Wendigo

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  Dwain sensed him and slipped out of the window onto the roof. He took three long strides and jumped to the yard below, landing soundlessly. He looked over his shoulder to see if he’d been observed—not that it mattered. He was going to him and he’d kill anyone who tried to stop him.

  _____________

  The Wendigo stood twenty feet back in the trees, watching the house. His hunger was driving him mad. All he had to do was go there. The house was full of nourishment. He fought against the pangs of his empty stomach. He watched the boy slip out of the upstairs window and leap to the ground. As he watched him racing across the snow, the Wendigo emitted a piercing whistle, calling him.

  _____________

  Amy Dowd woke up. She thought that she’d heard something. She lay quiet, listening to see if the sound would be repeated. An ear-piercing whistle, followed immediately by a sound that she thought was a clap of thunder, made her snap up in the bed. The whistle was repeated, a different voice this time, younger, as if the person doing it was an adolescent. Person? Amy whispered “Why did you think that?”

  She heard another thunder clap and it made her think of a creature suffering from some soul-wrenching agony. Then a word entered her mind … Hungry!

  39

  John Bear and Amy Dowd drank the last of the coffee she’d made for them and walked out into the icy, snow-covered yard. “You say that he was in his room when you went to bed last night, but back in the barn when you woke up?”

  “Yes. There were other weird things last night too.”

  “What sort of things?”

  “As cold as it was I heard thunder, not once but several times. Don’t ask me why, but I thought someone or something was in terrible … I don’t how to describe it—the only thing that comes to mind is someone was suffering from a terrible hunger. Then there were these loud, shrill whistles. It creeped me out so much that I wanted to hide under the covers.”

  “Where did the noises come from?” John asked.

  Amy pointed toward the woods beyond the barn. “It was late and I was half-asleep, so I can’t be positive, but I think they came from over there.”

  John Bear looked up at the cloudless azure sky. “Did you see anything?”

  Amy flushed. “To be truthful, Warden, I was too friggin’ scared to get out of bed and check. It took all my courage to bring Dwain in from the barn this morning.”

  “Unfortunately, I understand you,” John said. He pulled the zipper of his parka up as far as it would go and added, “You go check on Dwain. I want to look around a bit.”

  Amy disappeared up the stairs and before John was out of the living room door she reappeared. “He’s not in his room.”

  “I’ll look around outside,” John said. He stopped in front of the barn, staring into the dark interior. Amy ran across the yard, putting on a parka as she jogged inside the barn. From the back stall John heard her say, “He’s here.”

  John circled around the building following a path worn of packed snow. He saw where a set of footprints had scaled a five-foot-high snowbank and entered the field beyond. A trail had been broken through the thigh-high snow and John followed it. He was forced to raise his legs high while trying to place his feet in the tracks left by his predecessor. Before he was a quarter of the way across the open expanse, his thighs and calves were throbbing with exertion.

  John persevered, ignoring his various aches and pains and following the tracks into the woods and saw where they met an even larger set of tracks. If the tracks he’d followed belonged to Dwain, then there was little doubt in his mind what this new set belonged to. The Wendigo had not stayed long in Canada. John wondered what the link was between it and Dwain Dowd. He studied the area, following the two sets of footprints with his eyes. He saw where they had sat side by side on a large downed pine tree, its needles, brown and withered. There was no way of telling how long this midnight rendezvous had lasted, but instinct told him it was no chance meeting—it had come looking for the boy. The one unanswered question was why? This was the third time the two had paired up and John was baffled as to what was the hold that they held over one another.

  He followed the tracks he believed to be Dwain’s. They led him out of the trees and back across the field to the barn. When he slid down the snowbank, John stomped his feet to remove the snow that stuck to his boots and inside the cuffs of his green trousers. He circled the barn and entered it.

