Just Creepy: Scary Stories - 3 Truly Horrific Wendigo Encounters | Native American Horror Stories

Episode Date: April 12, 2024

These are 3 Truly Horrific Wendigo Encounters | Native American Horror Stories Linktree: https://linktr.ee/its_just_creepy Story Credits: ►https://www.reddit.com/user/rephlexi0n/ ►Sent in to www.justcreepy.net Timestamps: 00:00 Into 00:00:18 Story 1 00:41:56 Story 2 00:57:32 Story 3 Business inquiries: ►[e-mail] #scarystories #horrorstories #wendigo #parkrangerstories #cryptids #deepwoods #forest 💀As always, thanks for watching! 💀

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Hilton, for the stay. For those involved in dealing with cryptids, if any of you are reading this, why do you do it? Other than the money, of course, I feel a lot of you do it for the rush, the adrenaline, but where's the line drawn? Where does exhilaration evolve into panic?

Don't get me wrong, a little risk-taking is food for the soul, but so many factors can go wrong in any situation. In particular, what do you do when you find the corpse of a cryptid you were hunting, eviscerated and dismembered, when the abrupt realization hits you that there's a bigger fish? My grandpa wasn't quite on the level of monster hunting, but boy was he a crazy idiot. Once, he hunted a grizzly using nothing but a crossbow, wet mud, and leaves, and his wit. He's had its head mounted above his forest house fireplace ever since. I can't say how far back his love for the wilderness is rooted, but I know he grew tired of the city long before retiring from his job as a metropolitan engineer.

Since then, he's lived out in an old house in the northwestern reaches of the Olympic National Forest, about 40 miles from the park itself, Washington State. I can only imagine how lonely it must have been, living out there by himself, but he never seemed any the worse for it. In recent years, I've come to be good friends with a guy I met in college, Martin. I could see the same fire in his eyes as my grandpas when it came to the outdoors, always pestering me to come with him on camping trips, going fishing, hunting, you name it. It was a no-brainer bringing him along for a visit to my grandpa's.

Honestly, I feared they might get along too well, and Martin would never return with me. In the end, it didn't matter, because both of us have been ingrained with a morbid aversion to the woods since that day. Martin was particularly eager this time, practically vibrating in the passenger of my Jeep. Last trip, Grandpa promised he'd show him the ropes of skinning and pelts. Martin often went on about how he'd feel sitting afront a roaring fireplace with a great deerskin rug laid out beneath it. My motivation was simply to check up on my grandpa. He hadn't been responding to my attempts to contact him for the past week, so naturally I was a bit worried. We ran into a problem early, driving up the long dirt road to my grandpa's.

Rounding a corner, I slammed on the brakes, seeing a slew of fallen trees lying across the road. Damn, what happened here? Martin exclaimed. There haven't been any storms recently, right? I sat with my hands ten and two on the steering wheel, lost for words. Uh, no, it's been pretty clear weather around these parts since March. Weird. Shutting the engine off, I hopped out of the Jeep. The only sounds were the leaves, flittering in the midspring breeze.

Nature's white noise. We were a little over two miles away from the house, an easily walkable distance. Grandpa had enough equipment that we didn't need to bring much of our own, so our bags were light. I had my phone, a flashlight, water, spare clothes, and my utility watch strapped around my wrist. My plan was to get up to Grandpa's and come back down in his truck to chop up the fallen logs with a chainsaw. We thought it would be more fun to go through the woods alongside the track. A long dirt road means only boredom after all.

We scrambled down the left side slope and began our trek, keeping an eye on the road to follow its route. Only a few minutes later, the smell hit us, putrid carrion. It was nothing unexpected. Animals in the forest die all the time. Even so, that hardwired part of my brain was repulsed at the smell. Damn, something's festering out here, I said. Can't imagine how it had smell in summer. Martin let out a small wretch, but agreed.

The stench only grew stronger as we went on. It was at its peak when I almost tripped over a sharp object on the ground. I thought it to be a cluster of branches at first, but the notion quickly dissolved upon seeing their pale ceramic reflections. A decapitated stag's head lay right in front of us. It was wrong, though. The teeth were too long, and the bone of its face was exposed. Even with the odor, I could tell it was fresh from the viscous black liquid that seeped from its neck and mouth.

Martin spoke up. Damn, that's freaky. You think a bear did this? I mean, there's only black bears here, right? I doubt they could pull off something like this. A cougar, maybe? I don't know. Never seen one straight up decapitate a stag like this, though. My eyes were drawn to a trail of red, forming a jagged streak ahead of us on the ground. My gaze followed it, until it terminated at the stag's grisly mess of a body.

Well, it looked quadrupedal from a distance, but as we moved closer, I found myself sorely incorrect. The body was that of a monster, large in stature, but bony and gaunt. long, razor-sharp claws lying splayed across the ground like kitchen knives, and all covered in patches of dark-wizzened fur. Is it bad? Martin called out, approaching from behind me to get a look. When he saw it, he went still and quiet, as had I. There was no statement that could do the sight justice. I'd heard the old tales of the horrors lurking deep inside the forests,

but never experienced them face to face. It was still, lying dead as the fallen leaves beneath it. it. It looked crushed and broken, littered with what seemed to be wide and deep puncture wounds. Martin managed to speak up. Is that? But before he could say anymore, a sudden snap broke the tension, the snap of a twig. No, a branch. My spine shot straight upright. Against my better judgment, I found my head gradually swiveling in the direction the noise had come from. When I caught a vast, hulking shape in my peripheral vision, I whipped around to face whatever was there. I saw something, just for a moment, enormous long limbs draped in shaggy hair,

the color of pine bark. But as quickly as I'd turned, the image vanished. Rising dread threatened to pry my lips apart in a scream. I looked far and wide, but nothing was there. Kell, what is it? Wait, the cougar isn't still here, is it? Martin whispered. No, it's nothing. Let's keep going. We can talk about this later with my grandpa. But the cat could still be loitering about somewhere. It's best we don't stay in the same place for too long. Before departing, I snapped a few pictures of the corpse on my phone, zooming in on the head without backtracking to get a better angle. Something told me that turning back, however briefly, would be a terrible mistake. We went on with an urgent pace, pretending to ignore the heavy

movements between the trees nearby. Large animals will inevitably give away their movements, but they snapped twigs, not entire branches. Even so, the movement sounded anything but clumsy. No, they sounded calculated, those of a stalking predator. As hard as I tried to filter them out, I caught myself glancing to the sides and behind very often. I don't know whether I was hoping to see something or nothing. Still, the woods around us were empty, other than ourselves.

