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.
Eric shuddered, his eyes scanning the inside of the shack. He needed to focus. The Wendigo wasn't a myth anymore. It was real, and it was hunting him.
The minutes dragged on, each one feeling like an eternity. Eric pressed his ear to the door, listening for the slightest noise. He thought he might have lost the creature in the blizzard, but the oppressive sense of being watched—of something lurking in the shadows—never left him.
Then, from the distance, he heard it. Faint at first, but growing louder.
The same wailing cry. A haunting, mournful sound that seemed to vibrate deep inside his chest. It was close, too close.
His blood turned to ice. The Wendigo was outside.
Eric stood, gripping the poker tightly as he pressed his back against the door. His breath came in shallow gasps as the wailing continued, circling the shack like a predator playing with its prey. He could hear the creature's long, slow footsteps crunching through the snow, moving around the perimeter of the shack.
It knew he was inside.
Suddenly, there was a loud thud against the door, as if something heavy had been thrown against it. The whole structure rattled, and Eric felt his knees go weak. Another thud, harder this time, followed by a low, guttural growl that sent a wave of nausea rolling through his stomach.
The Wendigo was testing the door.
Eric's mind raced. The shack wouldn't hold. It was too old, too fragile. He needed a plan, but the only way out was through the door—where the creature waited.
The scraping sound started, nails or claws dragging slowly along the outside of the wood, as though the Wendigo was savoring the moment. It didn't need to rush. It knew he was trapped.
Panic surged through him, but he forced it down, trying to think clearly. The stove. It wasn't much, but it might give him an edge. If he could light a fire, maybe it would be enough to scare the creature off. He scrambled to the corner and grabbed a pile of kindling that had been left behind. His hands shook as he fumbled with his lighter, trying to ignite the small bits of wood.
Come on, come on… he thought, his breath coming faster as the wailing outside grew louder, more insistent.
Finally, the flame caught. Eric fed the fire with whatever he could find—pieces of the rotting wood from the shack, a broken chair leg—anything that would burn. The flames flickered weakly at first, but soon they grew brighter, casting long, dancing shadows across the walls.
He dragged the stove closer to the door, the fire radiating heat that quickly filled the cramped space. Eric's mind raced through the few things he remembered about the Wendigo. His father had once said that fire was one of the few things that could keep it at bay, but he wasn't sure if that was just part of the legend.
The creature's footsteps stopped.
For a moment, everything was still. Eric listened, his pulse thudding in his ears, waiting for the next sound. But it didn't come. He dared to hope that maybe, just maybe, the fire had worked. Maybe the Wendigo had been driven off.
And then the door exploded inward.
The wood shattered, sending splinters flying as the Wendigo burst through the entrance with terrifying speed. It was even more horrifying up close. Its skeletal frame was covered in pale, decaying skin stretched tight over its bones, and its antlers scraped the ceiling as it crouched, its mouth stretched wide in a grotesque grin. Its eyes, sunken and black, locked onto Eric, and the stench of rot filled the room.
Eric stumbled backward, swinging the fire poker wildly. He connected with the creature's arm, and it let out an ear-splitting shriek, recoiling from the heat of the fire. But the Wendigo wasn't deterred for long. It lunged at him, its long, clawed fingers reaching for his throat.
Eric backed toward the stove, knowing it was his only chance. As the creature swiped at him again, he grabbed a burning log from the stove with his bare hands, ignoring the searing pain, and thrust it into the Wendigo's face.
The creature screamed—a high-pitched, inhuman wail that made Eric's ears ring. Its skin sizzled and bubbled where the fire touched it, and for the first time, Eric saw fear in the creature's eyes.
But the Wendigo wasn't finished.
With a burst of speed, it slammed Eric into the wall, knocking the wind out of him. His vision blurred as he gasped for air, the poker slipping from his grip. The creature loomed over him, its breath hot and rancid on his face. Eric could feel the cold of its touch seeping into his skin, like death itself.
Desperation took hold. With the last of his strength, Eric kicked the creature in the chest, sending it staggering back toward the stove. The fire roared as the Wendigo's body hit the flames, its flesh igniting with a sickening hiss.
The Wendigo howled in agony, thrashing wildly as the fire consumed it. Eric crawled away, his body screaming in pain, as the creature collapsed into the flames. The shack filled with the smell of burning flesh, and the Wendigo's cries grew weaker until, finally, they stopped.
For a long moment, there was only the crackle of the fire and the sound of Eric's labored breathing.
He stared at the smoldering remains of the Wendigo, its skeletal frame twisted and blackened in the glowing embers of the stove. The flames flickered weakly now, as if they, too, were exhausted by the battle that had just taken place. Eric slumped against the far wall, his entire body trembling with pain and fatigue. His chest heaved, his breath shallow, but the creature was gone.
Dead.
Or so he hoped.
The stench of burning flesh hung heavy in the air, mixing with the icy draft that seeped through the shattered door. Eric felt his mind spin as he struggled to stay conscious. His vision blurred, the edges of the world darkening, but he forced himself to move. He couldn't stay here. Not after what had happened.
With every ounce of energy he had left, Eric pulled himself to his feet. His muscles screamed in protest, and his hands were raw from gripping the burning log. The pain was unbearable, but it kept him grounded—kept him aware that he was still alive.
He needed to get out. The shack was falling apart, and there was no telling if the Wendigo was truly gone or if it would rise again, fueled by some unnatural force. He couldn't risk staying to find out.
Stumbling toward the broken door, Eric stepped out into the blizzard once more. The storm had intensified, the wind whipping through the trees with relentless fury, and snowflakes as thick as cotton filled the air. The cold was brutal, biting at his exposed skin, but the adrenaline coursing through his veins kept him moving.
His truck was parked a good mile back near the cabin—near where the nightmare had begun. But that was the only way out of this forsaken wilderness. Eric kept his eyes low, focusing on his footsteps as he trudged through the snow. Every step felt like a monumental effort, and his legs threatened to give out with each move.
As he pushed through the storm, his mind began to wander. The thought of the Wendigo still gnawed at him, though he didn't want to believe it. The creature was supposed to be a myth, a story told by the Algonquin people to warn against greed and isolation in the cold, unforgiving wilderness. But what he had seen wasn't a legend—it was real, and it had nearly killed him.
A voice echoed in his head, the words his father had once told him during one of their trips north. "The Wendigo is always hungry, always searching for its next victim. It never stops."