Wendigo

Little Sally gripped the doll tightly in one hand as she dragged it across the floor, its small fabric legs flopping behind and ruining the illusion that the doll was walking. Sally didn’t care; during these long, cold nights, the doll was her only friend. She leaned back and softly fell into the hay that covered her corner of the room. She watched in glee as her shadow danced around the room in the candlelight. But there was one thing that Sally hated about the candlelight: whenever she looked at herself in the handheld mirror that had belonged to her mother, Sally’s cute little dress and bonnet seemed to lose their jovial blue, instead becoming a more shadowed hue. Sally always swore she saw little pinpricks of red light in her dress when she looked in the mirror, but her father always said it was nothing more than her overactive imagination.

Sally missed her father. He had gone off into town to try and sell his corn again. The past harvest had been rough on him, so his corn wasn’t at the same standard that he, as well as the townsfolk, were used to. And because of this, the town flocked to Jebediah’s corn instead. Jebediah and Sally’s father had always competed against each other in selling their corn to the town, but most years it was pretty even with Sally’s father barely edging out Jebediah. This season was different.

Sally’s stomach grumbled. She knew that her father had a surplus of corn packed away, but she had been eating nothing but corn for the past four months—ever since the harvest had ended. Her stomach grumbled and she gave in to the temptation. She grabbed a cob of corn and took it over to the fireplace. She began to roast it, and after a few minutes, she removed it from the flames and began to eat it. She avoided the burning iron poker that pierced the corn as she greedily tore the kernels from the cob. Warm juice dribbled down her chin. Within moments it was shaved clean, so she discarded the remains into the fireplace. Sally was growing so sick of corn, but at the same time she couldn’t deny that it was better than nothing.

Sally jumped as she heard a loud banging on the outside of her cottage’s wooden door. She hated being left alone because of moments like this one. As soon as Sally began to calm down and attribute the noise to her overactive imagination, she heard the banging again, though this time it seemed softer. Then the thought suddenly dawned on her: what if it was her father, back from town. Every so often, he would forget to bring his key, so Sally would need to let him in. But when that happened, Sally’s father usually called out to her to let her know it was just him. Then Sally had another idea: maybe her mother was finally coming back from her long trip to Leven. Even though her father always said that she was never coming back, Sally could never believe him. Mother loved to travel, so it made sense that she would take her time visiting such a wonderful place as Leven, though it still confused her that her mother had left all of her things in the cottage. A third set of poundings roused Sally from her daydreams, but these knocks seemed more desperate than before. Without considering what she was doing, Sally ran to the door and opened it.

Her father collapsed through the threshold as soon as the door was opened. Rime covered his beard and his skin was as pale, and cold, as the snow outside. Sally repeatedly called out to her father but her words fell on frozen ears. She could hear his teeth chattering so she knew that he was ok, but she had never seen him act like this before.

“F…f…fi…fire…fire…p…p…p…ple…please,” he muttered. Sally began to pull her father towards the fireplace, but no matter how hard she pulled on his arms, he wouldn’t budge. He groaned. Sally decided to change tactics and began pushing her father towards the fire. This was more successful, and she eventually got him right in front of the fireplace. He groaned again, and by now, Sally had noticed that the chattering of his teeth had stopped. Sally threw a few more logs on the fire in order to warm her father up, gave him a hug goodnight, and blew out the candles before snuggling down into the hay.

When Sally arose in the morning, she noticed that her father hadn’t moved from his resting place in front of the fire. She disregarded it as him just sleeping in extra late because he was tired from his trip to town yesterday. Sometimes he would do that, but by the time noon rolled around and her father still had yet to move, Sally knew that something was wrong. She tried to banish those thoughts from her mind, but every time she looked in his general direction, she couldn’t help but think about what she should do. She wanted to help her father, but at the same time she was terrified to go near him. Then her stomach growled. Even though Sally was growing more tired of corn by the meal, she was growing even more tired of cold corn. Sally grumbled to herself but finally relented because eating was far better than not eating. Sally made her way into the kitchen area and opened the cupboard where her father always kept the corn. She grabbed two pieces and was about to make her way towards the fireplace when she realized something: in her hands she held the last remnants of food left in their cottage.

No no. Sally thought to herself. Father will wake up once I bring him corn, and then we will go back into town to go and buy more food. I know that we may have less money this winter to buy food, but we should still have enough to buy something. Then the thought hit Sally like another pang of gnawing hunger: where was Jessie and the cart? When her father had gone into town yesterday, he had taken Jessie and attached a cart to her to fill with corn. But last night, Sally never heard the braying of the horse or the clip-clop of her hooves or the creak of the cart. That didn’t bode well.

She cautiously approached the fireplace with the corn, still maintaining a bit of distance from her, hopefully, slumbering father. The fire, though small, was still dancing in the fireplace, so Sally used what remained to cook her corn. She quickly ate her own before beginning to cook her father’s, but he still had yet to stir. When Sally had finished cooking his corn, she proudly announced it to him, but he didn’t respond. Sally tried again, but was met with the same result.Somewhat annoyed, Sally poked her father with her finger. When this provocation did nothing, Sally finally decided to check on him properly.

First, she removed his fur coat. It was soaked and smelled awful. She gagged a little as she ripped it off of her father. He still refused to move. Next, Sally began to pull off the bulky layer of pants that her father always wore over his trousers when he ventured out into the snow. These outer trousers were just as drenched as the fur coat. That is when Sally noticed the blood.

Sally’s father wore a long white cotton shirt and long white cotton trousers, but she only saw red. The shirt itself looked fine at first, but when examined closer, Sally noticed cuts and tears in the fabric. Under these cuts and tears she saw piercings and slashes in her father’s pale white flesh. The trousers, however, were completely red. Sally knew what she had to do, even if she hated the idea.