Hey, Kel, if there's a mountain lion around here, we should go up onto the road for a bit. It'll be easier to bolt if we need to. I agreed, and we veered off to the right, climbing up the roadside slope. Deep down I knew that whatever was out there, it wasn't a big cat. We only told ourselves that skirting the subject of monsters

now made it very real to us. The forest fell silent as we walked along the road. That was far from comforting, though. If the woods are quiet, predators are about. This is a well-known idea among wilderness enthusiasts. What did ease my mind to a degree was the sight of a herd of deer standing on the track. They cocked their heads to look at us, but didn't seem all too disturbed by our presence. At the same time, the feeling of being exposed and vulnerable grew as a hard lump in my gut.

They started to move on as we got closer, wandering off the road and into the woods. One of the deer stayed in place. It wasn't frozen, no, but, constricted. It twitched and whimpered as it started to rise off of the ground, as if weightless. It happened so quickly. Its screams were cut off as its limbs were snapped and crushed, and deep wounds erupted over its body. And then, like it had been there the whole time, it stood. It was a nightmare, huge, unimaginably so, rivaling two elephants stacked up,

It was hunched over, resting on impossibly long and thick forelimbs, ending in spindly, sloth-like claws. Its body was long, too, ending in a pair of shorter legs, knees inverted with feet supported by spur-like appendages. The lulling head that sat atop an arched neck looked like some bizarre cross between a horse and a crocodile. Hollow pits in place of eyes. The torn skin around its mouth revealing horribly uneven and misshapen teeth that judge, it out at irregular angles. The fading sunlight glinted off of the long gashes covering its sides and head. The dead creature from earlier had definitely put up a fight, but it could never have been enough. As we stood, stunned, it reciprocated our stare, the only real movements being the sets

of rib-like appendages undulating on its underside, rendering the deer into a torn sack of flesh and bone fragments. The poor animal seemed to wither before our eyes, as the shone, sharp ribs forced deeper into its body, like a juice box having the last drops sucked out of it. At that moment, we were part of the herd, paralyzed. Some had already run off, but others were as statues in the presence of this beast. Another smell hit us then, different from the stench of decay like earlier, but equally as sickening, like moist earth, sulfur, methane, and dead fish. Its source was clear as whips of gas from the beast's mouth became thick billowing fumes,

rising into the evening sky. The tension was broken with the deer's mutilated husk thudding to the ground. The remaining deer took flight, scampering off into the trees, and in response the beast snapped its head in their direction. Something was wrong with its head, flopping around clumsily as it turned. I took a step back as it let out a deep, guttural rattle, before bounding off after the herd, its matted hair swinging violently. It splintered a tree as it went, but was totally unfazed by the impact.

We waited until its thundering gallops faded into the quickly darkening night before saying anything. What the hell? What the hell? What was that thing? Martin sputtered, tears welling up in his eyes. I don't know, man, but we have to get to the house before sundown. I have a feeling our chances that escaping it are little to none. in the dark. Are you crazy? We have to go back. I want to get as far from this place as Po. What about my grandpa? We can't just leave him here with that thing. Martin didn't look over to me, but wasted no time disagreeing, starting his jog up the road. We were already over halfway to

my grandpa's house, and even if we wanted to escape, it would be a menial task for the creature to smash the Jeep off road. The solitary left, the solitary left. in the distance looked like the gates of heaven. It radiated safety, but I knew we couldn't continue out in the open, completely exposed. I looked down at my utility watch, making a mental note of the direction of the house, north-northeast, before grabbing Martin by the arm and leading him off the left side of the road. Nature's cruel irony manifested in the steepening terrain and the thickening brush. The house's light quickly faded, leaving us with only our bearings to navigate, I thought we might have gone off track for a terrifying moment, but I saw the column of smoke

above the distant tree canopy that could only be from my grandpa's chimney. Come on, this way. As we neared, no light became apparent. Maybe he'd already gone to bed. I could only guess with his lack of communication. We came up onto the lip of a hill, sloping down towards a flat clearing, but there was no house. There, the pillar of smoke, but there was no. source. It began in mid-air from nothing. As we stopped to look, the point where the smoke came

from jerked around in the air. When I picked up on the organic stench, it clicked in my mind. Just like before, there it was, looking directly at us, the thick fumes spewing from its mouth, but I noticed something else this time. Now that the moon hung in the sky, its light glinted off of something beneath the creature's head. Six black orbs, shiny like obsessive. Presidian, three on either side of its neck. They darted about, independent of each other, and I knew immediately what they were. Eyes. What kind of abomination was this? If those were its eyes, and it ate the deer with that structure resembling a ribcage, then that must mean it had a false head, a distraction, a defense mechanism maybe. It made sense how this head flopped

around limply with the beast's unnatural movements. I blinked in quick success. and looked down to my watch, due east. We had been misled. It had circled around us to lie in wait. In one motion, I gripped onto Martin's shoulder and pulled him in the direction we were meant to be heading in a wild sprint for survival. The beast erupted into movement, ribs rippling as it led out another rumbling trill. Martin looked over at me, confused. Hey, dude, what are you doing? There's nothing the—shut up! Just run as fast as possible now. Don't stop for any. Our pounding feet were matched by heavy thumps and loud cracks of trees being smashed. I dared not steal a glance behind, fearing that even the slightest break in pace would mean death.

There! I struggled to see what Martin was talking about, until the yellow light became visible between the tree trunks. We were only a few hundred yards away, but I was surprised the creature hadn't already caught up to us. Even the trees in its way stood no chance of impeding it. It had almost caught up. I could feel the air pressure from its massive body charging through the trees behind. It was close enough that, at any moment, I might feel its claws cleave my body into pieces. A saving grace. Coming up on our left was a dense patch of old oak trees.

I swerve towards them, leaping through the spaces between trunks, just large enough for us to get through. I hit the ground, rolling sideways. There wasn't even time to be dazed at it. as an immense slam sounded from where we'd just been. I scrambled backward, looking to see a great arm slinking through the gap. It was thick, but not as thick as the oaks. The claws tapped about, searching blindly for our frail bodies. Go, I shouted, and the both of us shot to our feet and bolted towards the light.

