Wendigo

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  15

  Northern Aroostook Airport, Frenchville, Maine

  To the east the sky was lighting up enough to show that the day would be clear and cold. John Bear spotted the landing lights of the small airplane and watched in silence as its skis sent a cloud of snow trailing behind as it landed on the small landing field. He crushed out his cigarette and gulped down the last of his tepid coffee. John reached back into the four-wheel-drive Jeep and grabbed the rifle case lying on the back seat. He got out of the car and walked toward the plane. After he had taken several steps, he stopped and waited for the pilot to bring the aircraft around. The Cessna spun in a tight circle and stopped about twenty yards away. John trotted to it, hunched forward trying to avoid the icy blasts of wind and stinging snow the propeller sent swirling into the air.

  John opened the door, leapt into the front seat and slammed the door shut against the frigid air. He nodded to the pilot, saw a set of headphones between the seats, and placed them on his head. He positioned the microphone in front of his mouth and said, “How you doing, Sébastien?”

  The pilot’s electronic voice came from the headphones. “Can’t complain, John—no one wants to listen to me whine anyhow.”

  “You have much trouble flying up?”

  “Other than fighting one bastard of a headwind all the way from Houlton?” Sébastien Lavallée, the warden service’s pilot assigned to northern Aroostook County, grinned. “Made it interestin’ though.”

  John was busy adjusting his headset and seatbelt and didn’t notice Sébastien’s harsh look when he saw the 30-06 rifle for the first time. “What in hell’s that for?” Lavallée asked.

  “I’m being cautious. I’ve heard reports of a rogue bear in the area,” John answered.

  “There’s no way you think it was a bear that killed them fellahs. Hell, they’re all in hibernation by now.”

  “Well, either way, bear or no bear, it ain’t goin’ to let us take it alive.”

  John buckled the seatbelt and waited for Lavallée to take off. John made sure the rifle was unloaded and then placed it between his legs, with the barrel pointing upward.

  The pilot quickly checked to see that his passenger was buckled in and increased the motor’s RPMs. He deftly swung the nose around 180 degrees until it faced into the wind and sped down the runway. When the airplane had gained enough speed, he pulled back on the wheel and the aircraft’s nose lifted and they were airborne. I hope you brought sunglasses,” Lavallée said. “The sun reflecting off this snow is going to be a real bitch.”

  John sat back and felt an unease creep through him. He refocused his mind to ward off what he was sure was an impending flashback to his tour in Afghanistan. He stared out the window and saw the ground falling away in the golden light of the early dawn. “I think we’ll find it today … ,” he said to no one in particular.

  Lavallée looked at him. “It? I thought we were lookin’ for a lost cross-country skier.”

  John leaned back and felt his stomach turn as the small plane was buffeted by the wind. “Just a figure of speech,” he said. He looked out the side window and hoped that he would not lose his breakfast.

  _____________

  John had been intently watching the terrain passing by below the Cessna. They had been searching the woods for almost three hours and his attention had not waned. They were on the brink of turning back for lunch and to refuel when John asked, “How long would it take us to get over to Viverette Settlement?”

  “Fifteen, twenty minutes. What’s up there?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I thought we’d take a look.”

  “That place has been deserted for years. Thousand Islands built it when they were cutting out all the spruce on account of the spruce budworm infestation back in the sixties. Once they’d cut everything worth cutting they tore down most of what was theirs and hauled ass.”

  “So there’s nothing there now?”

  “A couple of shacks, if they ain’t fallen in,” Lavallée said.

  “I’d still like to check it out. If we got enough fuel.”

  “We got enough.”

  Lavallée banked the plane and headed west.

  True to his word, in less than twenty minutes they flew over Viverette Settlement. Lavallée dropped down so low that John was afraid that they’d hit the treetops as the settlement sped beneath them. The area where the settlement had existed was still clear of trees and John was surprised to see a snowmobile trail. He turned his eyes to the front and said, “I thought you said this place was deserted?”

  “Always has been.”

  “Well there’s a lot of sled tracks down there. Swing around one more time.”

  Lavallée made a turn and flew back toward the shack.

  “There! I see someone,” John shouted, pointing over the nose of the aircraft at a large form standing in front of one of the shacks.

  Lavallée stared at the figure and said, “Christ, John, that’s the biggest sonuvabitch I ever seen!”

  “Can you land down there?”

  “Don’t know—who knows what’s hidden under that layer of snow. All I’d have to do is hit something and we’d both be in a world of hurt.”

  They circled around and made another pass over the shack. A gigantic figure stood near the shack and looked up at the small aircraft.

  “Are you certain that it’s too dangerous to drop me off?”

  “I don’t know this area,” Lavallée said. “Like I said, there could be anything under that snow—it ain’t worth the risk.”

  “Then take me back. I need to get my gear and come back here.”

  “John, you got to be the craziest Indian I know,” Lavallée said as he turned the Cessna and headed for Frenchville.