  As soon as he stepped out of the cold breeze into the calm of the farm building he noted the difference in the temperature that resulted from the loss of windchill. Without the sound of the blowing wind everything seemed deathly quiet. He was surprised to hear Amy Dowd talking to her nephew in a subdued voice. Whether or not the boy had answered he wasn’t sure as a gust of wind created a sudden cacophony of noise inside the barn. Air sought out cracks and openings in the wall and the building seemed to sway and moan. He was confused; minutes ago Amy had said that the boy was not in the stall, yet here he was—he must have been somewhere else in the barn. Still John couldn’t stop wondering how they’d missed him.

  “Dwain,” Amy said, “you’re scaring me.”

  When John walked up and stood beside her he heard Dwain say, “… trying to scare you, Aunt Amy.”

  John filled in the earlier part of the conversation and realized that Dwain was trying to ease her mind.

  “I just can’t stay in that house. It’s too hot.”

  The boy seemed to tense when he saw John step into view.

  “Hello, Dwain,” John said. “Do you remember me?”

  The boy’s eyes narrowed. “I know who you are. You want to kill him.”

  John stood his ground. “No, I want to help him—to make him stop killing people.”

  “He knows what you are. You’re an Indian and he doesn’t like you.”

  “That,” John countered, “is because he’s afraid.”

  Dwain looked defiant when he said, “He isn’t afraid of anyone or anything.”

  “Oh, yes he is,” John said. “He’s especially afraid of me because he knows that I know what he is—and he knows that I’m probably one of a handful of people who know how to stop him.”

  “That’s a lie! He’s a great being—a god!”

  John refused to react to the boy’s elevated voice. Rather than return aggression with aggression he kept his voice calm and under control as he said, “I agree with you: he is a god—an evil god.”

  Dwain seemed to disappear as he backed deeper into the shadow.

  _____________

  John and Amy stood on the porch in front of the main house. “What’s happening to him?” Amy asked.

  John had strong suspicions as to what was going on with Dwain but opted to keep them to himself until such time as he had definitive proof. “He’s just confused,” he said. “It helped him when his sled broke and he was afraid he’d freeze to death. He saw it fight Askook, who he is convinced was the real criminal—and now Dwain is dealing with a strong case of hero worship.”

  “You’re sure that’s all there is to it?”

  “I’m sure.” John stepped off the porch into a whirlwind of snow that raced across the yard, coating everything in its path, including him, with a fine dusting. “Try to get him to eat something and if you can’t coax him out of that barn take him a sleeping bag or some heavy blankets.”

  The door to the house banged open and Buster Dowd stood in the threshold. John immediately saw the pain in his features and heard the anger in his voice. “That goddamned boy out in the barn again?” His words were directed to Amy, but his eyes remained on John Bear.

  John was certain that Amy did not want to risk upsetting her brother any more than he already was and it didn’t surprise him when she turned, lowered her eyes, and nodded yes. She then darted past Buster and disappeared inside the house.

  Buster let her pass without any comment. He kept his gaze on John and said, “That stupid kid met him last night—didn’t he?”

  “It looks t
hat way, Buster. How are you doing?”

  “I been fuckin’ better. The doctor says I’ll be all right. Friggin’ piece of branch stuck me like a stake. It’ll probably take the rest of the winter and most of the spring, but I should heal up okay.” He pointed toward the barn. “What’s goin’ on with him?”

  “I’m not sure. You might want to get him some counseling.”

  “Counseling? What for? That son of a bitch do something weird to him?”

  “No, nothing like that. But there are times when a kidnapping victim starts to identify with and bond to his or her kidnapper—shrinks call it Stockholm syndrome, look it up.”

  “That’s the craziest fuckin’ shit I ever heard!” Dowd’s voice rose and he began coughing. He doubled over and appeared to lose his balance.

  John bounded up the steps and reached him at the same time that a pair of massive arms encompassed him. John saw Earl Dowd’s face over his son’s shoulder. “I got him, John,” Earl said.