As we ran, the sounds grew distant. Was it stunned, or did it still think we were behind those trees? I didn't care. All that mattered was being inside and not out. Gravel clattered against the front of the house as we skidded to a stop. I wrapped on the door, devolving into pounding when they went unheard. On what was probably the twentieth knock, my fist met only air, and I stumbled in through the now open doorway. I looked up to meet my grandpa's gaze. His eyes were wild. He didn't look like himself. He glanced behind me at Martin,

Then behind him, whatever he saw out there, his pupils contracted in response. Hurry, boys, get inside, he whispered. We filed in, and he went to bolt the door, but hesitated. His hand fell limply. A, no use. He was right. If the beast wanted to pay a visit, it would do so regardless of our home security. We followed him quietly to an uncovered floor hatch.

What's this, Mr. Barnett? Martin asked, regarding the hatch. hatch. Huh? Oh, this here's my old wine cellar. Martin went to ask further before being interrupted. Uh, get down the ladder first, son. You can shoot your questions once we're safe. He pulled on a handle, opening the hatch to reveal a sturdy wooden ladder leading into a dim space beneath. One by one, we clambered down its dusty rungs, meeting the cold concrete floor at the bottom. Grandpa was last, tugging a heavy rug over the open hatch before closing and securing it. I take it you've seen the thing, right?

Jesus, Grandad, we barely got away. I gasped, still out of breath from our escape. Unscathed? Yeah, mostly, other than some scratches. Good. He walked over to an upturned crate and plopped down onto it. Martin and I looked at each other and then back at him. Uh, well?

Martin said. You seem to know what we were dealing with, so what the hell is it? Grandpa gave Martin a scowl of disapproval, quickly relenting into understanding. I'd scrutinize you on your manners, boy, but now ain't the time. He released a tired gasp, letting his head drop down, before inhaling sharply and looking back up at us. I saw it only once before, in my varsity years. I had some Danish friends on my course who said I should come visit them over there and do some backpacking in their home country. Denmark has beautiful landscapes, really. Peaks rise out of the trees, you know. Before he could lose himself in a daydream, I cleared my throat to bring him back to reality. Oh, right. So, we were pretty deep in the woods when it happened. We'd all gotten paranoid because

we thought something was following us, something big, elk maybe. But we never saw anything, only heard it. And then God. One of the girls in front of me started to, um, um, levitate. I don't know. She was just rising up off the ground, gripped by something. Whatever it was made a mess from her, crunched her up like a meatball being squeezed.

I saw it then. Curved bones wrapped around her, stabbing in deep. Ain't never gonna forget the sight of it. It's like a stain on my mind. We saw the same thing, Martin piped up. Only it was a deer. Looked like it sucked everything out of it.

it when it was done. Yeah, I can't say I know how it works. You can only see it if you know something's there. If it's there. Anyway, we ran as fast as we could back down the trail, and we seemed to lose it. The whole time there was this rancid stink, though, eggy and earthy. We wound up back in the town we'd started from, went straight to the police station, and reported it. Apparently, all they found was a little chunk of meat, a piece of thigh, or something like that. One of the other guys told me about the tale later on. He brought up the smoke we saw rising out of the forest, when we were back in the town. An old Danish legend went that people through history seen smoke columns in the woods,

and most who went to check it out never returned. They said it would move around, not like how a fire would spread, but like it was wanderin to and fro. Damn, that's a horrible story, Grandpa, I said. It doesn't help us figure out what it is, though. We already know the stuff you've just told us. Well, he replied, I'm sure it's got many names, seeing how it can just pop up where it likes, but I only heard it called the Scorston Deer, means chimney beast if I'm remembering right. That makes sense. We thought we were seeing the smoke from your chimney, but it led us right to it. Kel, Grandpa sighed, this house ain't even got a chimney. Martin looked over to me scoffing, then back over to Grandpa.

So it lures people in like that? Sure, but I don't think it means to. I'm going to take a gander and say it started up with the fumes after it ate that deer. Yeah, I replied. Whatever that thing is, it ain't from here. It ain't from anywhere on the planet, I think. It eats something, then starts giving off smoke. A waste product from digesting, I'd guess.

So, crap gas? Martin chuckled. He always was able to find a way to lighten the mood in dire situations, even if just a little. I looked up at the monochrome ceiling above us, mulling over what Grandpa had said. I remembered how this whole thing had started and pulled out my phone to bring up my photos. We found this after starting our way up to yours on foot. I have an inkling, but do you know what it is? Grandpa squinted at the screen, then took it from my hand.

scroll to the right. That's only the head, I said. His silent focus was only punctured by the dull taps of his finger on the screen. Recognition lit up in his eyes, his head bobbing up and down. Well, I'll be damned. When to go, right? I asked. I up. I gotta say, never seen one around these parts before. But then again I was never looking for one. I doubt you need it. But keep that as a reminder for what this beast is capable of. I put my phone back in my pocket, sighing and letting my chin drop into my hands. In any other situation, I'd be shocked to find out such a creature was real, but not now. This is all great, Mr. Barnett, Martin said with quivering uncertainty, but it doesn't help us. What are we going to do? What can we do? I don't know. Well, I have a

stupid idea, but it's just grasping at straws. Anything over sitting here and waiting to die, Martin breathed, staring off into space. Anything. Grandpa looked up toward the basement window, the only source of natural light in the room. What little of it remained. While I was checking my traps out east from here, about six, 700 yards into the woods, only when I got there was there this smudge. I don't know what to call it, but that's the best I can describe what it looked like. It was like, looking into it, I couldn't register what. I what I was looking at, hurt my eyes after a while, never seen nothing like it. Was after that I started seeing the Scorsten deer, so he trailed off, like he was struggling to find

the words to say. So what? I pressed, leaning forward in anticipation. Again, this is guesswork, but I think that's where it came out from. I threw a rock into it when I was there, but ain't here it hit the ground, like it went someplace else. If we can just lead it back there, Just get it to go back in. Wait, hold on, I interrupted. Shouldn't we call someone police? The damn army? What do you think will happen to the cops when they come out here, huh?

What's a chief and a rookie in one police car going to be able to put up against it? And good luck convincing U.S. military to send out Marines. You'd be lucky if they thought it was a joke. I shut my mouth, swallowing my next words, allowing Grandpa to continue with his proposition. Either the beast leaves or we die, I'm not even going to talk about trying to drive away.

You've seen what it does to the trees. Stealth might work, but it's better at that than we are, big as it is, and I don't want to risk either of you losing your lives. His last remark sent a chill down my spine. He'd said nothing explicitly, but I already began to understand what he meant. Grandad, you... Don't worry about me, champ. I got something, but you got to listen closely, both of you.

