CHAPTER ONE
The Killing Ground
The night was heavy, the sky choked with black clouds, hiding the moon. In the distance, the low hum of winter whipped through the trees. It carried with it the scent of burning wood and blood.
Sergeant Ethan Granger led his men in silence. Corporal Robert Henry, Granger’s second in command, walked beside him. Their silent bond a beacon in the frozen wilderness. Their boots crunched against the frost-laden ground as they approached the Native American village. A bitter cold cut through the valley but the men hardly noticed. Their hearts were hardened by years of bloodshed. Now, they were far from the battlefields of the Civil War, but the violence had followed them westward like a shadow.
The small unit of soldiers, barely enough to make a single steadfast line, marched in somber unison. Their breath formed ghostly clouds in the crisp mountain air as they descended through the mountains. The towering peaks loomed like silent sentinels, their jagged edges casting ominous shadows onto the ground. Snow clung stubbornly to the rocks, and the men, weary from the days of relentless traveling, tightened their grip on their rifles. The fort lay ahead, through the wilderness, a bastion of stone in the cliffs. Each step brought them closer to their destination.
They halted in the thick snow and gathered in a small circle. Crouching low they silently shed their packs. Each man, carefully left behind their most valued possessions, blankets, canteens, tents and trinkets lay scattered in the snow. They left everything except their rifles and their torches. With grim determination they prepared to press forward.
Granger gave the signal. His voice was as cold as the wind.
“Burn it all.”
In an instant, flames erupted from torches as the soldiers descended on the unsuspecting village. The peaceful hum of the night was shattered by screams. There were cries of confusion, pain and terror. Women and children ran from their homes, only to be cut down by the soldier’s bayonets. Men stumbled out in a futile attempt to defend their families. Only to be shot dead where they stood. Gunfire cracked through the night like a twisted rhythm, echoing through the valley.
Granger watched, his face expressionless as the village fell. He’d been a soldier long enough to bury his conscience under the weight of duty. His men tore through homes, taking anything of value. Jewelry, trinkets and food all made their way into bags before they set each wooden structure alight. The flames rose into the night sky and stained the snow with a fiery, orange glow.
Corporal Jacob Thorne, one of Granger’s closest men, laughed bitterly as he tossed a clay pot onto the fire. “Ain’t much left to take,” he spat, glancing at Granger. “These savages live like animals.”
Granger said nothing, staring at the lifeless bodies that now littered the snow. For a moment, something twisted in his gut, an unease he hadn’t felt since the battlefield. But it passed as quickly as it came, buried beneath years of violence. He turned away.
At the far end of the village, an old man stood alone. His weathered face barely visible in the flickering firelight. His skin was darkened by age, his eyes hollow. Yet, behind the aged eyes there burned an ancient fire. In his gnarled hands he held a bundle of dried herbs. They were smoldering at the tips. A whisper escaped his lips, low and rhythmic. It was carried on the wind as if it was part of the blowing smoke.
“Sergeant,” Thorne called out, pointing at the man. “What the hell is he doing?” The Sergeant started over toward him.
Granger approached the old man, his boots sinking into the blood stained snow. He raised his rifle, the barrel aimed at the elder. “What are you mumbling, old man?” Granger asked, his voice sharp.
The shaman didn’t stop. Instead, his chants grew louder. His eyes were fixed on Granger’s unblinking. It was as if the shaman could see through him. He looked past the gun, past the violence, past the uniform and into his very soul. The cold seemed to deepen, as though the wind had turned against the soldiers.
One of the younger privates, Hale, went to grab the elder. “Shut him up,” Granger ordered. His fingers tightened around his rifle.
But before Hale could reach him, the shaman’s chant turned into a wail. It was a howl so raw, so filled with hatred, that it froze everybody in place. The wind rose violently and swirled around the old man, it lifted the embers of the flames to the sky. The snow beneath him began to shift. The white ground darkened as if something beneath the earth stirred, awakened by the elder’s words.
The shaman’s eyes locked on Granger. He raised his arms to the heavens. His voice cracked with age and fury. “You take from the land and now the land will take from you. You consume the spirit of the earth, now you will know hunger.” He paused. “Hunger that will devour your flesh and your soul. The Wendigo comes for you, Granger.”
A gunshot split the air.
Granger stood with his rifle raised, smoke curling from the barrel. The old man fell to the ground, blood pooled against the stark white snow beneath him. His words faded on the wind but their weight lingered. They pressed down on Granger like an invisible hand squeezing his heart.
For a moment there was silence. The village was burning, the dead and the dying lay strewn across the snow. The soldiers stood among the carnage, panting from exertion. Their faces illuminated by the flickering flames of the fires.
“Clear out,” Granger ordered, his voice rough. “We’re done here.”
Thorne hesitated, staring at the fallen shaman and then to Granger. “What was that about, Sarge?” He shook his head. “What the hell is a Wendigo?”
Granger didn’t respond. He turned and walked away from the bodies. His boots were heavy with snow and blood. He told himself it was just another necessary death, yet the shaman’s final words echoed in his mind. He felt a creeping sense that he couldn’t shake.
But deep in the woods something moved. The wind had changed, carrying with it the scent of rotting flesh and ancient hunger.
The stench of putrid decay drifted on the icy wind, thick and nauseating. It was like meat left out to fester in the heat of summer. It clawed its way into the soldier’s noses, bitter and suffocating. It made bile rise in the back of their throats. The rank odor was unnatural, as though the earth itself had begun to decay under their feet.
And somewhere far off, a howl rose into the night. It was low, guttural and feral. It pierced the stillness of the night, a sound too low and too deep to be human. Yet, it felt very familiar and very human. It carried an eerie resonance, like a mixture of wind, hunger and suffering. It was as if every soul lost in the massacre had fused into one primal wail. A warning of something far worse lurking in the woods.
CHAPTER 2
The Curse Awakens
Granger stood by the dying fire, he stared out into the dark woods that surrounded their camp. The men were quiet now, some lying down to sleep, others lingering near the low, flickering flames. They were all still uneasy from the raid. His mind, however, was restless. The wind felt sharper than usual, slicing through his coat and with it came that putrid smell of rotting flesh.
He had tried to shake the feeling that something was wrong since they left the village but it clung to him like a shadow. The old man’s voice, his wild chanting. It kept replaying in his mind. Every time that Granger thought he had pushed the thought far enough away, it would come screaming back, stronger and more twisted.
Granger’s voice cut through the cold, as he turned to his men. His face was grim. “Three men, I need three men to keep watch. We will guard in two hour shifts. No matter what, keep watch.”
That night when he finally drifted to sleep, his dreams were more vivid than ever before.
In the dream, Granger wandered through a dense forest. The trees towered over him like skeletal sentinels. The air was thick with the scent of decay. The ground beneath his feet was soft, like flesh, oozing with each step.
There was a figure in the distance. It was a man bent low to the ground, his hands tore at something in the snow. Granger moved closer, his heart pounding against his ribs. His feet felt heavy as though something beneath the earth was pulling him down. As he neared the figure, the stench of blood filled his nostrils. The man was hunched over a body, its limbs twisted at grotesque angles. Granger’s breath caught in his throat as he realized the figure was tearing chunks of flesh from a corpse. Blood spattered across the snow, bright red against the pale white. His teeth gnashed, wet and sloppy, grinding bones and sinew with sickening crunches. He devoured them with a feral hunger. Blood smeared the man’s face and the wet sound of chewing filled the air. Between bites, he let out grunts, like a starving beast finally sated but never satisfied. As Granger stared, his bloodstained lips curled into a twisted grin before turning back to his meal.
