing. The forest, once a place of
freedom and escape, had become a prison.
It's bars made of towering trees and it's guards, unseen entities
that watched from the shadows as we prepared to confront whatever
had taken Mark Preston's knowledge of the Wendigo became
our only guide. His makeshift torches, crafted
with a sense of urgency, were symbolic of the thin line
between light and darkness, between hope and despair.
The revelation of the Wendigo's nature.
A cannibalistic demon with a lust for human blood cast a dark
pall over our camp, transforming our fears into a tangible enemy.
That night, as we huddled around the fire, the weight of our
situation settled heavily on my shoulders.
The stories Preston shared about the Wendigo tales passed down
through generations were no longer just stories.
They were a grim reality we were living.
Our decision to stand and fight, to face the ancient horror that
lurked in the depths of the forest was born out of
necessity, a desperate bid for survival in a world that had
suddenly turned hostile. As I loaded my gun, the reality
of our predicament sank in. We were no longer just campers
or friends on an adventure. We were survivors, warriors
pitted against an ancient evil in a battle that would test the
limits of our courage, our friendship, and our will to
live. The forest, with its hidden
dangers and ancient secrets, had become our battleground, and the
Wendigo, a nightmare, made flesh our adversary.
As dawn broke, the forest seemed to hold its breath, a stillness
that belied the turmoil within us.
We had fortified our camp as best we could, but as the light
filtered through the dense canopy, it only served to
highlight our vulnerability. Preston moved with a quiet
urgency, his actions a blend of ritual and survival strategy.
Jamie kept a vigilant watch, his usual bravado subdued by the
weight of our predicament. The absence of Mark hung over us
like a shadow, a constant reminder of the danger that
stalked us unseen. The plan was simple.
In its desperation, hold our ground and survive, Preston's
insistence on watch rotations underscored the severity of our
situation. As night approached, the forest
seemed to come alive with sinister whispers, the sounds of
nature twisted into ominous portents.
When it was my turn to stand watch, the darkness felt
oppressive, a tangible entity that pressed in from all sides.
Every snap of a twig or rustle of leaves sent adrenaline
coursing through my veins, A primal response to an unseen
predator. The fire became our beacon, a
fragile barrier between US and the malevolent force that lurked
in the darkness. Preston's decision to use fire
as a weapon against the Wendigo was born out of ancient wisdom,
a testament to the enduring struggle between light and dark,
life and death. The makeshift torches, their
flames flickering in the night, were symbols of defiance, a
declaration that we would not go quietly into the embrace of the
forest. The attack, when it came, was
both terrifying and surreal. The Wendigo's howls shattered
the night, a sound that seemed to freeze the very blood in our
veins as it emerged from the darkness.
The embodiment of nightmares, our preparations were put to the
test. The gunfire that tore through
the night was a cacophony of fear and determination, each
shot a plea for survival. The creatures resilience was
unlike anything we had encountered, a being forged from
the darkness of the forest itself.
Preston's bravery as he faced the creature with fire and steel
was a beacon of hope in the chaos.
His knowledge of the Wendigo, passed down through generations,
was our only edge. As the night wore on, the lines
between hunter and hunted blurred each encounter with the
creature a dance with death. The realization that we were not
just fighting for our lives but engaging in a battle that
spanned centuries lent a grim significance to our struggle.
The siege wore on a test of endurance and will.
The moments of silence were almost worse than the attacks.
Pregnant with anticipation of the next onslaught, our resolve
was tested not just by the physical demands of the battle,
but by the psychological toll of facing an enemy that was both
myth and reality. The fear of becoming like Mark,
lost to the darkness, hung over us like a spectre, driving us to
fight with every ounce of strength we possessed.