Martin and I focused on him. I wanted to hear his plan, but I really hoped it would be different from my expectations. Now I want to make this clear before anything else. I'm going alone, and you boys need to sit tight and do as I say. My heart dropped, plunging into the stone cold sea of despair. Are you crazy? No, I have to go with you. I...

Grandpa cut me off, shushing me. As I say, he commanded. I knew he was right, but in the face of loss, my thoughts wrestled against the idea. Okay, now I'm going to call you when I'm a ways off, all right. You have to pick up, and stay on the call with me. It's vital you keep your attention on my voice. I need both of you to be brave for the next part. I need you to make as much noise as you can.

Martin's eyes bulged in fear. Won't that just get us killed? I haven't finished. That's only up until I call you, when I do. do, you shut up, and you hide in the darkest corner of this cellar, okay? I was heaving for breath now, cold beads of sweat budding on my forehead, but I closed my eyes and stilled myself. Yeah, okay. Good, once we're connected, I'll start. We were silenced by a single muffled thump from overhead, so forceful that the ceiling spewed cement dust down on us. Then another

thump, and another, and another. I fell off my perch in shock when a boomer. crash sounded from above, chased by the clattering of rubble. The steady thuds drew nearer, louder, until the only sound was that of the floorboards, groaning under immense weight. I looked over to Grandpa, who looked over to me, and whipped a finger to his lips. I nodded, then slowly turned toward the basement hatch. The beast was trying its best to move silently. A stifled whimper escaped my lungs as I saw the hatch buckle. A loud bang shook the houses foundations, than nothing. In the silence, I could make out the beast's ticking growl. It was toying with us, trying to catch us out, make us think we'd been foiled so we'd burst out in a panic

and try to flee. Its intelligence terrified me so much more than its grotesque appearance. It tried this bait a few more times before huffing angrily. The heavy creeks grew distant until we could no longer hear it, aside from the single crash of a fallen tree somewhere outside. I stood up, eager to set this plan into motion, only to be dragged back down by a firm grip on my arms. My eyes fell to meet my grandpas, looking at me with a wide-eyed scowl. Sit down, he hissed. Not yet. It's clever. It's probably waiting at the tree line, watching for us to come out. The three of us sat in silence, ears attuned for even the slightest noise to indicate its presence. After an excruciating wait,

Grandpa rose to his feet and crept over to the ladder. He scaled it, wincing at the creek of a rung, then pushed open the hatch ever so slowly. The rug that had been above was tattered, torn fragments slipping down into the now open space. He peeked out from side to side, checking rigorously that we were safe. As he pressed his hand upward, what sounded like a broken tile was disturbed, clattering to the floor above us. Grandpa froze in place, visibly tensing. Creak. The heavy step, followed by the guttural rattle I prayed to God I wouldn't hear, forced Grandpa into action.

He pushed himself off of the ladder, tucking and rolling to the floor, right before the hatch was slammed by immense force, cracking it and warping the hinges. Grandpa shot to his feet, adrenaline far outpacing his old age. He glanced around wildly at the floor before looking up at us with newfound determination. Ah, crap, damn it. Change of plans. Martin distract it. Make some noise. Kel, give me a leg up to the window. Martin's jaw fell open and his breathing quickened. Damn! He yelped, pressing fingers into his temples. But to his credit, he turned toward the hatch and started up a racket straight after.

Come get it, you idiot, you ugly sack of crap. While Martin was busy cussing out the chimney beast, Grandpa and I hurried over to the window and braced myself in a kneel, fingers locked together forming a foothold, where he planted a foot. One, two, three, I heaved him up, holding my posture while he unlatched and swung the window open.

My body was already tired from running away, and Grandpa was heavier than he looked. Still, I hauled him up further until he was out past the waist, and he pulled himself out into the hazy night. I kept my focus on him as he turned around, refusing the urge to look as I heard claws cleaving away ravenously. All right, I'll be calling in a minute, he panted.

When I do, tell Martin to zip. I love you, bud. You too, granddad. My words latched on to him, fueling a forgotten instinct that slammed his heels into the forest floor, and sent him sprinting into the trees, fading until he was merged with the dark itself. I have grounded again when Martin let out a shriek,

and I turned to see him backpedaling from those spindly claws. extending through the jagged hole that once was the hatch. A thick trail of crimson smeared from him as he shuffled back, the same crimson that slicked one of the titanic claws. It got me, ah, God, it hurts, he cried, flipping over and resorting to a belly crawl towards me. I rushed over and dragged him as far away as I could, but he flopped to the floor in shock when I released my grip.

His calf was a mess of exposed, glistening flesh and bone, sliced through like warm butter. His mouth hung half open, but without a sound, so I rushed to build a cacophony in his place. As booming as I tried to make myself sound, I devolved into whimpering shouts. The beast's arm had reached almost halfway across the room, yet still, it slithered further and further through the broken hatch, claws tick-tick-tick-ticking around in search of our flesh. Backed up into the furthest corner alongside Martin, the monstrous hand grew close. closer, slowly, agonizingly so. I only became aware of the incoming call from the vibration in my jacket pocket. It felt as if, somehow, safety lay in the act of answering my grandpa's call.

My hand shot into my pocket and yanked the phone out, fumbling with the touchscreen and picking it up. Grandad? I... it's so close. It's about to get us. Do something, please. I wailed into my phone. Instead of a reply, a loud crack rang through the night, and then the phone. The beast's arm lurched backward, freezing for a moment, before it tore out from the basement peppering the floor with wood fragments. As simple a sound as it was, I recognized it. His Black Hawk. He'd taken it with him.

I don't know when he picked it up. He may have had it on him the entire time. Out the window, I saw the hulking silhouette barrel into the trees at speeds rivaling my Jeep in fifth. I jumped when I heard Grandpa abruptly begin shouting over the call. The words were indiscernible, blending in with the scuffled sounds of movement. I took the moment to take off my jacket and then my t-shirt, which I pulled tightly around Martin's upper calf as a tourniquet. Hey, Kel, Grandpa said over the phone, sounding hollow and tinny. make sure you keep up your aerobics.

Gah, it sure as crap doesn't get easier with the years. I let out a half-hearted chuckle. I will. I want to go hiking through these woods with you, camping, surviving off of the hunt. I know you do. I... God, I do too, he said, stifling a sob. You're going to have to stay strong for your ma, okay?

There ain't no chance I'm getting out this time. But you. You too are. I broke down then, thick, watery streams lining my cheeks. I'm going to miss you, so, so much, Grandad. Aye, but we had some good times, amazing times, no? I sure as hell did, and well, this is a pretty badass way to go out, right? An unfamiliar comfort swelled up inside me, almost breaking through the tears.