Granger froze, his body trembled as the figure slowly turned again to look at him. The face staring back at him was his own. It was twisted, hollow with eyes like black voids. His dream-self grinned, blood dripping from his teeth, and let out a low, primal growl. The hunger…it consumed him.
Suddenly, the trees around him began to writhe and shift. Their branches reached down like skeletal fingers. They wrapped around his arms, his legs and dragged him down into the earth. As he was swallowed by the ground, he heard the same howl from the night before. It was a long, hungry wail that echoed through the woods, chilling him to the core.
Granger woke with a jolt, his chest heaving. He was covered in sweat despite the cold. His hands trembled as he wiped his face, only to stop when he saw blood smeared across his fingers. His heart raced. He looked down in a panic, but there was nothing. Just his own hands, pale and shaking. He shook his head, trying to dismiss the nightmare. But the metallic taste of blood lingered on his tongue. He spat into the snow. He hoped it would pass but the unease wouldn’t leave him. Something was wrong. Something deep, primal and hungry was gnawing at him.
As dawn broke, a dull, gray light filtered through the heavy clouds, casting a bleak glow over the camp. The men stirred slowly, their movement sluggish from the bitter cold and what they had done. Boots crunched in the snow as they shuffled toward the dying embers of the campfire. They rubbed their hands together and mumbled curses about the biting wind. The smell of smoke and damp earth mixed with the stale scent of sweat and blood that still clung to their clothes swirled around them. Granger watched from the edge of the camp, his eyes heavy with fatigue. He noticed how none of the men spoke of the raid. Their faces were hard, eyes distant, but the silence carried an unspoken truth. They had all felt it. The wind, the howl, the sense that something was watching them. Something that didn’t belong in the natural world lurked in the darkened forest.
Granger kept his distance. His thoughts were darkened by the night’s vision. The old man’s words echoed in his mind, louder now and it clawed at his sanity. He felt hollow and disturbed, as if a piece of him had been stripped away by the dream. It left him a feeling of dread that chewed at his guts. It was a primal fear that what he had seen wasn’t just a nightmare, but a glimpse of what was coming for him.
“The Wendigo comes for you, Granger.” The words rolled through his mind as the old man’s dead face laughed.
The soldiers doused their fire and prepared to move, packing up their meager belongings and headed out into the forest for the day’s march.
CHAPTER 3
The Thirst Of The Damned
The first sign that something was wrong came with Harlow.
It started innocently enough. He had been quiet during the march, more so than usual, but no one paid much attention to his silence. Harlow had always been the brooding type. He rarely spoke unless he had to. But as the day dragged on, Granger noticed something different in him. His face was pale, almost gaunt, and a fine sheen of sweat glistened on his brow despite the biting cold. His lips were cracked and dry, and he kept licking them, as though trying to moisten them.
By nightfall he had become desperate.
When they stopped to make camp, the men moved in practiced silence. They gathered around the fire as it crackled to life. The flickering flames offered brief comfort against the creeping darkness that settled over the forest. Snow crunched under foot as they went about their tasks. They set up makeshift tents, checked rifles, and tended to sore feet. Harlow volunteered to fill the canteens from the nearby stream, his voice strained and hollow. Granger didn’t think much of it at first, it was only water.
But as the minutes dragged on, an uneasy feeling gnawed at Granger’s gut. The other men had begun to notice his absence, muttering amongst themselves and casting weary glances toward the treeline. The woods beyond the camp were dense and dark, each shadow seeming to stretch out like grasping fingers. Harlow had been gone far too long.
“Where the hell is he?” Muttered Thorne as he tossed another log onto fire. Sparks flew into the air and swirled up into the starless sky. He looked at Granger, his frown creasing his brow. “Should’ve been back by now.”
Granger’s jaw tightened, something wasn’t right. He nodded curtly, grabbing his rifle. “Stay here. I’ll find him.”
The cold bit deeper as Granger moved toward the stream. His boots crunched lightly through the snow. The forest seemed to close in around him. The trees packed tight like emaciated guardians. Their branches overhead blotted out what little moonlight remained. He picked his way carefully through the undergrowth, the distant murmur of water guided him.
He found Harlow kneeling at the water’s edge. He was hunched as if in prayer. His silhouette shivered in the moonlight.
“Harlow,” Granger called. His voice was low but firm.
The man didn’t respond. He was crouched awkwardly, head bent so low it was almost touching the stream. His shoulders twitched with every strained, shallow breath. In one hand he clutched a canteen, but the other was submerged in the frigid water. He was scooping water up and pouring it into his mouth in desperate, greedy gulps. Granger could hear the frantic splashing and saw how the man’s arms shook violently, like a rabid animal struggling against its own body.
Granger stepped closer, unease prickled at the back of his neck. “Harlow, what the hell are you doing?”
But Harlow didn’t react. He kept digging his hands into the stream, over and over. He was shoving icy water past his chapped lips, gulping it down in ragged, choked breaths. His canteen lay forgotten in the snow beside him, half-full and abandoned.
Granger crouched beside him. He gripped Harlow’s shoulder and shook it hard. “Snap out of it!”
The man jerked violently, twisting away as if Granger’s touch burned. His eyes were wild, darting between Granger and the stream. They were wide and glassy, pupils dilated with feverish desperation. Up close, Granger could see the way his face had gone pale and sunken, as though the flesh had been sucked tight across his skull. His tongue lolled out of his mouth, swollen and cracked. He had flecks of ice hanging from his beard.
“I…I…can’t…” Harlow’s voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. He turned back to the water and began scooping it up. He shoved it into his mouth with trembling hands. “I’m so…thirsty…I need…more…need…more…need…”
“You’ll freeze to death!” Granger interrupted. He tried to yank him back from the stream but Harlow fought him. His strength was unnatural, fueled by whatever madness had seized him. He dipped his head forward, plunging his whole face into the icy water. He was drinking and drinking. His throat bobbed with each frantic gulp. Granger felt a chill run through him. The chill was colder than the snow and colder than the biting wind. This wasn’t just thirst. This was something else, something far darker. Something inside of Harlow was pulling him, driving him to keep drinking. Even to drown himself if he had to.
“Harlow, stop!” Granger shouted, gripping him by his shoulders and wrenching him back,
The man gasped, sputtering, his face ghostly pale in the moonlight. For a moment, he stared at Granger, his eyes wide with a look of pure, unrelenting fear. Then, he let out a dry, hollow sob, his lips trembled.
“I can’t…” Harlow choked. He clutched his throat like he was trying to tear it open. “It’s…it’s burning inside me. No matter how much I drink…oh God…it’s…it’s burning me up!”
Granger’s grip tightened on his rifle, his pulse hammered in his ears. He hauled Harlow to his feet. He dragged him away from the stream but Harlow stumbled and collapsed, his legs giving out from underneath him. He lay there, panting, and convulsing like some unseen fire was consuming him from the inside out.
“Help me,” he whimpered. His voice was breaking. “Please, sarge…it hurts. I need more! I NEED MORE!”
In the dark, the wind seemed to whisper through the trees. It carried the faintest echo of that same haunting wail he’d heard before. It was the howl of something hungry.