As dawn approached, the forest seemed to hold its breath, the
night's horrors retreating into the shadows with the coming
light. The siege had ended, but the
battle was far from over. We were survivors, but at what
cost? The scars we bore were not just
physical, but etched deep within our souls, a permanent reminder
of the night. We stood against the darkness
and prevailed in the aftermath as we prepared to face another
day. The forest no longer seemed like
a sanctuary but a battleground, a place where ancient evils
lurked, waiting for the cover of night to reveal their true
nature. The morning sun did little to
dispel the chill that had settled in my bones, a cold that
came from within, born of fear and the lingering presence of
death. As we prepared to leave the
relative safety of our camp, the absence of Mark was a gaping
wound among us, a silent testament to the price already
paid. The forest around us, once a
place of beauty and solitude, now felt like a maze designed by
some malevolent architect, each path potentially leading to our
doom. Preston led the way, his face
set in a grim mask, every line and curve etched by the trials
we had endured. Jamie followed, his usual jokes
and laughter replaced by a quiet determination, A resolve forged
in the fires of our night long siege.
And then there was me, caught between a desire to flee this
nightmare and the understanding that there was no turning back.
Not until we faced our demon once more.
The illusion of Mark's return was a cruel twist of fate, a
momentary spark of hope extinguished by the harsh
reality of our situation. The creature that stood before
us, wearing Mark's face but devoid of his soul, was an
abomination, a mockery of the friend we had lost.
The confrontation that followed was a blur of motion and
emotion, a desperate battle against an enemy that was both
familiar and utterly alien. As we face the Wendigo, armed
with little more than our wits and the weapons we carried, the
distinction between man and monster blurred.
The gunfire that erupted between US and the creature was not just
an exchange of bullets, but a battle for our very humanity.
With each shot fired, we reaffirmed our refusal to
succumb to the darkness, to become like the thing that had
taken Mark from us. Preston's voice, raised in
challenge to the Wendigo, was a beacon of hope, a reminder of
the strength that comes from standing together against the
odds. As the creature responded, the
air between us crackled with the tension of ancient enmities, a
battle that transcended time and place.
The Wendigo's howl, a sound that chilled the soul, was a
declaration of war, a challenge that we met with determination
and fear. The final battle was a testament
to the power of fire and resolve.
As I charged, makeshift flamethrower in hand, I was
driven by a singular purpose. To avenge Mark, to protect my
friends, to end this nightmare. The creatures screams as the
flames engulfed it were a Symphony of victory and sorrow,
A cacophony that echoed through the forest.
A final farewell to the friend we had lost in the aftermath.
As we stood among the ashes of our enemy, the silence was
oppressive, A void filled with the ghosts of our actions.
Preston's decision to destroy the Wendigo's remains was a
solemn duty, an act of respect, and a final gesture of defiance
against the darkness. As we made our way to the
highway, the forest around us seemed to watch, a silent
witness to the events that had unfolded within its depths.
The journey back to civilization was a procession of the wounded,
each step taking us further from the forest but never truly
leaving it behind. The scars we carried were not
just physical, but etched deep within our souls, a reminder of
the price paid for our survival. As Preston spoke of his plans to
inform his elders to ensure that our battle would not be
forgotten, I realized that some wars are never truly won.
They linger in the shadows, waiting for the next generation
to stand against the darkness. In the end, our pack, to never
speak of what happened, was a vow made in blood, a promise to
carry the burden of our experiences alone.
But as I share this story, breaking the silence that has
enveloped us, I do so with the hope that it will serve as a
warning, a beacon for those who might find themselves on the
edge of the darkness. For in the wilderness, among the
beauty and the majesty, there lurks a shadow, a reminder that
some myths are born of truth and some monsters are all too real.
The clock was close to striking midnight, and the whole house
was asleep, except for me. In the dimly lit dining room,
only the warm glow from the three bulbs above the table
broke through the darkness. I could barely make out the
hands of the clock as they moved closer to 12.
With a deep breath, I took out the shot glass I'd kept hidden
in the back of the cupboard and placed it next to the bottle of
Jägermeister on the table. I don't usually drink, not after
what happened to pop. But the first day of September
is different. It's the one exception.
