Horrors from Around the World

Night 035 - The Wendigo's Call (2)

The Wendigo.

Its skin was pale, stretched tight over its gaunt frame. Its eyes were hollow, sunken pits of black, and its mouth was filled with jagged, sharp teeth. But it was the smell that overwhelmed Eric—the stench of death, of rot and decay.

The Wendigo let out a low, guttural growl, its breath visible in the cold air. Eric raised his rifle and fired, but the bullet seemed to do nothing. The creature moved with unnatural speed, closing the distance between them in a heartbeat.

Eric scrambled back, stumbling over the overturned furniture as the Wendigo lunged at him. He barely managed to roll out of the way as its claws slashed through the air, cutting deep gouges into the wooden floor.

Desperation took over. Eric grabbed a fire poker from the hearth and swung it wildly, connecting with the creature's side. The Wendigo let out an ear-piercing screech and recoiled, but it wasn't enough to stop it.

With one last burst of strength, Eric threw himself toward the door, yanking it open and stumbling out into the snow. He ran, not caring where he was going, just needing to get away from the cabin, from the Wendigo, from the horror that had invaded his once peaceful refuge.

The storm had worsened, snow falling in thick, blinding sheets, but Eric didn't stop. His breath came in ragged gasps, burning his lungs as he plowed through the snowdrifts. His legs felt heavy, the weight of fear and exhaustion slowing him down. The Wendigo's screech echoed through the forest behind him, sending waves of panic through his body.

He didn't dare look back.

The trees closed in around him, their branches like skeletal fingers reaching out to ensnare him. Every crunch of his boots in the snow sounded deafening, every snap of a twig made his heart skip a beat. The wind howled like a chorus of voices, but beneath it all, he could still hear that terrible wailing—the Wendigo's call, growing closer.

Eric knew he couldn't outrun it forever. He needed to hide, to find shelter. The town of Red Pines was too far, at least a day's trek through the storm. His only hope was to find another cabin, another structure, anything that could offer protection. But in the blizzard, everything looked the same—an endless expanse of white, punctuated by the dark silhouettes of the trees.

Then, through the snow and fog, he saw it—a small, dilapidated hunting shack, partially hidden behind a cluster of pines. It wasn't much, but it was something. With renewed hope, Eric sprinted toward it, his legs burning from the effort. He reached the door and yanked it open, stumbling inside and slamming it shut behind him.

The shack was old, barely more than a few wooden planks nailed together, but it was shelter. A small, rusted stove sat in the corner, and a rickety cot was pushed against one wall. There were no windows, only cracks between the boards that let in slivers of freezing air. Eric leaned against the door, panting, his heart hammering in his chest.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence—the wind outside howling and his own ragged breath filling the small shack. Eric strained his ears, listening for any sign of the creature. His pulse thundered in his ears, but beyond that, there was nothing.

Had he lost it? Was it possible that the Wendigo had given up the chase?

Eric slowly slid down the door until he was sitting on the cold floor, clutching the fire poker in his trembling hands. His mind raced with what he had just witnessed. The stories his father used to tell him about the Wendigo flashed in his mind—tales of an ancient creature born of famine and greed, a spirit of the wilderness that consumed both body and soul.

But no one believed those stories, not anymore. They were folklore, campfire tales meant to scare children. Yet here he was, face-to-face with something that shouldn't exist, something that belonged to the dark corners of Canada's forgotten legends.