Granger crouched beside Harlow, watching helplessly as the man shuddered and convulsed. His skin, already pale, had begun to take on an eerie gray hue. It pulled taut over the bones in his face. His lips cracked, peeling away like dried leather. Harlow’s eyes were wide, filled with terror, darting around him as if he were drowning in the air around him.
“Please…make it stop.” Harlow whimpered, his voice barely audible, rasping like the wind through dead branches.
Granger could do nothing but watch in horror. The man before him seemed to be shrinking, collapsing in on himself. Harlow’s cheeks hollowed, the flesh sinking deep within his skull. His hands clawed at his throat, skin splitting like it was paper, revealing dry, withered muscle underneath.
Then came the smell. It was sweet and sickening, like rotting fruit left out too long. Granger’s stomach churned. It was the unmistakable scent of death, but this…this was unnatural. This was decay accelerated, flesh dying and crumbling to dust before his eyes. The moisture was draining from Harlow’s body as if he were being consumed by some unseen fire.
Harlow let out one last pitiful groan. His body seized. His back arched as his hand fell limp to his sides. His eyes, now dull and lifeless, stared up at Granger, unblinking. The last traces of moisture evaporated from his body. His skin, once soft and pliable, had become like parchment – thin, brittle and gray.
Granger stood frozen, his rifle gripped in his white knuckled hand. His mind was unable to comprehend the horror that had just unfolded. He stared down at what was left of Harlow. He was no longer a man but a husk, a shriveled shell that looked more like a mummified corpse than a soldier. The wind howled through the trees, and the cold, biting air carried with it a deep, gnawing silence. For a long moment, Granger couldn’t move. The only sound was the faint trickle of the stream beside him. It was as if it was mocking the thirst that had driven Harlow to his end.
His hands trembled as he knelt beside the corpse. There was no time for a burial, no ceremony or prayer for the dead. Not here. Not after what he had seen. Granger grabbed Harlow’s remains by the shoulders. His finger sank into the dry, papery skin. The body was disturbingly light, as though all life had been sucked out of it, leaving only the fragile shell of what was once a man.
With a grunt, he dragged Harlow’s body to the edge of the stream. His dried out limbs scraped over the snow like dead branches. Without a word, he pushed the husk into the water and watched as the current took it away. The corpse bobbed for a moment before it was swept downstream, disappearing into the night.
CHAPTER 4
Hunger Of The Damned
Granger returned to camp, the weight of the canteens slung over his shoulder felt like a burden far heavier than water. The smell of smoke from the fire greeted him but it offered little warmth. The memory of Harlow’s shriveled corpse still clung to his mind, picking at the edges of his sanity. He had shoved the husk of a man into the stream, watched as it disappeared into the dark waters, yet the image refused to leave him.
As he approached the campfire, the glow of the flames cast flickering shadows on the faces of his men. They sat in small groups, Their eyes were dull and listless. The weight of his forsaken journey to the stream sapped Granger’s energy. The cold was biting and the silence between them felt wrong, too deep, too thick. Only the crackle of the fire and the occasional shuffle of boots broke the silence.
Granger threw the canteens near the fire with a grunt, but none of the men made a move for them. Carter and Thorne exchanged weary glances. He looked around, catching Sullivan’s return from the hunt. A large deer law sprawled at his feet, its dark, glassy eyes staring blankly into the sky. The others turned to look at it, their attention shifting to the promise of food after days of meager rations.
Sullivan knelt beside the animal, his knife flashing in the firelight as he began to gut it. Blood poured from the open wound, steaming in the freezing air as it soaked into the snow. The smell of iron hit Granger’s nose and he fought back a wave of nausea. His mind drifted back to Harlow. He sat down on a log next to the fire watching Sullivan work. He was trying to shake the images in his head. But then, something caught his attention. It was Lynch. The man stood too close, his eyes fixed on the blood pooling under and around the deer carcass. An unsettling hunger twisted his expression.
Granger frowned. Lynch had always been quiet and kept to himself. But there was something different now. His breath came in shallow gasps, and his eyes never left the blood. The rest of the men hadn’t noticed, busy with their own thoughts, but Granger felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold.
“Lynch, step back.” Granger commanded, unease creeping into his voice.
But Lynch didn’t move. His hands trembled as he reached out. He dipped them into the fresh blood that flowed from the deer’s belly. He smeared it across his face. His expression was slack like a man in a trance.
“Lynch!” Granger’s voice sharpened, but it was too late.
Lynch scooped up a handful of blood and brought it to his lips, gulping it down with a grotesque desperation. The crimson liquid dripped down his chin, staining his uniform as he hunched over the carcass. His breath was ragged. Granger watched in horror as Lynch plunged his hands into the gutted animal. He pulled out entrails and stuffed them into his mouth.
The camp fell silent. The other men stared, backing away in disgust but none of them moved toward Lynch. Lynch devoured the organs with a savage hunger. His teeth gnashed through the tissue. The sound of wet, slurping chewing filled the stillness.
Granger’s stomach churned. Bile rose in his throat. “What in God’s name?”
Lynch let out a low, guttural moan. His body convulsed as he tore into the flesh with a renewed vigor. He was completely consumed by his insatiable hunger.
Lynch’s frenzied eating slowed for a moment, his blood soaked face lifted to the sky. His chest heaved. His eyes, once hollow, were now wide with a wildness Granger had never seen before. The firelight danced off of his blood-slicked skin. Then, without warning, Lynch let out a low, primal growl that sent shiver’s down Granger’s spine. Before anyone could react, Lynch stood. He ripped at his uniform with shaking hands. Buttons scattered across the snow, and his shirt came apart, revealing his bare, dirt-smeared chest. His breathing was ragged. His body twitched, barely able to contain the energy. His eyes flickered to the moon, bright and full above them, bathing the clearing in an eerie, cold light.
“Lynch! Stop this madness!” Granger shouted, stepping forward, but his words felt small in the face of what was happening. Thorne and Henry stood frozen with slack jawed confusion.
Lynch tilted his head back, barring his teeth. He released an ear piercing, guttural howl that echoed through the trees. The sound was unnatural, it was a cross between a human’s scream and an animal’s cry. Lynch looked monstrous. His dirty, blood-caked hands trembling as streaks of maroon guts clung to his bare chest. The dark stains glistened in the firelight. Blood and gore clung to his chin and dripped down his throat like a disgusting feast. His eyes were wide and feral, lost to whatever had overtaken him. The men around the fire shrank back, fear etched into their faces as Lynch’s voice was carried into the dark, endless night.
Then, without warning, Lynch dropped to the ground. His hands and feet hitting the snow with a sickening thud. His body contorted, his limbs splaying out in a bizarre, inhuman fashion. Granger’s breath caught in his throat as Lynch scuttled forward on all fours. His movements were jerky and perverse, like a spider or some kind of nightmarish beast. His hands clawed at the snow, leaving streaks of red in his wake as he moved. He moved faster than anyone could have anticipated.
“He’s gone mad,” Henry whispered.
Granger stood frozen, watching in horrified fascination as Lynch bounded toward the edge of the camp. His body was lurching and shifting like some kind of animal in the throes of some primal, savage instinct. His breath came in harsh, rasping bursts. His fingers dug into the snow with each leap.
Just as Lynch reached the tree line, he paused, crouching low on his haunches like a predator ready to strike. His eyes flicked back to the camp, before he let out another bone-chilling howl. With the last glance of the men, his body twisted in a blur. He scuttled into the trees, disappearing into the shadows.