  “Let me help you.” John grabbed hold of Buster and helped Earl move him inside. They laid him on a couch in front of a blazing fireplace, the flames so high that their tops were not visible within the hearth. Once Buster was down, John turned and shut the door.

  “Ain’t good for him to get riled up,” Earl said.

  Amy rushed into the room, saw that Buster had lapsed into a state of unconsciousness and said, “Oh my God, what happened.” She cast an accusatory look at John. “You should know better than to upset him.”

  “Amy,” Earl said, “shut up and go get a blanket and cover him up.”

  Her face reddened and she spun around and ran up the stairs to the second floor.

  Earl motioned for John to follow him into the kitchen. Once they were there, he closed the door, turned, and said, “You want coffee?”

  “Sure—black.”

  “Good, that’s the only way I know how to serve it.” Earl grabbed two ceramic mugs from the cupboard and poured them full of coffee from the pot that sat on the woodstove.

  John carefully sipped the near-boiling beverage and said, “Strong, but damned good.”

  Earl Dowd gave him a piercing look and said, “John, what the fuck is happening to my family?”

  “Earl, I told you what we’re dealing with. This thing has powers that are beyond belief—do you know that it doesn’t actually kill its victims? Most of them die of fright before it devours them. All I can say is that I’m trying as hard as I can to bring it down.”

  “I heard Buster when he said that Dwain went off to meet with him last night. I’ll tell you this, I’m lockin’ that kid in his room at night. If I see that crazy bastard anywhere close to here, I’m gonna kill him.”

  If he doesn’t kill all of you first, John thought.

  40

  Lyndon Station

  John Bear sat at the bar in Del’s Place. He and Murphy were in civilian clothes, with half-consumed beers on the bar in front of them. “Do you realize that we’ve been working this case for over three weeks now?” Murphy commented.

  “I’ve worked longer ones,” John replied. “But never one that frustrated me like this one. We know what the perp is, but we don’t know where it is.”

  “Do you think someone out there is helping it?” Murphy asked.

  John raised his glass to his lips, took a drink of beer, and said, “I don’t think it needs help. Like a male bear lived up there in Viverette Settlement alone and survived. It’s like the coyote in Indian folklore, it’s a trickster. We know it’s out there but it always seems to be one or two steps ahead of us.”

  “Maybe,” Murphy said, “we should go after it like we would a coyote?”

  John’s brow furled and he grew pensive. Maybe Murphy was on to something? How did one hunt the elusive coyote? You bait them, and I know just what to use.

  When John finished off his beer and stood, Murphy said, “What I do—say something stupid?”

  “No, Murph. The opposite, you just told me how we may be able to get him.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup. See you around, I got some things to do.”

  John walked out into the night air. The ice on the parking lot surface crunched beneath his feet as he approached his truck. Suddenly the hair on the nape of his neck stood up and he felt as if he were being watched. He stood beside his truck, key poised before the lock, and slowly searched the area as much as he could without moving his head enough to be seen doing so. He paid particular interest to the trees across the road from the parking lot and thought he detected a form standing there. He unlocked the door, opened it, and reached across the seat for his service pistol. He felt an immediate feeling of relief as his hand tightened on the handle of the familiar weapon. He straightened up and turned to face the dark shape he’d seen. It was gone.

  He heard a door open and spun toward it. Murphy stood in front of the door to Del’s Place, his hands raised to his shoulders. “Whoa, John! It’s me … Murphy.”

  John lowered the handgun and said, “Someone or something was in the trees over there. I’m going to check it out.”

  “Hold on, I’ll grab my piece and join you.”

  John waited for several moments and when Murphy joined him holding his nine-millimeter service pistol in his right hand and a Maglite in the left, they crossed the road and headed toward the place where John believed he had seen the stalker.

  They scaled the snowbank and slid into the four-foot-deep snow on the backside. Murphy took the lead and shined his flashlight into the trees as he broke trail. “Where did you see it?” he asked John.