I allow myself, rubbing my tongue against the inside of my
cheek, I felt my mouth go dry, a familiar sensation that always
accompanied this moment. The house was silent, so quiet
that the ticking of the clock seemed to echo off the walls.
And then, right at midnight, the soft chime rang out, sounding
like distant church bells. I filled the shot glass, raised
it for a second as if toasting someone only I could see, and
swallowed. The familiar burn slid down my
throat, warming me from the inside.
After the ritual was complete, I took the shot glass to the
kitchen to wash it by the light of the moon shining through the
window. Loretta, my wife wouldn't mind
me drinking, but a used shot glass left out would raise
questions. And talking about it, well, I've
never been good at that. I still have nightmares all
these years later. What I saw up on that mountain
left a mark on me deeper than anything else ever has.
Deeper than the joy of seeing my children born or the sorrow of
watching my father drink himself to an early grave.
Loretta tells me I should talk about it, that it might help.
She's probably right. She usually is.
So here goes. It was right out of school when
I joined the Park Rangers service.
School was never my thing. The outdoors always called to
me. I spent my school days
daydreaming about the weekends, when I could escape into nature,
hiking or fly fishing with pop. It was our thing, a bond we
shared. In the summer of 89, I found
myself stationed in the Appalachians.
It was my dream job. Our area covered the trails that
wound their way up the mountain, a place where the air felt
different, where the spruce trees thinned out and the clouds
hung low. Giving everything a touch of
mystery, that summer was mostly about cleaning up.
The winter storms had left the trails covered in fallen
branches and debris. It was considered grunt work,
something for the new guy, which I was, but honestly, I didn't
mind. It meant I was out there in the
thick of it all, feeling more alive than I ever did in a
classroom. One day, as the summer heat
began to wane and the number of visitors dwindled, something
happened that would change me forever.
It started like any other day, but it ended with me facing
something out of my darkest nightmares, something that would
stay with me for the rest of my life, haunting my dreams and
leading me to this yearly ritual.
That's the day I can't forget, the day that compels me to raise
a glass every first day of September, trying to find some
peace, some closure. But deep down, I know some
experiences cling to you, shaping who you are, forever
lurking in the shadows of your mind.
It was a morning like any other in the Ranger station, damp and
misty, the kind of weather that clings to your skin and makes
everything feel slower. I was sitting at my desk,
thumbing through reports of fallen trees and planning my
day. When he burst through the door.
He looked wild, eyes wide and darting around as if he was
seeing ghosts in every corner. He let out this moan, a sound so
full of despair it froze me in my seat and then collapsed right
there on the floor. Stanley, my fellow Ranger, was
quicker to react. He leaned down, trying to prop
him up into a sitting position. The guy was soaked to the bone,
his clothes clinging to him, dripping water all over the
wooden floor. I handed Stanley a cup of water,
thinking maybe the guy was just dehydrated or something, but
when Stanley tried to get him to drink, he just flailed around,
knocking the cup right out of his hand.
The glass shattered on the floor, but he didn't even seem
to notice. It's out there, he kept saying
over and over, like a broken record.
His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper, but you could
hear the fear. It was palpable, filling the
room and making the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
What's out there? Stanley asked, trying to keep
his voice steady. But the guy just grabbed
Stanley's shirt, his hands shaking.
He was scared out of his mind. Stanley and I exchanged looks.
We'd seen a lot of things in our time as Rangers, but nothing
like this. Nothing that could scare a man
so badly. He could barely speak.
Finally, after what seemed like forever, he managed to calm down
enough to sit up and look at us. He was a mess, eyes red and face
gaunt, like he'd been lost in the woods for weeks without
food. Stanley gently asked him where
he was from, and after a long pause, he said he'd come up from
San Diego with a couple of friends for a hiking trip.
