When others say that things can’t really get worse, they’re only deluding themselves. I know this firsthand: they can and will get worse.
It had been a terribly long winter in the year of 1886. The crops had quickly died, and the livestock had followed soon after. And then our son - my teenaged boy - had disappeared along with my husband, Eric.
At first, I hadn’t paid it any notice. They were supposed to go on a long hunting trip to refill our larders, since we had already eaten the last of the livestock a week ago. It was when they didn’t come back the following night that I began to truly worry.
So I set out to find them, covering myself in thick coats made from the pelts of various animals. I also brought along the Springfield rifle that Eric had purchased from the white men two years ago, strapping it to my back, so that I could use it at a moment’s notice.
The journey was long and dangerous. Even with the tracking skills that I had learned from my father when I was a little girl, living my whole life along the Algonquin people, I still struggled to find their trail with all of the snow that had fallen over the past few days. The ice that subtly lay beneath the snow only made the trek more treacherous.
The outlines of the pine trees cast deep shadows that I could barely see through with all of the accursed snow falling from the cloudy sky. It made the time hard to judge. It had to be sometime in the day. I would have to move fast. I wasn’t at all certain that the daylight would last for very long, and that would force me to wait a night, but if I waited it out, one or both of them would likely perish.
My luck seemed to hold, though; after I thought the trail had gone cold, it had ended at a large ravine. I squinted to see through the snow. My eyes widened, and I let out a sharp gasp when I saw the tiny figure lying so ominously still at the bottom of a twenty-foot drop.
Call it a mother’s instinct, if you will, but I knew that the figure lying there was my son. But where was his father? My husband would have never left his only child - a child named after him, no less - to die alone.
I decided to go into the ravine myself. Fortunately, finding a way down was much easier than it seemed. There was a large fir tree that had grown into the ravine about a mile away, and there was much less ice than I thought there would be. When I got down to the bottom, I rushed over to the figure I had seen. I was far too late.
Eric Jr. had broken his neck and had died almost instantly when he had hit the ground. Tears immediately leapt to my eyes, as I sobbed and cradled my son’s body, feeling the bone that jutted from the back of his neck. I kissed his forehead and held him closer...when I felt an absence where his arms were. I took a closer look and let out a horrified scream. Something had torn off and eaten all of the flesh on his arms.
“Hey, stop screaming! You’re giving me a headache.”
I whirled around, seeing a gaunt figure lying underneath a nearby outcropping.
“Eric, is that you?” I whispered, my voice trembling. “What happened? What happened to my boy?!”
“Our boy,” he corrected. His eyes stared at something only he could see. “Our son fell into the ravine. I tried to stop him from falling, and I got pulled in as well. I broke both of my legs...and you can see what happened to him.”
“That’s not my point!” I wailed. “What happened to his body?! What wild beast ate a part of him?!”
Eric Sr. closed his eyes. When he opened them, they had turned a deep crimson color. “I was starving.” His voice sounded very wrong. “You must understand. There was nothing to eat, an-”
He stopped his sentence, and began to spasm and roar in pain, as a set of large, jagged fangs erupted from his mouth, as waves of pale-white fur cascaded down his skin from head to toe. His clothes ripped apart as he grew taller.
“No...the legends, the wendigo...it can’t be real, it can’t be real...” I whimpered, my eyes as wide as full moons.
I heard an audible crack as the bones in his legs somehow rejoined to become whole. It was then that the monster that was my husband lunged at my son’s remains, quickly devouring them. I ran into the woods, unable to keep myself from screaming in pure terror.
I had never run faster in my life. My boots pounded the rough ground, as I willed my feet to move swifter. My skirts and coats tore themselves on the bushes, and my heart was beating like a frantic bird in a cage, but I didn’t care. Flight had overtaken my sense of reason, and I only stopped when I slipped on an ice patch.
I heard a primal howl in the distance, so furious, so frightening, that I pissed myself. I hid behind a nearby spruce tree, knowing that it would do no good with the scent clearly staining the snow yellow.
It was then that I remembered the rifle attached to my back. I quickly untied it, my fingers fumbling as the baying grew louder. I cocked the bolt-action lever, as the beast found my trail.
I peeked around to see its beady eyes, glowing like red-hot coals, as it searched for the only living human blood: me. My hands were shaking violently. I stared the monster down the iron sights of the rifle, praying that it wouldn’t see me.
I heard the beast harshly breathing, saw its emaciated and bony ribcage rise and fall with its breaths. It turned toward me, and it caught my eyes. I saw a look of guilty recognition, as the beast hesitated for a split-second.
I did not.
I shot it between the eyes...and when I caught the scent of blood and brains spilling over the snow and ice, I realized something: I was very, very hungry.