Yeah, all right, I'm here, the smudge. No idea what I'll find through there. I could hear the thundering beast across the call as it gained on him. It's clicks and rattles, too. I'm going in. Promise me one thing, though. Anything, granddad. Huh, you be a good kid, and make my daughter proud, that's all.

A bizarre noise came from the phone speaker, something akin to the sound of a stone sliding across a frozen lake, followed by a splash that seemed to kill all noise. That dead silence was broken when a shuddering voice spoke again through the phone. What the... Where are you? I yelled, pleading for any small morsel of information he could provide. I don't know. It's... I'm in a pipe, I think. Some kind of glass tube. I can see everything outside. It's all there. All at once. There are more of these tubes so many more. They're branching and

splitting, but... The connection got progressively weaker as he talked, jittering and buzzing in my ears. I'm heading down this tube now and their central one, but it's huge, enormous, holy crap. No, I don't think it's the central in the distance. So many, the hell is this place. My exhausted brain couldn't fathom a single thing to say. I just listened, almost as confused as he was. Streams of, through some of them, and the... He was cut off by a tremendous splash, but the sound quality at this point made it sound more like a roar. I could only hear his wimpers until that hissing trill crawled its way under my skin once more. It melded with the audio glitches.

But then, I heard something I never could have expected, even after seeing what I'd seen. It sounded as if the creature was stuttering, clearing its throat, before it spoke. The unearthly nightmare beast had spoken. Its words were jarring like it was repeating after someone taught it how to talk, broken by animalistic clicks and hisses. Grandpa screamed, but the call lost connection completely, and drew out in a high sine wave tone. My hand acted off its own accord and loosened its grip,

sending the phone clattering to the floor. By the time I had crouched down to grab it, only my home screen greeted me as I pressed the home button. The call failed. I looked down at Martin. He was out cold, but breathing. The bleeding had done. died down, but he needed urgent treatment. Even so, I fell to the floor, back slouched up against

the cold concrete wall, and decided to wait it out until sunrise. I was certain Grandpa's plan worked, but just the slightest uncertainty held me in place. The adrenaline was beginning to wear off. My limbs ached and my head thumped. I fought against my eyelids, but they felt as if dragged down by anchors. All light vanished, and I faded into sleep. I woke to heat on my face and a red-orange blur. I opened my eyes, grimacing at the rays of sunlight that poured through the destroyed basement hatch directly onto my face. Any notions of a simple nightmare were shattered. Martin. I rolled over on my side, seeing him lying a few feet away. Thank God he was still breathing. The red liquid coating the skin of his left leg was dry and crusted, but a sudden.

small amount of it still seeped from his mangled limb. I chose to let him rest while I turned to the broken ladder, hauling myself up what remained of its rungs, and out into the house, what remained of it at least. Utter devastation, I do not exaggerate when I say almost the entire front portion of the house was gone. Wooden beams jutted out from piles of rubble and dust, but all was still. Unlike the day prior, birdsong weaved throughout the woods and into the ruins. I recall learning about how forest animals would go quiet when a predator is nearby, but I'd been too on edge to notice until their sounds had returned. Still, subtle chills wormed their way up my spine.

I felt safe, but I'd also felt safe with Grandpa in the basement until the attack. No smoke plumed from anywhere across the tree line, and no stench defiled my nose, but I couldn't shake it. I spent some time scrabbling around in the back half of the house that still stood. Quicker than expected, I found the keys to Grandpa's truck in the corner of the kitchen counter.

I practically leaped down into the old wine cellar, then slowed my pace, gently shaking Martin, until he stirred. He was groggy and confused. Don't worry, man. I'm going to get you home. I wrapped his left arm over my shoulder, supporting him to the ladder. It was tough getting him out, but I did, and we hobbled through the ruins to the truck.

Driving faster than truly necessary, I swerved, slamming on the brakes when the fallen tree trunks came into view almost out of nowhere. The jolt shook Martin, and he came to attention from the pain in his leg. I apologized for it, but wasted no more time in getting out and helping Martin down from his seat. The stench of death was stronger in the air, the Wendigo corpse festering near. It brought me back to the night before, the raw terror, spawning paranoia within me that grew intense over the short walk between the truck and my Jeep. I felt exposed. We made it across the trees and into my Jeep quickly, even with Martin's injury.

Still, without any warning signs of the beast, my heart was drumming so hard I could see my chest pulse. After a messy three-point turn, the wheels slipped, kicking up dust before we shot away down the track. We drove until reaching the small police station, where I flew out of the jeep and burst through its double doors. Perhaps a rash action in retrospect, but my mind was elsewhere. Before anything else, I had them call an ambulance for my friend, followed by reporting a severe animal attack. When I was asked what attacked us, I spat out, Cougar. The officer grunted and I laid out the fax. Grandpa was gone, dragged away by our assailant.

An ambulance arrived soon thereafter to pick up Martin. The EMTs were visibly surprised by the laceration, but attended to him nonetheless. He'd lost a fair bit of blood, but they quickly got him in stable condition at the nearest hospital, where he stayed for the next week. A search party banded together to look for Grandpa, but they found nothing, of course. I was questioned about the state of his house, but I think the trauma welling up in my eyes was the best defense I could have had. No scorch marks on the rubble to indicate explosives, nothing. It's been a few years since this all happened, and I've made it through the stages

of grief in one piece. I'd like to say Grandpa lives on in my memory, but that wouldn't be entirely accurate to say. I can still remember him, our conversations, days out, the smell of his fireplace, all that. But no matter how hard I try, I can't remember what he looked like. That's to say, there's only an imperceptible smudge where he once was in any pictures I still have. I don't know where he ended up, some massive network of tubes, but I get the distinct impression that his grave lies elsewhere, in another place separate from this world. I'm eternally grateful for his sacrifice, yeah,

but I can't help but think that it was only our lives that were saved from the Scorsdon Deer. Are there more of them, or is it somehow, able to relocate itself. Only my grandpa would have answers, but, yeah, just in case, if you find yourself out in the wilderness and you see a steady plume of smoke rising from the trees, perhaps even smell the organic stench of digestion, it'd be best to call off the occasion entirely. Once it's on to you, well, I only hope you're as lucky as we were on the day my grandpa died. Kayak gets my flight, hotel, and rental car right, so I can tune out travel advice that's just

plain wrong. Bro, Skycoin, way better than points. Never fly during a Scorpio full moon. Just tell the manager you'll sue. Instant room upgrade. Stop taking bad travel advice. Start comparing hundreds of sites with kayak and get your trip right. Kayak, got that right.