For a moment, the camp was deathly silent. The only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the soft rustling of wind through the trees. Granger stood, his heart pounding in his chest. He stared at the spot where Lynch had disappeared.
Thorne cast a wary glance at Carter, his voice low and tense. “If Granger can’t keep his head straight, we’re all walking into Hell without a map.”
Carter nodded grimly, his grip tightening on his rifle. “We’ve followed him before, but this time…I’m not sure if he is the man to get us through this and to the fort.”
“Lynch!” Granger called out weakly, knowing there would be no answer.
The only response was the distant sound of that haunting howl, fading into the night.
CHAPTER 5
Shadows Of Madness
The camp was eerily quiet after Lynch’s disappearance, the fire crackled softy as the remaining men huddled together. Their faces were pale and their eyes wide with fear. Granger sat apart from them, his back against a tree. He stared into the flames as if the answer to this insanity might be hidden in the flickering embers. He couldn’t shake the image of Lynch, covered in blood, running off into the darkness like some wild beast.
No one spoke. Even the wind seemed to avoid their camp, leaving only the hollow echo of their collective breaths. Granger’s canteen sat untouched at his feet, the water inside sloshing with every movement. He hadn’t felt thirst since Harlow had been found by the stream. His body was drained like an empty wineskin. The memory of his men, one dead and one lost to madness, picked at the edge of his mind.
Carter, Thorne, Sullivan and Henry huddled close to the crackling fire. Their shadows flickered like specters on the snow laden ground. The flames danced in their wide, weary eyes. Their faces were etched with lines of concern and fear that no warmth could chase away.
“Sarge,” Sullivan’s voice broke the silence. It was rough and uncertain. “What are we going to do?”
Granger didn’t answer right away. He felt something dark growing inside of him, an inexplicable heaviness pressing down on his chest. Everytime he closed his eyes, he saw Lynch’s blood soaked hands and Harlow’s dried corpse. The forest around them no longer felt like a place they could escape. It felt like a trap.
“We keep moving,” Granger said finally. His voice was hollow. “There’s no sense in staying here. The faster we get out of these cursed woods and to the fort, the better.”
The men nodded in silence, but the looks they exchanged were uneasy. Granger knew that they were thinking that something had come for them. And it wouldn’t let them go.
As dawn crept across the sky, pale and cold, the men began to gather their belongings. The morning brought no comfort, only the sense that they had survived another night, but nothing more. They moved sluggishly, packing their gear in a daze, avoiding each other’s eyes. As if acknowledging the fear in one another would make it far too real to bear.
Granger kept to himself, his hand constantly drifting toward his rifle. His grip tightened every time a twig snapped or the wind stirred the trees. He had never been a superstitious man, but he couldn’t ignore the signs. Harlow’s death, Lynch’s grotesque transformation and the weight of something unspoken hanging over all of them. The land felt wrong, cursed in ways he couldn’t explain.
Just as they were ready to break camp, Harper, one of the younger men, stepped away from the group. Granger watched him out of the corner of his eye. Harper had been quiet since they left the village. But now there was something about the way he moved. He was hesitant, like some invisible force was pulling him away from the others.
“Harper, where you going?” Sullivan called out, but Harper didn’t respond. He was headed towards the stream. His steps were slow and deliberate. His gaze was fixed on the water as if in some kind of trance.
Granger felt his stomach knot. “Harper!” He called out. But Harper didn’t respond. The young soldier didn’t look back. Granger exchanged a glance with Sullivan before following after him. Granger’s pulse quickened with a sickening dread.
When he reached the bank, Harper was kneeling in the shallow water cupping his hands and drinking greedily. His lips were cracked. His skin was pale. His hands shook with the effort but he didn’t stop scooping the water into his mouth like a man dying of thirst. The sun reflected off the rippling water, but its light did nothing to soften the unsettling, nightmarish sight.
“Harper stop!” Granger commanded, moving closer. But the Private gave no response.
Harper kept drinking, the water spilling down his chin. His eyes were dull and glassy. Granger reached out, grabbing the boy’s shoulder. The moment his hand touched Harper the young man recoiled violently, his body convulsing as he fell into the stream, gasping and choking like he couldn’t breathe. His skin, already pale, turned a sickly gray. His veins darkened beneath the surface.
Granger stumbled back, horror gripping his chest. He watched helplessly as Harper’s body began to wither before his eyes. The moisture drained from him just like Harlow. His skin cracked and shriveled, pulling tight across his bones as his eyes sank deeper into their sockets. His mouth hung open in a silent scream, and within minutes Harper was nothing more than a dried husk. He lay motionless in the stream’s bed.
The sound of rushing water filled Granger’s ears, but it felt distant, muffled by the growing terror inside of him. Without thinking, he knelt and shoved Harper’s desiccated body into the current, watching as it was swept away. His body disappeared like a leaf caught in the stream. Granger’s throat tightened, the curse was spreading. It was taking his men one by one. He knew it wouldn’t stop until all of his men were gone.
Granger’s pulse was still racing as he stood over the water, staring at the spot where Harper’s body had once been. The wind howled through the trees, a cold, biting sound that seemed to whisper from every direction. He wiped the sweat from his brow, despite the winter air and turned to head back to the camp. The others needed to know what had happened. They needed to know that whatever curse they’d brought upon themselves was far from finished with them.
Just as he took his first step back, the sharp crack of a gunshot rang out.
Granger froze. His heart pounded in his chest. A second shot followed, then a third. The gunfire was coming from the camp. His gut twisted as a thought ran through his head, another man had gone mad. He bolted for the camp. As he neared the clearing, more shots pierced the air, followed by frantic shouting. Bursting through the trees, Granger was met with a scene of chaos.
Two bodies lay sprawled near the fire, blood soaking the snow around them. Sullivan stood over them, a rifle trembling in his hands. Across from him, another soldier, Reese, naked in the biting cold, held a smoking pistol. His eyes were wide with a savage, unholy madness. He looked insane, breathing heavily, forgetting about the handgun he was holding. He stood frozen, naked, sweating in the freezing wind.
“I…I had to shoot them.” Sullivan stammered, stepping back as Reese turned his gaze on him. He stared at Sullivan with murderous intent in his eyes.“Reese was going crazy and they were helping him.”
Reese let out a primal growl and raised his pistol again, his arm shaking violently. Without a word, he pulled the trigger. The shot went wide, but it was enough to make Sullivan dive for cover behind a tree.
Granger knew he had no choice. He leveled his rifle at Reese. His hands were steady despite the terror clawing at him.
“Reese!” He shouted. But there was no response. Reese took a step forward, still grinning. His body twitched in a macabre mimicry of life.
Granger didn’t hesitate. He pulled the trigger.
The shot hit Reese square in the chest. The impact sent him staggering back. For a moment, Reese just stood there, swaying. It was as if he hadn’t felt the bullet. Then his eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed, face first into the snow with a sickening, muffled thud. His blood spread out in a dark pool beneath him.
Granger stood over him, his rifle still raised. His breath came in shallow gasps. Around him the camp was deathly silent. Only the crackle of the fire and the distant howl of the wind filled the air. Granger couldn’t shake the feeling that something else, something far worse, was watching from the shadows.
He lowered his rifle slowly. His eyes scanned the treeline for any sign of movement. But there was nothing. Only the cold and the growing fear gnawing at his soul.
Sullivan crawled out from behind a tree. His face was pale and drawn. “What the hell is happening to us, Granger?” He asked, his voice shaking.