  16

  Northern Aroostook Airport

  John Bear watched the warden service plane lift off from the small airport and waved to Lavallée as he circled the field before turning south toward his home airfield. The sound of the Cessna’s motor faded while John walked to his truck. He started the motor and waited for it to smooth out as the oil warmed. As he sat in the cold cab watching his steamy breath drift upward, he planned his next action. At that point he was only certain of one thing; he had to go up to Viverette Settlement, if for no other reason than to question the man he’d seen. The trip was not going to be easy during this time of the year. Few, if any, of the roads would be plowed. Even Camp 75 Road, which connected the Little Black checkpoint and Estcourt Road, only came within ten miles of the road to Viverette Settlement. He recalled that the forest service maintained a fire watchtower up that way. He needed to contact them to get a list of people who worked the tower during the spring, summer, and fall—maybe they knew something about the man in the settlement. He opened the glove box and took out a notebook in which he made several notes.

  The truck’s motor was idling smoothly and John put the transmission in gear and drove toward Lyndon Station. When he went into the woods this time, he was going to be better prepared.

  _____________

  John arrived in Lyndon Station an hour and a half later and went immediately to his brother’s house. He backed his truck up and attached the trailer carrying his snowmobile, to the hitch. Before he could get into his four-by-four, Clarisse walked onto the porch holding two steaming mugs of coffee. “You should eat,” she said as she placed one of the mugs on the railing and returned to the warmth of the house.

  The storm door closed with a loud bang and John stood in the yard watching the steam spiral up from the mug. Shit, John thought, if I don’t eat something she’ll bust my ass for years. In spite of his ire over the delay, he picked up the mug from the railing and was smiling as he entered the kitchen.

  Clarisse was already seated at the table, a plate of donuts before her. John was overwhelmed by the pleasing aroma of freshly made donuts that filled the room, and grabbed one before he was completely seated.

  “You’re going back out there, aren’t you?”

 
; “I have to.”

  “Then take someone with you.”

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t know, another warden maybe.”

  “They’re all busy. We still have two months of ice fishing season left, and the derby is in a couple of days. Keep in mind we only have five wardens to patrol an area larger than several states.”

  Clarisse took a drink of coffee and placed her mug on the table. It was evident to John that she was not about to be placated, at least not easily. “What about the state police? Bob Pelky would help, all you got to do is ask.”

  “This is something that I need to do on my own…. This case belongs to the warden service, not the state police.”

  Clarisse leaned back in her chair and glared at him. “You mean this case belongs to you. I think you’ve let this become something personal.”

  “Maybe I have,” John admitted, “but only because the majority of people have no idea of what this thing is capable of. They still think it’s human…. We know better.”

  “If by we, you mean us Mi’kmaq and Maliseet, you may be mistaken. Most of us know those old tales for what they are. They are myths used to scare little children into behaving, nothing more.”

  “Clarisse, you weren’t with me out there. I saw it and it’s no myth.”

  She stood, walked to the stove, and refilled her mug. She held the pot out, silently offering him a refill. He nodded and slid his mug toward her. As she poured, Clarisse said, “I don’t know what it was you saw. But it was dark, snowing, and you were half-frozen to death. You may not know what it was you saw either.”

  John took a long drink of the hot coffee and felt it burn as it traveled through him. “All right, you win. If Murph has nothing going on, I’ll take him with me and once I’m certain what I’m dealing with I promise to ask for appropriate assistance.”

  Clarisse sighed in an exaggerated show of relief. “I swear that talking to you and your brother is like praying. You believe there is someone there, but can never tell if they are truly listening.” She walked toward the door leading to the living room. “Go on, do this thing you feel you must do. I only ask that you leave instructions.”

  “Instructions?”

  “Yes, where you’re going in case we have to search for you … and how you want your remains handled if we find you dead.”

  17

  Viverette Settlement

  The Wendigo saw the airplane before he heard it. He stood at the threshold and watched as the Cessna approached. He watched it pass overhead and then turn. He watched the plane as it turned again, made another flyover, and then headed southeast. In minutes the plane was a small dot in the sky and he cursed. It was obvious that the plane belonged to the warden service and he was certain that they’d be back. He entered the cabin and began gathering his meager belongings. At best he figured he’d have four or five hours before they would arrive. The warden service kept their planes at Eagle Lake, but it didn’t have skis or pontoons and may have come from Frenchville; either way when they got here, he’d be long gone.

  He tried to think of a place where he could go unobserved, no easy thing when you were seven feet eight inches tall. Anyplace he went he’d stand out like a cigar store Indian. He crammed his things into a worn backpack and left the ramshackle shack. He walked to a cache that he’d made from deadfall and bits and pieces of lumber that he’d found in the settlement. He crouched over and disappeared inside.

  _____________

  John Bear and Murphy arrived at Viverette Settlement as the sun was setting. They stopped their sleds about twenty yards from the shack and removed their helmets so they could hear one another. “Looks as if there’s no one at home,” John said, “The door is open and it ain’t that warm.”

  “No smoke coming from the chimney either.”

  “What do you think? Maybe someone is inside and needs help?”

  “Sounds like probable cause to me,” Murphy said.

  They slowly advanced to the front of the shack.

  “You think the guy you saw was just curious and was looking at the place?” Murphy said.