The moment I think back on that trip, a shiver runs down my spine. the kind that doesn't come from the cold but from something buried deep in memory. It's strange, sharing stories like this. A bit like group therapy for those of us who've stared into the eyes of something primal, something that doesn't fit into the neat categories of our modern understanding. But here I am, ready to share ours. Not because I want to relive those moments, but because maybe, just maybe, it'll serve as a warning for someone else.

fresh out of high school, with the naivity of youth still clinging to us like the scent of cheap Cologne, we thought a camping trip was the perfect send-off before college. There were four of us, Preston, with his Native American heritage, and a knack for survival that went beyond what you'd find in any manual, Jamie, who knew his way around guns better than anyone I'd ever met, Mark, a friend of Preston's, whose quiet demeanor masked a restless spirit. Then there was me, the glue trying to hold this motley crew together. Our plan was simple. Dive deep into the heart of the national forest, surround ourselves with the kind of wilderness

that makes you forget the world outside, and just be. We packed my old BMW station wagon to the brim with everything we thought we'd need. Tents, food, camping supplies, and of course, our guns. The drive was a mix of anticipation and nostalgia. the road unwinding like the years we'd spent together, leading us into the unknown. Setting up camp that first day was a breeze, a testament to the countless times we'd done this before. But as we settled down, the crackling fire casting shadows that danced just beyond our circle of light, I felt a prickling on the back of my neck.

For a moment, I thought I saw a pair of green eyes, framed by what looked like antlers, watching us from the darkness. I brushed it off, chalking it up to the tricks the mind plays, when the sun dips below the horizon. We spent that first night as if it were any other camping trip, reminiscing about the past and dreaming aloud about the future. The campfire curry we whipped up was a makeshift feast, and the smores that followed felt like a nod to our not-so-distant childhoods. It was perfect, or as perfect as any of us could have hoped for. but as I lay in my tent, the sounds of the night a comforting lullaby, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. It was as if the forest itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to break the silence. Preston seemed undisturbed, his breathing steady in the quiet of the night, and I forced myself to believe that it was all in my head.

Looking back, I wish I had paid more attention to that feeling, to the eyes that watched us with a curiosity that, was far from benign. I wish I had asked Preston about it, but wishes are like leaves in the wind, easily scattered and impossible to gather again. That night, as we slept, the wilderness around us whispered secrets in a language we were not yet ready to understand, and by the time we would start to decipher them, it would already be too late. The forest greeted us with a dense mist that morning, as if the trees themselves were trying to dissuade us from delving any deeper into their domain. Preston led the way, his steps confident yet cautious, a silent testament to his connection with the land that went beyond mere survival skills. Jamie, ever the enthusiast, kept

close, his eyes scanning the thick foliage with a mix of excitement and wariness. Mark was quieter than usual, his usual nonchalance replaced by a contemplative silence. And then there was me, caught between the thrill of adventure and a growing sense of unease that I couldn't quite shake off. As we trek towards the river, the overcast sky and the lack of clear landmarks made navigation challenging. Preston's unease was palpable, a stark contrast to the man who had always seemed unshakable in the face of the wilderness. When he stopped suddenly, pulling me aside to whisper about a bad omen, I felt my stomach not. The distant whooping noise that followed his warning sent a chill down my spine, a sound so alien and yet terrifyingly familiar in a way I couldn't explain.

Preston's reaction to the creature we glimpsed through the trees was the first real indication that this trip was veering into uncharted territory. His swear words, spoken in his native tongue, added weight to the gravity of our situation. Despite our arsenal, the creature's swift escape after Preston's shots made it clear that we were dealing with something far beyond our understanding. The mention of a Wendigo, a creature from Preston's cultural lore, marked a turning point in our journey, transforming our adventure into a fight for survival.

The decision to cross the river and sever our only means of retreat by destroying the tramway felt like a desperate gamble. As Preston cut through the rope, sending the tram crashing into the waters below, I realized there was no going back. His actions, driven by a deep-seated fear of the Wendigo, left us stranded on the far side of the wilderness, cut off from the familiar, and thrust into a realm of ancient fears. Mark's disappearance that night was the blow that shattered any remaining illusions of safety.

The realization that we were being actively hunted by something that could snatch one of us away without a trace was paralyzing. The forest, once a place of freedom and escape, had become a prison, its bars made of towering trees and its guards unseen entities that watched from the shadows. As we prepared to confront whatever had taken mark, Preston's knowledge of the Wendigo became our only guide. His makeshift torches, crafted with a sense of urgency, were symbolic of the thin line between light and darkness, between hope and despair. The revelation of the Wendigo's nature, a cannibalistic demon with a lust for human blood cast a dark pall over our camp, transforming our fears into a tangible enemy.

That night, as we huddled around the fire, the weight of our situation settled heavily on my shoulders. The stories Preston shared about the Wendigo, tales passed down through generations, were no longer just stories. They were a grim reality we were living. Our decision to stand and fight, to face the ancient horror that lurked in the depths of the forest, was born out of necessity, a desperate bid for survival in a world that had suddenly turned hostile. As I loaded my gun, the reality of our predicaments sank in. We were no longer just campers or friends on an adventure. We were survivors, warriors pitted against an ancient evil in a battle that would test the limits of our courage, our friendship, and our lives.

our will to live. The forest, with its hidden dangers and ancient secrets, had become our battleground, and the Wendigo, a nightmare made flesh, our adversary. As dawn broke, the forest seemed to hold its breath, a stillness that belied the turmoil within us. We had fortified our camp as best we could, but as the light filtered through the dense canopy, it only served to highlight our vulnerability. Preston moved with a quiet urgency, his actions a blend of ritual and survival strategy. Jamie kept a vigilant watch, his usual bravado subdued by the weight of our predicament. The absence of Mark hung over us like a shadow, a constant reminder of the danger that stalked us unseen. The plan was simple in its desperation.