Granger didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The truth was, he didn’t know how to stop it. All he knew was that this curse was consuming them, one by one, and there was no telling who would be next.
CHAPTER 6
The Quiet Dread
The forest had never been this quiet before. As Granger and his remaining men trudged through the snow, the only sounds were the crunch of their boots and the soft whispers of the wind weaving through the trees. The usual chatter of camp talk had died away. The faces of the men were gaunt and exhausted. But it wasn’t the physical strain of the march that weighed them down, it was something much worse.
Granger walked in front, his rifle slung over his shoulder. Henry at the rear. Granger’s eyes constantly scanned the woods around them. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was out there, something coming for him. Watching. Stalking. Every creak of the trees, every gust of wind seemed to carry the shadow of something monstrous lurking just beyond sight. His heart raced in his chest, an uneasy tension that nibbled at his nerves.
He hadn’t felt like this in years. Battle had hardened him, turned him into a man of steel, unshakable in the face of danger. His men had always looked to him for leadership and guidance, for the calm in the storm, but today, today was different. He was jumpy. His soldiers could see it. He caught Sullivan giving him nervous glances more than once, his mouth twitching as if he had something to say but didn’t dare.
The uneventful hours dragged on. When the sun began to sink behind the treeline, casting long shadows over the white ground, Granger gave the command to stop. They found a clearing between two large hills, sheltered enough to offer some protection from the wind.
The men set up camp, quickly, eager to escape the biting cold. Tents were pitched, a fire was sparked and soon the flames crackled to life. It offered a weak but comforting light in the encroaching darkness. Granger sat apart from the others, staring into the fire. His mind was still haunted by the weight of Harper’s shriveled corpse and Reese’s maddened grin.
As the camp settled into an uneasy silence, Granger’s head grew heavy. The flames danced before his eyes, flickering and twisting until they blurred together. Soon he felt himself slipping into sleep.
That night the Wendigo came to him.
In the dream, Granger stood at the edge of a forest clearing. His body was frozen in place, unable to move. Before him, a small cabin nestled in the snow, smoke drifting up from its chimney. The warm glow of candlelight flickered from the window, casting long shadows across the frozen ground. Inside the cabin, he could see a faint outline of a family, a mother, father and two children, huddled together around the fire. Their faces were illuminated by the soft, orange light. For a moment, the scene was peaceful. But then, the wind howled, carrying with it the unmistakable stench of death.
From the shadows, it appeared.
The Wendigo, towering and skeletal, its body a twisted mass of gaunt flesh and jagged bone. Its eyes glowed with an unholy hunger, and its breath curled in the night air like smoke. Granger watched in horror as it descended upon the cabin. The door splintered with one single swipe of its clawed hand. The family barely had enough time to scream before the beast was upon them.
The Wendigo tore through them like paper. Its jaws snapped hungrily as it devoured flesh and bone. Blood splattered across the walls, and pooled on the floor in dark, gleaming puddles. The children’s cries were cut short as the beast’s sharp teeth sank into their bodies. The woman’s pleas for mercy landed on deaf ears.
Granger wanted to run, to move, to stop it but he was powerless.
He could hear the wet, sickening sounds of flesh tearing apart, of bones snapping like dead twigs. The smell of coppery blood filled the air, thick and suffocating. It mingled with the acrid stench of something far worse, the rot of death itself. The Wendigo’s jaws never stopped moving, tearing chunk’s of the woman’s flesh before tossing her lifeless body aside. Her eyes were frozen in terror.
The creature’s hunger was insatiable. Its bony fingers clawed at the remains of the children, dragging them closer as it gnawed on their little bodies. The father tried to fight back, swinging a poker at the beast’s head, but it was futile. The Wendigo moved too fast, its claws slashing across his chest and splitting him open from stomach to shoulder. Granger’s breath caught in his throat as the man’s blood sprayed out in a wide arc, splattering the walls and windows in dark red streaks. The father collapsed in a heap, his organs spilling out onto the floor. The Wendigo crouched down, licking its lips with sickening delight.
And then the creature paused.
Its head snapped up, and those cold, glowing eyes locked onto Granger. At that moment the Wendigo saw him. It knew he was there. It rose slowly, blood dripping from its mouth. A low growl rumbled in its throat. With unnatural speed, the creature lunged toward him. Its clawed hand outstretched and reached for Granger’s throat.
Just as the claws grazed his skin, Granger woke with a violent gasp. He bolted upright. His heart hammered in his chest. The world around him was still dark. The fire was burning low, casting long shadows across the blanket of snow. His hands were shaking and he was drenched in a cold sweat. He could feel his pulse thudding in his temples, each beat an agonizing reminder that he was alive.
The dream had felt so real, too real. He could still smell the blood and still hear the cries of the family as the Wendigo tore them apart. His throat was dry. His body trembled as he fought to steady his breathing. Granger wiped the sweat from his brow, running his hands through his hair. He tried to shake off the lingering feeling of dread that clung to him like a shroud.
The camp was quiet, unnervingly quiet. His men were sleeping, but something about the stillness gnawed at his nerves. Granger stood up slowly, his eyes scanning the shadows around the camp. The wind had picked up, howling through the trees. For a moment, he swore he saw something move just beyond the reach of the firelight. Something large. Something watching.
He shook his head, trying to clear the image from his mind. It was just a dream. That’s all it was. Just a dream. But deep down, Granger knew it was something more. The Wendigo wasn’t just a figment of his imagination. It was real, and it was out there. Somewhere. Watching. Waiting.
CHAPTER 7
The Hunt Begins
The first light of dawn was weak, barely cutting through the thick gray clouds that hung over the camp like a blanket. Granger was already awake sitting by the dying embers of the fire. His eyes were heavy with exhaustion. He hadn’t slept since the dream. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the Wendigo’s glowing gaze, the blood dripping from its mouth.
As the sun inched higher, casting a pale light over the snow-covered forest, Granger noticed something strange. The camp was too quiet. He counted the men that were wrapped in their blankets around the fire, two were missing.
“Sullivan,” Granger muttered, nudging the man awake with the toe of his boot. “Get up.”
Sullivan stirred, rubbing his eyes as he sat up. “What is it, Sarge?”
“Check the camp,” Granger ordered, his voice low. “We’re missing men.”
Sullivan glanced around, suddenly alert. He scrambled to his feet and quickly began checking the area. He was calling out the missing men’s names, Travis and Dunn but no response came. The rest of the soldiers were now stirring, pulling themselves up from the cold ground. They could sense that something was off.
Granger’s jaw clenched as his eyes swept over the empty patches of snow where the men had bedded down the night before. They had vanished without a sound.
“We’ll find them,” Sullivan said, though his voice lacked conviction. He motioned for the rest of the men to spread out and search the surrounding woods.
Thorne and Henry stayed with Granger trying to keep the remaining men calm.
It wasn’t too long before one of the search party, Rook, called out from the trees. “Over here, Sarge.”
Granger’s heart sank as he moved toward the sound of Rook’s voice, the others trailing behind. The crunch of the snow underfoot felt too loud in the silence of the early morning.
When they reached the clearing, Granger’s breath caught in his throat. There, huddled by the edge of the frozen stream was Travis, or what was left of him. His body lay sprawled in the snow, his throat torn open, his skin pale and bloodless. His ribs jutted out grotesquely, as if something had feasted on them. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Hunched over the body, his back to them, was Dunn. His hands and mouth were stained red, bits of flesh and sinew hung from his lips. He was eating Travis.