  “I suppose anything is possible, but for some reason I don’t think so.”

  John dismounted and walked to the door. “Maine Warden Service,” he called out. “Hello? Is anyone in there?” Without thinking about it, he drew his service pistol and stuck his head inside the shack. It took several seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dark, the sun had completely set and the interior was Stygian. “Murph, open the storage boot on my sled, grab my light, and bring it here, would you?”

  Murphy turned to John’s sled and retrieved a flashlight which he then handed to John who in turn shined it around the inside. “Looks as if someone’s been living here.”

  Murphy visually scanned the room. “Recently, too,” he added.

  John Bear removed his right glove and placed it on the cast-iron woodstove. “Cold as ice. He probably lit out as soon as we flew away.”

  “That was what? Four, maybe five hours ago?”

  “Yup, sum-bitch could be in Bangor by now.”

  “Well,” Murphy said, “since we’re here we may as well look around.”

  “I’ll check this place out,” John said.

  “Okay, I’ll look around outside.”

  Murphy stepped out of the shack and stared at the darkening woods. Maybe twenty, twenty-five minutes of daylight left, he thought. He took his flashlight out of the storage boot of his sled and followed the tracks to the back of the cabin. He noted that the tracks led to a pile of deadwood, lumber, and sundry odds and ends, and then disappeared. He walked closer and inspected the pile of detritus and moved a couple of boards to see what lay beneath. In the light’s harsh beam he found a door to what appeared to be an old root cellar. “Hey, John, I think I found something.”

  When John reached his side, Murphy shined the light on the door. “Looks like it may be an old root cellar,” he said.

  “So why would you bury it under all this debris?” John pondered.

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “Well,” John said, “there’s only one way to find out.”

  He grabbed the door handle and pulled the door—which surprised him when it opened with minimal effort. Murphy illuminated the opening with his flashlight beam. Stone steps, with the center worn from years of feet using them, led down into a black chasm. The strong odor of a dead animal, with a touch of a gross sweetness to it rose up from the dark abyss. It was so overpowering that both John and Murph put their hands over their noses and mouths.

  “Jesus,” Murphy said, his voice muffled by his hand.

  John reached out his free hand and Murphy placed the flashlight in it. John descended into the crypt and stopped at the foot of the staircase. He panned the light around and dropped his hand from his mouth when he saw the carnage inside. The floor was littered with broken bones, both animal and human, that looked as if something had snapped them and sucked the marrow from them. Scattered around the sides of the floor were human skulls—too many for him to accurately count—each showing some form of trauma; one he saw had a jagged hole in its crown, another a similar wound in the back. He directed the light to the far corner and saw the source of the nauseating odor, a partially decomposed—and devoured—body, with its mouth open as if it had died in mid-scream. John recalled what his father had told him: “… sometimes it keeps its victims alive. It stores them in dark, isolated places so it can feed whenever it wants.”

  Having seen enough, John reentered the stairs and motioned for Murphy to climb out. Once they were in the fresh, cold night air John said, “We need a complete crime scene team out here.”

  “What did you see in there?”

  “A vision of hell from the world of H. P. Lovecraft.”

  _____________

  St. Francis, Maine

  The Wendigo stood back in the trees, watching the log building. Country music blared from the beer joint and the yard was filled with snowmobiles of every
make and model. He was so hungry that thought was impossible. He could leave and hunt someplace else, but this place, the only bar in town, showed the most promise. It was a matter of time before somebody would leave, then he’d hunt—and feed.

  _____________

  Steve Jackson staggered out of the Borderview Tavern and drove toward his home, his headlights were coated in dirt and road salt and he strained to see the road through the dark, moonless night. He had been drinking since that morning, after he’d arrived at work only to be told that the mill was closing down due to a decreasing market for wood pellets. Goddamned foreigners, Jackson mused, make it impossible for a man to keep his job.

  He saw his home appear in his headlights and he shook his head trying to clear away the drunken haze. He pulled into the drive and got out, slipping on the icy surface. He slipped down onto one knee and cursed, goddamn!” He struggled to his feet, gripping the side of his vehicle for leverage and then scurried to the door, sliding along across the icy surface without lifting his feet. Jackson paused in front of the rusting mobile home gripping the railing of the ramp leading to a plywood mudroom attached to the entrance.

  Jackson opened the woodstove, threw a log in, and lit some kindling before taking a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard. He sat at the kitchen table and poured whiskey into his glass and cast a drunken glance at the disarray of the small one-room home that was all that sheltered him from the cold wind blowing outside. His look was almost furtive, as if he was expecting the very structure itself to launch an attack on him. He raised the glass to his lips and felt the whiskey’s heat spread through his chilled body; the liquor had long since ceased burning his throat and went down easy. Jackson stopped, holding the dirty tumbler against his lips. His eyes were fixed on the tiny window centered over the sink on the trailer home’s back wall. Something had been looking in through the window. He had seen the distinctive sparkle of lights reflecting off something—like eyes. He slowly lowered the glass to the table and, convinced his mind was tricking him, forced himself to remain calm, to relax.