The Wendigo

It was cold. The night licked at every crack in my drafty abode like a perverse harlot.

She was out there.

Peering through the thin part in my curtains through the dimming twilight at her dark shack I could see that the door had been left open. No lights burned inside and I knew her house was empty. She was out there in the woods, prowling, and muttering obscenities and wailing, no doubt. A night like this would dig it’s claws into the hardiest man’s core and case his heart in ice.

And she walked in it.

I turned back into the room knowing I could not chance looking out the window again, it was getting too late for that. I would just sit down and read.

My chair was pulled close to the stove, and I had plenty of oil to keep this room lit through to the morning. Before the midnight hour it would be easy to tell myself that I would not sleep. I could glaze over my book while I pretended that nothing out there in the darkness frightened me. Before midnight the wail of the weather was lonely and ominous. Later it would become bitter and mean.

I got up out of my chair and went to the pantry. I took down a tin of coffee and ladled water into the percolator, grabbed a cup and put the perc on the stove. Watching, waiting for the water to boil and trying not to think was making me antsy, so I went back to my chair and picked up my book. Everything I did was done to distract myself from the yawning night ahead of myself.

While my eyes moved over the pages of the book not reading, I found myself thinking of Helena. I thought of her sleeping, the soft pff sound she made when she exhaled. On a night like this I would have slept if Helena was in bed next to me. I thought about the wrinkles in the corners of her eyes when she smiled. I thought about making love to her. Then I came back to this drafty shack and the beat up book in my hand and, realizing I flipped the page without taking in the words, I flipped back and started skimming again.

Shortly after midnight I pulled out my pocket-watch, checked the time, and put it back. The shrieks outside were a desperate plea. The wind was full of sorrow. Dreadful, lonely sorrow.

The room was chilled and the fire waned, so I grabbed a knotty piece of Birch and stoked it back up. I settled back into my chair and then I heard it. I know it’s not her, but when I first heard it... I paused and put my book on the table. I didn’t want to go look out the window again, it was too late for that, but a part of me wanted to see. To prove to myself that there was nothing but night and snow.

The blackness outside dampened the drapes with grey and I longed to part them. My morbid fascination is such a curious thing. I couldn’t understand how those horrible cries could fool me like a siren song, but I wanted to relent so badly. I was enamoured with the terror that was creeping in. Trying to distract myself but failing I got out of my chair and walked to the window. She’s on the other side, right there. The screams, so inhuman, sounded far off, but they weren’t. It was a trick she had perfected. She was full of tricks...

I realized my hands were on the drapes and I reeled. I knew if I looked out I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from doing... well... whatever it is that the desperate madness of that lonely witch willed. I pulled myself away from the window and turned back to the empty room. It was getting cold again and I realized that I had let the fire die down a little too much. I threw another piece of wood on and fanned the embers. It would not do to let that cold creep in, no sir, it would be bad news indeed.

Crack!

My heart froze. Something hit the door. I stood silent, staring, trembling. Please God, let my imagination rest. Let the fanciful clamouring of eerie thoughts retreat and my head be filled with peace. The wind blew something up against the house, that’s all.

CRACK!

No, no please... The walls shuddered as the echoes of the impact rolled through the room. I stood quiet, scarcely breathing with my heart pounding. My brain thought of all the terrible things it could and of the helplessness with which I stood there, frozen in place in my wool pajamas like a pathetic toddler. My senses, stressed beyond comprehension, made each tick of the watch in my pocket slam through the silence like a hammer striking and anvil. Anticipating another blow to the door I stood there stupidly.

But nothing came.

Moments stretched into minutes and nothing came. And just as my nerves started to relax the slightest bit, a soft voice come through the door. The most beautiful voice I could have ever wanted to hear. It was so faint, but I heard it clear as day.

“Please... help.”

Her name was right on my lips, I was so close to calling it out, but I caught myself. She was gone, I knew she was, and whatever mimic lurked outside was surely not the true ghost of Helena. It was that vile bitch out there in the icy night. She wanted me.

She wanted me to come to her or go insane.

“John, please...” the angelic voice pleaded.

The fire had almost died and the room had darkened, but under the crack of the door light danced lazily across the floorboards. It was surely too deep in the night for the morning sun to be dawning. This was the seraphim glow of the beautiful angel that had kissed me goodbye before going to the hands of her maker all those years ago.

My resolve weakened. The warmth of the room engulfed me as it seemed to fade away. I forgot for a moment where I was and I uttered her name. That was it. Scarcely whispered the word.

And she won.

I found that I had my hand against the door and though I know I didn’t want to it went to the latch. I started to lift.

“I’m cold...” she cooed playfully.

I slowly pulled the door open.

Helena...