For a moment, the world stood still. No one moved. No one breathed.
Dunn looked up, his face a twisted mess of blood and madness. His eyes were wild, animalistic, like a beast caught in the throws of a frenzy. He let out a low growl, his lips curling back to reveal blood streaked teeth. Then he lunged forward, crawling on all fours toward them like a rabid animal. His hands were scrambling through the snow.
Granger reacted on instinct. “STOP!” He shouted, raising his rifle. But Dunn kept coming. His fingers dug into the ground. His eyes burned with hunger.
Granger fired.
The shot echoed through the trees, ringing out like a crack of thunder. Dunn’s body jerked violently as the bullet tore through his chest. He crumpled to the ground. Blood oozed from the wound, steaming against the cold snow. For a long moment nobody moved. The only sound was the wind, whispering through the trees.
Granger stood there, breathing heavily. His rifle was still aimed at Dunn’s lifeless body. His hands were shaking, his mind reeling from what he had just seen.
Thorne scanned the area in disbelief. His eyes darted from one imaginable sight to the other. He was unable to comprehend what he was seeing.
Rook staggered back, pale as a ghost. “What…what the hell was that?”
Granger lowered his rifle. His throat was tight. He had no answers. He could feel the eyes of his men on him, all of them waiting for him to say something. They needed him to try and make sense of the madness that was unfolding before them.
“Pack up camp,” Granger ordered finally. His voice was cold and hard. “Let’s get the Hell out of here.”
“No more scouting ahead,” Henry muttered. His voice was high and tight with anxiety. “We stick together from this moment on. We have to look out for each other.”
For a long moment, the men stood frozen in place. Their faces were pale and slack-jawed, unable to comprehend what they had just witnessed. The forest was silent, it was as if nature was holding its breath. No one moved, no one spoke, until Granger yelled, his voice breaking the eerie silence.
“MOVE!” He shouted. His voice was rough and jagged. “We don’t have time for this. It’s almost like the forest wants us all dead.”
As they marched deeper into the forest, the snow seemed to grow heavier, clinging to their boots and slowing their pace. The air was bitterly cold and the men’s breaths billowed out in great clouds, frosting their beards and eyelashes. Granger kept a sharp eye on the horizon, though every snap of a twig and every shadow in the forest made his heart race. His nerves were frayed, but he couldn’t show it. Not to his men.
Behind him, Sullivan limped, muttering curses under his breath. The cold was seeping into his bones now and no amount of layers could keep it at bay. They had barely eaten, their rations were dwindling. The men were hungry. Tired. Something else as well, Granger could feel it. A heaviness, a sickness.
“Sarge,” Sullivan called, stumbling forward. His breath was ragged. “We gotta stop. Lew’s not doing so good.”
Granger glanced back and saw Lewis lagging behind. He shuffled more than walked. His face was pale, almost blue, his lips cracked and bleeding. Frost clung to his fingertips, which were turning an alarming shade of black. He motioned for Carter to help him.
“Lewis,” Granger barked. “Keep up.”
But Lewis didn’t respond. He stumbled forward a few steps, his eyes vacant. He then crumpled to his knees in the snow. His hands were shaking, his fingers twitching as though trying to claw at something unseen. Thorne ran to Lewis’ side along with Granger.
“Get up, soldier,” Granger ordered, grabbing Lewis by the arm. But his skin was cold, too cold. The frostbite was spreading unnaturally fast, creeping up Lewis’ hands and arms like a black stain.
Lewis’ eyes flicked up, wide with terror. “I…I am so thirsty,” he gasped. “God..Sarge..” He paused, pleading to anybody that would help. “Dear God, I’m burning up.”
Before Granger could respond, Lewis convulsed. He let out a strangled cry as his body seized up. The frostbite was spreading faster now, engulfing his limbs like the cold was consuming him from the inside. His face twisted in agony, his breath coming in shallow, frantic gulps.
“Help him!” Rook shouted, but no one dared move.
And then in an instant Lewis fell still. The frost that had overtaken his body now covered him entirely, like a sheet of ice. His skin had turned a deep, unnatural black and his eyes were frozen wide open staring blankly into the sky. His body was cold and rigid. His breath was silenced forever. Henry let out a startled gasp, he had never seen anything like this. This was something far grander than he could have imagined. He gave a concerned, terrified look over to Thorne.
The men stared in horror. None of them spoke. Granger knelt beside Lewis’ frozen corpse, his mind reeling. He had seen men die from the cold before but nothing like this. This wasn’t just frostbite, this was something else. Something darker. The curse was spreading, infecting his men one by one.
Granger stood up slowly, his hands trembling. “Leave him,” he muttered. His voice was hollow. “We need to press on.”
Sullivan looked at him, disbelief in his eyes. “We can’t just…”
“I said, leave him.” Granger snapped, his voice harsh. “We have to push forward.”
There was nothing more to say. The men, pale and shaken, turned away from Lewis’ body. Their footsteps crunched in the snow as they resumed their march through the forest.
CHAPTER 8
Into The Depths
The forest seemed denser, darker with every mile. It was as if they were descending into another realm where sunlight dared not enter. Even the snow felt different here, crusted and brittle underfoot. Their steps echoed loudly in the still air. Granger led the way, but he could feel the weight of his men’s eyes on him. Their growing weariness was evident in each shadowed glance. They had never seen him unnerved before, but something inside of Granger shifted after the senseless deaths of his men.
Every so often, he would catch a glimpse of something out of place, strange symbols scratched into the bark, faint but deliberate carvings he recognized from the village raid. In the moments he stopped to inspect them, the chill in the air seemed to deepen. The carvings felt like a warning that he was only now beginning to understand. He looked back at his men and forced a grim smile. His voice was steady despite the terror in his hands.
“We need to find the fort, we’re almost through this.”
But they weren’t.
They marched deeper, their efforts to remove themselves from the forest seemed futile. At every turn the trees seemed to mock them, the air felt stale and the wind occasionally had a soft, ominous laughter on it. Their boots crunched over snow and broken branches, when suddenly, Douglass let out a strangled cry. The men, startled, turned to see him pointing into the trees, where a carcass lay sprawled. A deer, gutted and split open. The remains were twisted in an unnatural pose, its limbs splayed in a mockery of life. As they stared, one of the soldiers swore he saw a figure slip behind the trees. It was a flash of pale skin with something darker smeared across it.
Granger ordered the men to move faster, but a strange sound caught his attention. At first, he thought it was just the wind, but then he heard it clearly. It was a whisper, low and rhythmic, a chant echoing through the trees. Then, unmistakably, he heard the voice of the old man he’d shot in the village, calling his name.
Granger’s blood ran ice cold at the sound of his name being carried on the wind. His hand instinctively tightened around his rifle, but the forest seemed to close in, dense and unmoving. Every branch was draped in heavy silence. His men shuffled. They glanced at each other with wide eyes, their breath puffed in and out in quick, terrified bursts.
“Let’s get the fuck out of this forest,” he barked. But even he could hear the tremor in his voice. He knew his men could hear it as well.
They trudged onward, though through every step the forest seemed to twist, turning them in circles. Granger’s skin prickled as he realized they passed the same cluster of trees three times. Each time, the markings grew darker, deeper, as though carved fresh. He could feel something watching, hidden just beyond the reach of their lantern lights.
“Sergeant,” Thorne whispered. His face was as pale as the snow beneath them. “”Did you…did you hear that?”