That's when the story started to come together, but each piece
was more troubling than the last.
They've been planning to hike the trail N but something went
horribly wrong. He pulled out a stack of
Polaroids from his backpack, and there they were, his friends,
smiling and alive. But the way he looked at those
photos, you could tell they were more than just missing.
Stanley took charge, marking the map with the last place he'd
seen them. My stomach churned as I realized
we were heading deep into the mountains, far from the safety
of the trails. This wasn't just another rescue
mission. It felt like we were walking
into a nightmare. We geared up, trying to shake
off the uneasy feeling settling over us.
The forest seemed different as we set out more foreboding.
Every shadow felt like it was watching us, every rustle in the
underbrush, a potential threat as we move deeper into the
wilderness, away from any path or sign of civilization.
I couldn't shake the feeling that we weren't alone, that
whatever had terrified that hiker was waiting for us to.
The silence of the forest was a heavy, oppressive thing, broken
only by our footsteps and the occasional distant call of a
bird. It felt like the calm before the
storm, and I had no idea if we were ready for what was coming.
The old cabin in the woods looked like something straight
out of a horror movie, its walls rotting and the roof half caved
in. By the time we found it,
darkness had already swallowed the woods whole, turning
everything outside the beam of our flashlights into a sea of
shadows. The air felt thick with
something unsaid, an ominous silence that seemed to press
down on us from all sides. Stanley was the first to move
towards the cabin, his flashlight cutting through the
dark. This will have to do for
shelter, he muttered, More to himself than to us.
I followed close behind, my heart racing.
Something about the place felt wrong, like we were intruding on
something ancient and malevolent.
We barely had time to catch our breath before we heard it, a
low, guttural growl that seemed to come from all around us.
Stanley froze, his flashlight beam darting around the
clearing. Did you guys hear that?
He whispered. But before anyone could answer,
chaos erupted out of the shadows.
It came at us, a nightmare made flesh, the Wendigo.
Its eyes were like pits of fire in the darkness, and its body
was a grotesque mix of human and animal, with long, clawed limbs
that seemed to stretch unnaturally.
We barely had time to react. Stanley fired his rifle, but the
creature moved with terrifying speed, dodging the bullets as if
they were nothing. Panic took over.
I remember thinking we were going to die out there, torn
apart by this monster from the legends.
But then something clicked inside me.
Fire. The creature seemed to recoil
from the flames of our torches, hissing as if the light caused
it pain. With a desperate burst of
adrenaline, I grabbed a branch from the ground, lighting it on
fire from one of our torches. Wielding it like a weapon, I
lunged at the Wendigo, swinging the makeshift torch with all my
might. The creature shrieked, a sound
so piercing it felt like it could freeze my blood.
For a moment it faltered, stepping back into the shadows
as if afraid. That moment of hesitation was
all we needed. Stanley and Harry joined in,
brandishing their own sources of fire, driving the creature
further into the darkness, but the relief was short lived.
In the chaos, the cabin caught fire.
Flames quickly spread, consuming the old wood With a hunger that
mirrored the Wendigo's, we were forced to flee, leaving behind
any hope of sanctuary. As we ran, the fire behind us
lit up the night, casting long, sinister shadows among the
trees. We didn't stop running until we
reached the Ranger station, the first light of dawn creeping
over the horizon. The forest was silent once
again, as if nothing had happened, but the scars of that
night would stay with us forever.
Looking back now, it all seems like a blur, a nightmare that I
can't wake up from. I still don't fully understand
what happened out there. All I know is that the Wendigo
is real and it's out there waiting in the darkness of the
forest. And every year on the first day
of September, I remember. I remember the terror, the fire
and the faces of my friends who weren't as lucky as I was to
make it out alive. Sometimes late at night, when
the world is silent and still, I can still hear the creatures
screams echoing in the back of my mind, a constant reminder of
the night I came face to face with the Wendigo.