Journal of John Winchester (Supernatural)

July 13

From the mouths of babes . . . we were in Portland, Maine,

because I’d heard of a Miqmaq shaman named David Fowler

who lived there. I told him some of my story, and he agreed

to raise a manitou and let me ask it some questions. We went

down into the basement of his house and he started getting

the divination ready. I’m the only white man who’s ever seen

it, he said, and he was only doing it for me as a favor to the

other hunters he knew. He burned sacred tobacco, and some

other herbs I didn’t recognize. The room got more smoky than

it seems like it should have. The manitou appeared, and I got

right to the point. I asked it who or what killed Mary. And then

things went wrong.

I still don’t know whether Fowler made a mistake, or

whether a different spirit rode up into our world along with

the manitou. But whatever happened, it turned into something

physical and real. Like a bear, kind of. And before I could stop

it, it killed Fowler. It almost killed me too, but I fought it. I

don’t know if I would have won, because the spirit let go of

its form, animated Fowler’s body, and went out through the

basement window. I got the hell out of there and picked up the

boys. We were almost to the New Hampshire state line and I’d

told Dean a little about what had happened, because I was so

frustrated and ashamed that I had to talk to someone. Sammy

was asleep the whole time.

Then Dean asked me one of those killer questions that little kids come up with. “Dad,” he says. “Won’t the manitou

go after other people now?”

That’s a hard thing to face. Not that he asked the question,

or that he was right, but that he had a better sense of right and

wrong than I did. We were back at Fowler’s house an hour

later, and that night I tracked him down and killed him. He

was prowling around the edges of a Cub Scout campout in a

place called Bradbury Mountain. God knows what would have

happened if Dean hadn’t spoken up.

I came this close to going completely off the rails. I almost

let this quest overwhelm what I know is right, and a bunch

of kids almost died because of it. A hunter never passes up a

hunt, and a hunter never bails out on a hunt. That will never

happen again. Never. I will not fail Mary’s memory, and I will

not fail the boys.

The Miqmaq chenoo is a winter spirit with a heart of ice created from

which wants to kill those it loves period of transformation, the person

who is becoming a chenoo eats snow and refuses to eat any other food. He will be ill tempered

and angry. After the transformation the chenoo will attack and kills

members of the tribe—or anyone else. If it is killed, the body must

be completely burned, or else the

smallest part of it can be use

to create another chenoo. Much in common with

the wendigo

legends found farther west. I don’t know if that’s the kind that caught Fowler. It was summer; I don’t think so.

But when I went back to his house, I took a book. I read a

dead man’s book. Next time I’ll be ready.