Granger bit back a curse, forcing himself to remain calm. But the whispering grew louder, the same voice repeating his name. Just as he turned to snap at his men to pick up the pace, he froze. He caught sight of a figure standing between the trees.
It was a soldier. Or what remained of one.
The figure was stripped to the waist, its skin stretched tight across bones. It was mottled with bruises and frostbite. The man’s mouth hung open, drooling a dark, tar-like sludge that dripped from his chin staining the snow at his feet. In one skeletal hand, he clutched a strip of raw flesh, gnawing on it with blood-smeared teeth. The soldier’s eyes locked onto Granger with a primal hunger.
The smell hit Granger like a blow, rank, decayed meat mixed with something more acidic. The stench clawed its way down Granger’s throat causing bile to rise as he staggered back. He spit into the snow. Granger was unable to look away as the figure sank to all fours, gurgling and growling. His limbs twisted unnaturally, bones creaking as he began to move forward, skittering across the snow like a spider.
“Get back!” Granger shouted, fumbling with his rifle. But the creature paid him no mind, its bloodshot eyes locked onto him as it advanced. Then, with a burst of speed, it lunged forward. Granger fired. The shot echoed through the trees. The creature collapsed, its limbs jerked violently then finally lay still. But even as Granger lowered his rifle, he could see his men recoiling. Their faces were twisted in horror as they looked down at the body.
“What…what the hell was that?” Henry, in the back stammered.
Granger forced himself to look. His stomach twisted as he recognized the shredded remains of the soldier’s tattered uniform. It was Ackerman, a scout that had vanished days ago. His body was now a hollow shell of the man he’d known.
“Gather up your shit,” Granger muttered, his voice raw. “We move…NOW!”
The men moved quickly, but fear was setting in, nibbling at the edges of their sanity. Even the sound of their boots crunching in the snow seemed amplified in the wintery silence. Granger tried to keep his breath steady but every nerve was raw, every step a reminder of what they left behind, Ackerman’s mangled remains, the echo of the whisper and the impossible markings on the trees.
They’d barely been on the move when the wind shifted, carrying with it a sickly sweet odor, thicker than death. Granger clenched his teeth. It was a scent he recognized from the battlefield camps left too long in the sun. But in this frozen, barren wilderness, it was out of place. It was as if death itself was keeping pace with them, hunting them, letting get only so far ahead.
Finally, just as darkness took full hold of the forest, Granger called for them to halt. They set up camp in a narrow clearing. The trees formed a jagged circle around them like teeth. He watched as his men stumbled through their tasks. Their hands shook as they fumbled to start a fire, their eyes darting to the forest and the shadows around them. The flames eventually caught, casting long, wavering shadows that seemed to twist and dance across the snow. Granger scanned his men’s faces, recognizing the same dread reflected back at him. A silent acknowledgement of the nightmares unfolding in front of them. Their numbers were dwindling and whatever they had unleashed was circling closer.
“Get some rest,” Granger ordered but he knew none of them would sleep easy.
But exhaustion set in, and one by one the soldiers drifted off, huddled close to the fire. Granger sat awake, his rifle resting across his lap, eyes trained on the dark edges of the clearing. He didn’t know when he finally succumbed but the dreams came fast and vivid.
He stood in a desolate clearing under a blood red sky. Before him a figure loomed. It was impossibly tall and impossibly thin, its limbs contorted as if twisted by some terrible force. It wore the tattered remains of a Union coat, but its flesh was wrong, pale, molted, torn open in places to reveal flesh and bone. Its mouth, incredibly wide, was slick with gore. In its skeletal hands it clutched a bundle that writhed and squirmed as though alive. Granger recognized the bundle’s whimpers. It was a child. A little boy no older than six, his face streaked with dirt. His eyes were fixed in terror on the creature hunched over him.
The Wendigo’s jaws opened, and with slow, deliberate movements, it lowered its face to the child. Its teeth sank in deep. Granger tried to scream, to move, to raise his rifle, but his body refused to obey. He was frozen as he watched the creature consume the child’s flesh. It sank its teeth into the child’s shoulder, ripping through flesh and bone with a sickening, wet crunch. Blood sprayed across its face, thick droplets stained the snow in wide arcs. The child’s cries were choked off into gurgles, a twisted symphony of gasping breaths and shallow, desperate sounds as he tried to pull away. With each bite, the creature’s jaws clamped down with ferocity, tearing and swallowing chunks of the boy. Every slurp and crunch echoed in Granger’s head like thunder. The slippery, sickly sounds filled the air, Granger’s stomach twisted, bile rose in the back of his throat. He fought the urge to retch as the sight seared into his memory.
Granger almost screamed when a hand clamped down on his shoulder. His eyes wide, he turned to see the old man from the village. His eyes were hollow. His mouth was twisted into a sick smile as he whispered, “You are what you have made.”
Granger jolted awake, his heart raced as he struggled to catch his breath. The scent of blood and decay was still thick in his nostrils. He stumbled to his feet, shoving aside the nearest man, Porter, who woke with a start.
“Sir?” Porter asked, his voice thick with sleep.
“We’re moving at first light,”Granger rasped, running his hand across his sweat slicked face. He couldn’t shake the image of the child’s eyes, of that voice, clawing through his mind.
Just as the first light of dawn began to push back the shadows, a scream rang out across the camp. It was a sharp and panicked cry, two men were missing. Granger’s blood ran cold as he and Thorne searched the perimeter. They found a body half buried in the snow, twisted and contorted. He had been gnawed on. Pieces of his flesh had been ripped from his body as if fed upon by a starving animal.
The other was crouched nearby, his mouth ringed in blood. His teeth were stained with blood and raw meat. He looked up at them with glossy, wide eyes. His breathing was fast and shallow and he clutched chunks of frozen flesh in his hands.
“What…the…” but Granger couldn’t finish the sentence.
The man grinned, revealing blood slick teeth. Then he lunged and Granger didn’t even think, his finger instinctively pulled the trigger. The man fell back, a red hole bloomed in his chest. His hand still held onto chunks of his fallen comrade.
Silence fell over the camp as Granger lowered his rifle. The smell of gunpowder mixed with the rancid scent of old blood and snow. He turned to the others, his face was pale.
“We gotta get out of here!”
CHAPTER 8
The Hunger Within
Granger trudged forward, the snow packed earth crumbled under his boots. He barely felt the cold anymore. The hunger had been simmering just beneath his skin since he’d woken from the last nightmare. It was raw and relentless, like a wild animal had been caged inside of his chest. Every breath tasted of iron and every pulse drummed to the rhythm of an ache he didn’t recognize. It was something that demanded blood, marrow and bone.
The faces of his men blurred as they pressed onward. They glanced at him with weary expressions as he fought to hold onto himself, to suppress the wild pulse pounding in his mind. His mouth felt dry, his limbs heavy. His senses were heightened, aware of every rustling movement in the trees and the crunch of footsteps behind him. The scent of sweat and fear from his men was strangely intense, tinged with something rich and primal. He was dizzy with thirst, but no amount of water could quench it.
When they stopped for camp, Granger watched, transfixed as one of the soldiers tore into a strip of dried meat, with blunt gnashing teeth. His mouth watered. His gut clenched as he tried to pull his gaze away. He forced himself to breathe steadily, but the craving nibbled at him, rising like bile. It was a sharp twist in his stomach. He rubbed his eyes, as if that would drive away the hunger, only to find his nails cracked and smeared with dried blood. He couldn’t remember scraping them against anything.