Hold our ground and survive. Preston's insistence on watch rotations underscored the severe, of our situation. As night approached, the forest seemed to come alive with sinister whispers, the sounds of nature twisted into ominous portents. When it was my turn to stand watch, the darkness felt oppressive, a tangible entity that pressed in from all sides. Every snap of a twig or rustle of leaves sent adrenaline coursing through my veins, a primal response to an unseen predator. The fire became our beacon, a fragile barrier between us and the malevolent force that lurked in the darkness. Preston's decision to use fire as a weapon against the Wendigo

was born out of ancient wisdom, a testament to the enduring struggle between light and dark, life and death. The makeshift torches, their flames flickering in the night, were symbols of defiance, a declaration that we would not go quietly into the embrace of the forest. The attack when it came was both terrifying and surreal. The Wendigo's howls shattered the night, a sound that seemed to freeze the very blood in our veins. As it emerged from the darkness, the embodiment of nightmares, our preparations were put to the test.

The gunfire that tore through the night was a cacophony of fear and determination. Each shot a plea for survival. The creature's resilience was unlike anything we had encountered, of being forged from the darkness of the forest itself. Preston's bravery, as he faced the creature with fire and steel, was a beacon of hope in the chaos. His knowledge of the Wendigo, passed down through generations, was our only edge.

As the night wore on, the lines between hunter and hunted blurred, each encounter with the creature a dance with death. The realization that we were not just fighting for our lives, but engaging in a battle that spanned centuries lent a grim significance to our struggle. The siege wore on, a test of endurance and will. The moments of silence were almost worse than the attacks, pregnant with anticipation of the next onslaught. Our resolve was tested, not just by the physical demands of the battle,

but by the psychological toll of facing an enemy that was both myth and reality. The fear of becoming like Mark, lost to the darkness, hung over us like a specter, driving us to fight with every ounce of strength we possessed. As dawn approached, the forest seemed to hold its breath, the night's horrors retreating into the shadows with the coming light. The siege had ended, but the battle was far from over. We were survivors, but at what cost? The scars we bore were not just physical, but etched deep within our souls, a permanent reminder of the night we stood against the darkness and prevailed. In the aftermath, as we prepared to face another day, the forest no longer seemed

like a sanctuary, but a battleground, a place where ancient evils lurked, waiting for the cover of night to reveal their true nature. The morning sun did little to dispel the chill that had settled in my bones, a cold that came from within, born of fear and the lingering presence of death, as we prepared to leave the relative safety of our camp. The absence of Mark was a gaping wound among us, a silent testament to the price already paid. The forest around us, once a place of beauty and solitude, now felt like a maze designed by some malevolent architect, each path potentially leading to our doom. Preston led the way, his face set in a grim mask, every line and curve etched by the trials we had endured. Jamie followed, his usual jokes and laughter

replaced by a quiet determination, a resolve forged in the fires of our night-long siege. And then there was me, caught between a desire to flee this nightmare and the understanding that there was no turning back, not until we faced our demon once more. The illusion of Mark's return was a cruel twist of fate, a momentary spark of hope extinguished by the harsh reality of our situation. The creature that stood before us, wearing Mark's face but devoid of his soul, was an abomination, a mockery of the friend we had lost. The confrontation that followed was a blur of motion and emotion, a desperate battle against an enemy that was both familiar and utterly alien.

As we faced the Wendigo, armed with little more than our wits and the weapons we carried, the distinction between man and monster blurred. The gunfire that erupted between us and the creature was not just an exchange of bullets, but a battle for our very humanity. With each shot fired, we reaffirmed our refusal to succumb to the darkness, to become like the thing that had taken mark from us. Preston's voice, raised in challenge to the Wendigo, was a beacon of hope, a reminder of the strength that comes from standing together against the odds.

As the creature responded, the air between us crackled with the tension of ancient enmities, a battle that transcended time and place. The Wendigo's howl, a sound. that chilled the soul, was a declaration of war, a challenge that we met with determination and fear. The final battle was a testament to the power of fire and resolve. As I charged, makeshift flamethrower in hand, I was driven by a singular purpose, to avenge Mark, to protect my friends, to end this nightmare. The creature's screams, as the flames engulfed it, were a symphony of victory and sorrow, a cacophony that echoed through the forest,

a final farewell to the friend we had lost. In the aftermath, as we stood among the ashes of our enemy, the silence was oppressive, a void filled with the ghosts of our actions. Preston's decision to destroy the Wendigo's remains was a solemn duty, an act of respect and a final gesture of defiance against the darkness. As we made our way to the highway,

the forest around us seemed to watch, a silent witness to the events that had a silent witness to the events that had unfolded within its depths. The journey back to civilization was a procession of the wounded, each step taking us further from the forest, but never truly leaving it behind. The scars we carried were not just physical, but etched deep within our souls,

a reminder of the price paid for our survival. As Preston spoke of his plans to inform his elders, to ensure that our battle would not be forgotten, I realized that some wars are never truly won. they linger in the shadows, waiting for the next generation to stand against the darkness. In the end, our pact to never speak of what happened was a vow made in blood, a promise to carry the burden of our experiences alone. But as I share this story, breaking the silence that has enveloped us,

I do so with the hope that it will serve as a warning, a beacon for those who might find themselves on the edge of the darkness, for in the wilderness, among the beauty and the majesty, there lurks a shadow, a reminder that some myths are born of truth, and some monsters are all too real. Introducing the new Best Skin Ever Ultra Slim Precision Concealer from Sephora Collection. It's full coverage with a matte finish and perfect for any look, whether you're building it up for a full glam moment or targeting correction for a more natural vibe. At only $12, it's great for affordable touch-ups on the go.

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with their crumudgeonly, Marcellus, whose remarkable intelligence leads her to a life-changing discovery. Watch remarkably bright creatures with your remarkable moms this Mother's Day weekend. Only on Netflix May 8th. The clock was close to striking midnight, and the whole house was asleep, except for me.

In the dimly lit dining room, only the warm glow from the three bulbs above the table broke through the darkness. I could barely make out the hands of the clock as they moved closer to twelve. With a deep breath, I took out the shot glass I'd kept hidden in the back of the cupboard

and placed it next to the bottle of Yeagermeister on the table. I don't usually drink, not after what happened to pop. But the first day of September is different, It's the one exception I allow myself. Rubbing my tongue against the inside of my cheek, I felt my mouth go dry, a familiar sensation that always accompanied this moment. The house was silent, so quiet that the ticking of the clock seemed to echo off the walls.