  “That fir to your right. It was under the branches.”

  As they pushed their way beyond the deeper snow that had been piling up over the past three months, John felt his legs straining. “You know,” he said, “this is the second time today I’ve done this.”

  “Really, where else did you do it?”

  “Dowd Settlement.”

  “Dwain acting up again? Hell, you just chased that kid halfway to Mount Katahdin.”

  The snow depth decreased and was only eighteen to twenty-four inches deep and Murphy shined the light into the tree line. “Got something,” he said.

  When John reached Murphy’s side, the senior warden was breathing hard from the effort required to wade across the twenty or so feet between the roadside snowbank and the woods. He looked at the area that Murphy was illuminating and saw the gigantic footprints. There was a smell of putrid meat in the air.

  “Do you smell it?” Murphy asked.

  “That seals it,” John said. “There’s not a doubt in my mind—the fucker’s back.”

  Murphy used the flashlight’s beam to follow the tracks as they disappeared deeper into the trees and snow-laden bushes. “We going to follow him?”

  John’s breath sent steam spiraling into the freezing night air when he said, “Be a waste of time and energy. It can travel one helluvalot faster than we can. It could be in Piscataquis County in a few hours.”

  Murphy turned his head, studied John’s face for a second, and then said, “Why do I get this feeling that you aren’t joking?”

  “I’ve tracked it through the woods. It ain’t human the way it can move through the snow.”

  _____________

  Larry Murphy switched off the television as soon as the late-night news finished. He didn’t like the weather forecast, which was snow for the next two days and then more snow for the days after that. February usually had the third-highest average snowfall in Lyndon, however there was only a three-inch difference between it and January, which was the snowiest month with an average 25.2 inches. Normally the local news from Presque Isle was of little interest to him, but the station’s meteorologist was more accurate than many Murphy had seen, especially when it came to forecasting winter storms. Of late, however, he’d developed a great deal of interest in the Aroostook County news.

  Murphy adjusted the auger feed on the pellet stove that provided all the heat he needed in the two-room cab
in and walked into his bedroom. He rolled into bed, read a book for a half hour, and then turned off the light. In minutes, he was asleep.

  _____________

  The smell of a decaying body was so strong that it woke Larry Murphy up. He glanced at the digital clock on his nightstand and then laid quiet, listening for whatever had aroused him. He heard the wind gust and he looked out the window. Murphy always slept with his blinds open, allowing ambient light to illuminate the room. He watched a gust of wind push snow across the hard crust layer that had formed after the brief warming period known as the January thaw. The building creaked as it stood firm against the wind. Snow was falling and it was evident that it was going to accumulate—he recalled the late-night weather forecast, which had called for eighteen to twenty inches of new powder.

  He laid back and closed his eyes. Just as he was about to fall asleep there was a soft rattle at his front door, as if someone was trying the knob to see if it was locked. Murphy’s holster, containing his service pistol, was draped across the wooden chair that sat in the corner at the foot of his bed, and he got up and took out the pistol. He checked the load as he softly crept out of the bedroom. He stopped beside the door, holding the pistol in both hands and pointed toward the ceiling. Slowly, so he wouldn’t alarm whoever was on the other side, Murphy unlocked the door and waited for the intruder to try it again. The smell of rot was so strong that he thought his stomach would void.

  The wind gusted, rattling the door, but there was no attempt to open it from the outside. Cautiously, Murphy turned the knob and another gust of wind blew the door inward. Murphy spun around, stepping into the threshold and aimed his nine-millimeter pistol outward. There was no one in sight. Murphy stepped to one side and visually searched the right side of the entrance—seeing no one, he stepped across the doorway so he could see the opposite side and repeated his search. He turned his attention to the ground and saw the giant footprints filling with wind-blown snow. He inhaled and realized that the rotted corpse smell had diminished to a mere trace, which the wind carried away.