I dare not speak of the dread that followed, nor the horrors I witnessed, for I fear even the whisper of its name would curse me forevermore. Yet, as I sit here, trembling in the dim light of this forsaken room, I am compelled to recount the grim tale that haunts my waking hours and blights my very dreams. Perhaps, in writing, I may lay to rest the wretchedness that gnaws at my soul, though I know deep within me that there is no salvation for the cursed.
It was winter—an abysmal winter, when the very wind seemed to mourn for the dying world. The moon hung high and sickly in the sky, casting an eerie pallor upon the frozen earth, a ghastly mirror of the frost-covered trees which clawed toward the heavens with skeletal arms. I had ventured into the wilderness with but a small group of men—brave souls, or perhaps foolish, to seek a path beyond the civilized world, where none had trod for years. The lure of adventure drew us onward, for the distant lands whispered of riches untouched, of secrets forgotten by time. Yet, in our pursuit, we had unwittingly stumbled into the domain of a creature far beyond our ken, a creature whose very name is anathema to the hearts of men—the Wendigo.
I recall it now, with every detail as vivid as if it were yesterday. The frost clung to our clothing as we made our way deeper into the forest, the earth beneath our feet a mere crust of ice over a yawning abyss. The silence—God, how I wish I could describe it properly—was unnatural, as though the very land had stilled in fear. There was no chirping of birds, no rustling of the wind through the branches. It was as if the world itself held its breath, awaiting something dreadful to unfold. And unfold it did.
It was during the fourth night of our ill-fated journey, when the fire had dwindled to mere embers and the moon rose like a sickle over the trees, that we first heard it—the distant cry. A sound like no other, a tortured wail that seemed to ripple through the very air, vibrating the bones, that sent the blood running cold in our veins. At first, I believed it to be the howl of some wild beast, but as the cry echoed again, closer now, sharper, I knew in the pit of my stomach that it was not an animal, nor any creature of nature that had made such a sound.
The men, my comrades, gathered around the fire, their faces pale and drawn. Fear had gripped them as it had gripped me, yet none dared speak of it aloud. Instead, we sat in silence, the crackling of the fire our only companion. But then, as the minutes dragged on, something else emerged from the shadows, something far darker than the night itself.
A figure, twisted and gaunt, stepped from the blackness of the woods. Its form was hunched and emaciated, its limbs unnaturally long, like the limbs of a man starved beyond the point of reason. The skin, stretched tight over the bones, was a deathly shade of grey, cracked in places as though it had been weathered by the cold of centuries. And yet, what chilled me most was its eyes—black, endless pits of malice, gazing into me with a hunger that made the very earth tremble.
The Wendigo.
I would have fled in that moment, but my body refused to obey. There was a force in those eyes, a dread beyond words, that rooted me to the spot. And as I looked upon it, I felt a darkness stir within me, a hunger unlike any I had ever known—a gnawing, insatiable hunger that filled the void in my soul and consumed my thoughts. It was a hunger for something far more than mere food.
The creature spoke then, its voice a low, rasping whisper, more felt than heard, as though the very wind carried its words to my mind. "Come closer, mortal," it beckoned, "the hunger has claimed you."
My companions were frozen, trapped within their own terror, unable to move or even speak. And then, as if the world itself conspired against us, we were torn from our place of safety by a force unseen—an invisible hand pulling us toward the thing that awaited us. One by one, they vanished into the dark, their cries of terror echoing in the night, until I was alone, standing before the wretched creature.
Its hunger—oh, how it burned in me! The cold wind, the silent trees, the fireless night—all faded into the background as I felt the pull of that unholy yearning. I longed to taste its flesh, to consume its very essence, for I knew, deep within me, that the Wendigo did not feast upon the body alone, but upon the soul itself. To partake in its hunger was to join it in an eternal feast—a feast of darkness and death.
But then, at the precipice of madness, something within me—some flicker of the man I once was—resisted. The creature's form began to twist and distort before me, its true nature breaking through the veneer of flesh it had donned. Its face—if such a thing could be called a face—grew more monstrous, more alien, as it screamed in frustration, a sound that shattered my very mind.
In that instant, I fled.
I ran through the woods, through the endless night, through the unyielding cold, as though every step took me further from the creature, from the hunger. But no matter how far I traveled, no matter how many days passed, the hunger never left. I feel it still, gnawing at me, as it gnawed at my companions. The Wendigo does not let go, for it claims those it touches, body and soul.
Now, I sit here in this forsaken room, my skin drawn tight over my bones, my eyes blackened with sleepless nights. The hunger is with me still, ever whispering, always calling, "Come closer, mortal. Come closer... and feast with me."
Perhaps I am already lost.