And then, right at midnight, the soft chime rang out, sounding like distant church bells. I filled the shot glass, raised it for a second as if toasting someone only I could see, and swallowed. The familiar burn slid down my throat, warming me from the inside. After the ritual was complete, I took the shotglass to the kitchen to wash it by the light of the moon shining through the window. Loretta, my wife, wouldn't mind me drinking, but a used shot glass left out would raise questions, and talking about it, well, I've never been good at that. I still have nightmares all these years later. what I saw up on that mountain left a mark on me deeper than anything else ever has, deeper than the joy of seeing my children born,

or the sorrow of watching my father drink himself to an early grave. Loretta tells me I should talk about it, that it might help. She's probably right, she usually is. So here goes. It was right out of school when I joined the Park Rangers service. School was never my thing. The outdoors always called to me. I spent my school days daydreaming about the weekends when I could escape into nature, hiking, or fly fishing with pop.

It was our thing, a bond we shared. In the summer of 89, I found myself stationed in the Appalachians. It was my dream job. Our area covered the trails that wound their way up the mountain, a place where the air felt different, where the spruce trees thinned out, and the clouds hung low, giving everything a touch of mystery. That summer was mostly about cleaning up. The winter storms had left the trails covered in fallen branches and debris. It was considered grunt work, something for the new guy, which I was.

But honestly, I didn't mind. It meant I was out there, in the thick of it all, feeling more alive than I ever did in a classroom. One day, as the summer heat began to wane and the number of visitors dwindled, something happened that would change me forever. It started like any other day, but it ended with me facing something out of my darkest nightmares, something that would stay with me for the rest of my life, haunting my dreams and leading me to this yearly ritual. That's the day I can't forget, the day that compels me to raise a glass every first day of September, trying to find some peace, some closure.

But deep down, I know some experiences cling to you, shaping who you are, forever lurking. in the shadows of your mind. It was a morning like any other in the Ranger Station, damp and misty, the kind of weather that clings to your skin and makes everything feel slower. I was sitting at my desk, thumbing through reports of fallen trees and planning my day

when he burst through the door. He looked wild, eyes wide and darting around as if he was seeing ghosts in every corner. He let out this moan, a sound so full of despair it froze me in my eyes. seat and then collapsed right there on the floor. Stanley, my fellow ranger, was quicker to react. He leaned down, trying to prop him up into a sitting position. The guy was soaked to the bone, his clothes clinging to him, dripping water all over the wooden floor. I handed Stanley a cup of

water, thinking maybe the guy was just dehydrated or something. But when Stanley tried to get him to drink. He just flailed around, knocking the cup right out of his hand. The glass shattered on the floor, but he didn't even seem to notice. It's out there, he kept saying over and over like a broken record. His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper, but you could hear the fear. It was palpable, filling the room and making the hair on the back of my neck stand up. What's out there? Stanley asked, trying to keep his voice steady. But the guy just grabbed Stanley's shirt, his hands shaking. He was scared out of his mind. Stanley and I exchanged looks. We'd seen a lot of things in our time as rangers, but nothing like this. Nothing that could scare a man so badly he could barely speak.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, he managed to calm down enough to sit up and look at us. He was a mess, eyes red and face gaunt like he'd been lost in the woods for weeks without food. Stanley gently asked him where he was from, and after a long pause, he said he'd come up from San Diego with a couple of friends for a hiking trip. That's when the story started to come together, but each piece was more troubling than the last. They'd been planning to hike the trail north, but something went horribly wrong. He pulled out a stack of Polaroids from his backpack, and there they were, his friends, smiling and alive. But the way he looked at those photos, you could tell they were more than just missing. Stanley took charge, marking the map with the last

place he'd seen them. My stomach churned as I realized we were heading deep into the mountains, far from the safety of the trails. This wasn't just another rescue mission. It felt like we were walking into a nightmare. We geared up, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling settling over us. The forests seemed different as we set out, more foreboding. Every shadow felt like it was watching us, every rustle in the underbrush a potential threat. As we moved deeper into the wilderness, away from any path or sign of civilization. I couldn't shake the feeling that we weren't alone, that whatever had terrified that hiker was waiting for us too.

The silence of the forest was a heavy, oppressive thing, broken only by our footsteps, and the occasional distant call of a bird. It felt like the calm before the storm, and I had no idea if we were ready for what was coming. The old cabin in the woods looked like something straight out of a horror movie, its walls rotting and the roof half caved in. By the time we found it, darkness had already swallowed the woods whole,

turning everything outside the beam of our flashlights into a sea of shadows. The air felt thick with something unsaid, an ominous silence that seemed to press down on us from all sides. Stanley was the first to move towards the cabin, his flashlight cutting through the dark. This will have to do for shelter, he muttered, more to himself than to us. I followed close behind, my heart racing. Something about the place felt wrong,

like we were intruding on something ancient and malevolent. We barely had time to catch our breath before we heard it. A low, guttural growl that seemed to come from all around us. Stanley froze, his flashlight beam darting around the clearing. Did you guys hear that? he whispered. But before anyone could answer, chaos erupted. out of the shadows it came at us a nightmare made flesh the wendigo its eyes were like pits of fire in the darkness and its body was a grotesque mix of human and animal with long clawed limbs that seemed to stretch unnaturally we barely had time to react stanley fired his rifle but the creature moved with terrifying speed dodging the bullets as if they were nothing panic took over

I remember thinking we were going to die out there, torn apart by this monster from the legends. But then, something clicked inside me. Fire. The creature seemed to recoil from the flames of our torches, hissing as if the light caused it pain. With a desperate burst of adrenaline, I grabbed a branch from the ground, lighting it on fire from one of our torches. Weielding it like a weapon, I lunged at the Wendigo, swinging the makeshift torch with all my might. The creature shrieked, a sound so piercing it felt like it could freeze my blood. For a moment, it faltered, stepping back into the shadows as if afraid.

That moment of hesitation was all we needed. Stanley and Harry joined in, brandishing their own sources of fire, driving the creature further into the darkness. But the relief was short-lived. In the chaos, the cabin caught fire. Flames quickly spread, consuming the old wood with a hunger that mirrored the Wendigoes. We were forced to flee,

leaving behind any hope of sanctuary. As we ran, the fire behind us lit up the night, casting long, sinister shadows among the trees. We didn't stop running until we reached the ranger station, the first light of dawn creeping over the horizon. The forest was silent once again, as if nothing had happened,

but the scars of that night would stay with us forever. Looking back now, it all seems like a blur, a nightmare that I can't wake up from. I still don't fully understand what happened out there. All I know is that the Wendigo is real, and it's out there waiting in the darkness of the forest. And every year, on the first day of September, I remember. I remember the terror, the fire, and the faces of my friends who weren't as lucky as I was to make it out alive. Sometimes, late at night, when the world is silent and still, I can still hear the creature's screams echoing in the back of my mind.

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