With great difficulty, Sally wrenched the cotton trousers off. Skin, hair, and blood came with it, as did the overpowering smell. This time Sally did throw up. When she had finished, she examined her father’s legs. His right leg was twisted around unnaturally to the point that Sally could see bones poking through at his ankle and his knee. As for his left leg, it was just covered in cuts and scrapes and scratches—or it was until she had ripped some of the skin off when she removed the trousers that acted as a sort of bandage. As soon as the horror of this sight sank in, Sally shut her eyes tight and began to rock back and forth. This had to be a bad dream and she was ready to wake up.

Days passed. Then weeks. Whenever Sally tried to open the door, it wouldn’t budge. When she looked out the window, all she could see was snow. Every day she saw more and more snow falling from the sky. Eventually she lost track of time. Or maybe she lost track of time as soon as her father collapsed in front of the fire. It didn’t matter. Sally had to accept that she was alone. She was alone. And cold. And hungry.

She abhorred the idea. She refused to even consider it. But the growl persisted. Like a wolf stalking its cornered prey and on the verge of devouring it, Sally knew that if she didn’t do it, her stomach would, and without her consent.

Sally slowly moved her father’s arm to her bared teeth. The body stank of decay, and even being near it was enough to make Sally want to vomit. Even being in the house with the thing was enough. But just when she was about to take a bite, she thrust the arm away and retreated across the cottage.

No.
She would rather die than violate her father’s body.
“What’s the point?” a voice seemed to hiss in Sally’s ear. “He’s already dead. There’s no point wasting the dead. Besides, he would never want his precious little girl to go hungry.” The voice was filled with venom and it seemed to inject each word with its seductive toxin.

“It would be wrong,” Sally protested, though she knew not who she spoke to.

“It would be survival,” the voice replied. “You know what you must do. It’s the same thing I see myself doing in your position.”

“No. I know who you are. My father warned me about monsters like you.”

“So you condemn your innate desire for survival as a monster?” the voice was sardonic. “I am not a monster. I am your conscience, simply encouraging you to survive. Besides, you

know you want to do it.” A sharp wincing pain in Sally’s stomach, accompanied by a wolfish growl, punctuated the words.

Sally didn’t respond, but instead crept back across the room towards her father. She suppressed the desire to vomit and grabbed his arm again. This time, she took a bite. She hated it. Her body screamed at her to stop, but at the same time, the pain in her stomach seemed to relent, albeit briefly. That relief was enough to convince Sally to take another bite. And another. And another. The voice began to laugh an evil, hateful laugh. Sally tried to ignore the noise, but every bite only seemed to inspire more laughter. Still she persisted in her crime.

It was not long before Sally began ravenously devouring her father’s body. Cold blood dribbled down her chin. She hated herself for what she was doing, but she knew that it was the only way she would make it through this storm. Time passed but Sally continued to devour the body. And then, the pain returned. Sally felt a burning ache form in her stomach—an ache that surpassed all previous pain that she had felt from the hunger. The ache grew worse with each bite until she could no longer stand it. She threw her father’s mangled body away and began to weep. Cold tears streamed down her face as the pain grew worse and worse and worse. The pain eventually grew so bad that she passed out.

In the cold, bleak darkness of oblivion, Sally could feel nothing but agony as her body adapted. She felt every sinew stretch as her arms grew longer. She wanted to scream as her legs twisted and stretched into their new crooked shape. She tried to grit her teeth as her spine shattered and the bones broke through her skin, or what used to be her skin. Her face began to stretch and distort as well before finally falling away to reveal a dirty, deer skull, but one that contained countless needlelike teeth. Then she felt the long, razorlike hairs sprout from her body. It hurt. It all hurt. This metamorphosis was agony. But the pain within its chest—a gnawing and never-ending void of hunger—was far, far worse.

It dragged its mass across the floor of the cabin before reaching the door. It raised its spindly arm and pressed its clawed hand against the door with enough force to make the door explode into splinters. Then it sauntered through the doorway, into the cold snow.

It was hungry.

At first it gingerly treaded the frozen wasteland, but it quickly grew confidence and began to bound across the snowy countryside. It knew where it wanted to go. It could smell him from miles away, and with each leap, it grew closer, and his smell grew sweeter. It was not long before it found his home. Just like with the cottage, it tapped the door, splintering it into pieces. Then it entered.

Jebediah screamed as it lumbered towards him. He screamed and screamed until his voice went hoarse. And whenever he wasn’t screaming, he was gasping for air and gagging from the omnipresent scent of rotting flesh. But it didn’t care. It was just hungry. Though at the same time, it couldn’t shake the strange sentiment that this man had somehow wronged it in some way. But it didn’t care; it was still hungry. It reached out its long, spindly arm and grasped Jebediah’s fleeing form. It started by tearing off his right leg and instantly devouring it, bones and all. Warm blood dribbled down its chin, staining parts of the skull crimson. Jebediah screamed in agony as

his crippled body fell to the cold floor of his small farmhouse. It pounced on him. It landed, embedding the claws on its feet deeply into Jebediah’s arms, each foot pinning down an arm. Jebediah shrieked as he felt the blades tear through his arms. Then, it grabbed his neck, almost tenderly. At this point, Jebediah couldn’t muster more than a whisper, so he stared in utter terror as the deer skull opened its jaw and bared its countless teeth. He let out a silent scream as each and every needle tore into his flesh and snapped his bones like twigs. Every bite temporarily assuaged its pain and hunger, but within moments the sensations would return, though this time even worse. When it had finally finished devouring Jebediah, it cast his mangled corpse aside and left the disheveled house.

It was still hungry.
And it knew where it could find more food.