The fire hissed and snapped as the men settled down for the night, their faces lined with exhaustion and dread. Their eyes darted into the darkness, nerves on edge. Granger’s head swam with visions of meat, of warmth, of teeth sinking into muscle. He wrestled with his thoughts until his mind fell into the fog of slumber.
Then the dreams returned.
In this nightmare he was crouched low, not on two legs but on all fours, stalking through the night. His nails, no, his claws, dragged through the snow. His body was light and powerful, a silent predator in the darkness. Ahead of him stood a figure, silent and still. Its form was hazy and featureless in the shadows. But the figure exuded warmth, heat of blood coursing beneath thin, fragile skin.
He crept forward with silent, predatory grace. His body low to the ground, feeling each muscle coil and tense with perfect precision. The snow crunched lightly beneath his weight, each step careful and methodical as he inched toward his prey. He could smell the figure now, sweat, warmth and the faintest trace of fear lacing the air. It filled him with a ravenous longing. His pulse hammered, senses sharpened and acute, every detail vivid in the pale moonlight. The figure didn’t move, its back turned and unaware of his presence. It was vulnerable, almost inviting. Driven by instinct, Granger felt his body respond with an uncontrollable urge to close the distance. His hands trembled as he anticipated the first strike.
Something in his mind screamed to stop, to pull back but his instincts drove him forward, closer and closer. His muscles rippled with hunger. Before he knew what he was doing, his hands plunged forward. His finger sank into flesh, feeling the warmth burst around them as he tore through skin and bone. Blood pooled between his hands, hot and thick. He felt a thrill, a pulse of raw pleasure that flooded him with a terrible, searing satisfaction.
The figure let out a soft, gurgling gasp, more animal than human. Its body convulsed as Granger tore through it, stripping sinew from tendon. Each bite, each tear, sent fresh waves of warmth through his veins. He felt a twisted pleasure in the act as though feeding on something he had craved his entire life.
He woke gasping, his fingers digging into the frostbitten ground as he clawed his way to consciousness. The fire had dwindled to embers, casting dull, throbbing light across the clearing. He could feel the cold, but it no longer seemed to bite. Instead, it was just there, surrounding him like a shroud. He stared down at his hands, half expecting to find them drenched in blood. They were trembling and slick with a thin layer of sweat and dirt. The hunger persisted, a strange, consuming emptiness that sat heavily within him.
Granger sat there in the dim light, hunched over his knees. His breaths were jagged and quick, each one forming ghostly wisps in the cold air. Around him, the camp was still, the men’s shapes curled in restless sleep, mumbling as if caught in the same terrible dreams. The fire crackled softly, but the warmth it gave off felt faint, as if it, too, were being devoured by the biting cold and whatever hungered in the darkness.
A twig snapped in the trees, and Granger’s head snapped up, his eyes strained to see into the shadows. His pulse hammered in his temples as he scanned the treeline, half expecting to see some monstrous creature looming, watching him with hunger equal to his own. But there was nothing, just the empty, endless woods, shifting softly in the night breeze. They seemed to whisper secrets he could never understand.
He rubbed his hands together feeling the raw scrape of dirt embedded in his skin and looked down. He almost expected to find them stained with blood just like in his dream. But they were clean, except for the thin layer of grime that seemed to cover everything. Yet he could still feel it. His fingers remembered the warmth, the pulse, the rich, metallic taste filling his mouth.
A bed rustle from one of the bedrolls made Granger jump, his nerves on edge. It was Baker, shifting in his sleep as he let out a strangled whimper. Granger clenched his teeth, feeling his own stomach twist in response, the hunger flaring again. It pulsed with each heartbeat, a growing need that made his hands clench and his vision blur. He turned away from the camp, clamping his eyes shut, as if trying to shut out the scent of warm blood beneath the men’s blankets.
As he stared into the soft glow of the embers, he made a promise to himself, a quiet vow. He would get them out of these cursed woods, away from whatever vile thing had crawled into their souls. He’d survive this, even if he had to wrestle the beast clawing within him. But deep down he wasn’t sure he believed it.
CHAPTER 9
Eyes In The Darkness
The air was cold as the men trudged through the snow-laden forest, rifles slung over their shoulders, eyes scanning the shadows. With each step the branches whispered and cracked around them. The forest seemed to close in, darker and deeper than before. Granger felt his men’s nerves like a taut wire, snapping tighter with every hour spent in the wilderness. He kept glancing back, catching the wary, haunted looks on their faces. There was an unspoken fear creeping behind their eyes.
It was Henry who first spotted the creature, a flash of something massive and pale drifting between the trees up ahead. He froze. His eyes widened as he raised his hand for the others to stop, signaling for silence. They all went still, straining their eyes into the shifting shadows.
There, against the deep greens of the forest and the stark white of the snow, stood something impossible. The creature was taller than any man, gaunt and skeletal. Its hollow eyes burned faintly in the dappled sunlight of the forest. Its limbs were stretched and unnatural, the skin tight over bone. Its skin was grayish and cracked like old leather. Around its mouth, the skin had been pulled back, revealing a set of teeth that were sharp, too many, glistening with saliva. It seemed to grin at them, its head cocked to one side. It was almost curious, almost amused.
“The hell is that?” Carter whispered, his voice shaking.
Briggs, a grizzled old soldier, lifted his rifle. His hands trembled. His breath was visible in the icy air as he sighted the creature in with his rifle. For a heartbeat, silence descended on the forest as they watched the thing watching them back, unblinking, motionless. Then, in a sudden reckless burst, Briggs fired. The gunshot shattered the silence.
The bullet missed, hitting the tree just behind the creature. The Wendigo’s head snapped around, focusing on Briggs. For one horrifying moment, its mouth opened, wider than any human mouth should. It stretched impossibly with a shriek that cut through the trees like a blade. It turned and vanished into the darkness. Its form melted into the shadows with fluid grace, like mist fading into the morning sun.
Briggs let out a shaky breath, lowering his rifle. The men exchanged glances, their faces pale and drawn. A lingering chill was left behind by the creature’s disappearance.
Later that evening, as the men were preparing their camp, Briggs was quiet, withdrawn. His face was drawn and pale, his gaze hollow. He sat apart from the others, clutching his rifle tightly, he mumbling incoherently under his breath. His eyes flickered to the shadows around him, continually scanning the woods.
By the time they stoked the remaining fire to life, his muttering had grown into a frantic babble. His eyes were wide and bloodshot. His fingers twitched nervously along the barrel of his rifle.
“They’re coming,” he whispered, looking up at Granger. His skin was ashen and damp and his pupils were fully dilated. “They’re in the trees watching…watching, always watching. Can you hear them? Hear them calling?”
Granger crouched down, meeting Brigg’s gaze. He was trying to pull him back to reality. “It’s just the forest, Briggs. Ain’t nothing out there but the wind and the cold.”
But Briggs shook his head violently. He was gripping his rifle so hard his knuckles turned white. “No, no! It’s out there, it’s real. It’s waiting for us…and it’s hungry.” His voice dropped to a terrified whisper. “I saw it, Granger. I saw its teeth. It’s coming for us…coming for me.”
By nightfall, Briggs was beyond reason, his mind fractured. He was trapped somewhere beyond reach. He clawed at his own skin, tearing deep scratches into his arms. He was screaming in terror as if trying to rid himself of the vision. Granger ordered the men to hold him down. But even with three sets of hands pressing him into the snow, Brigg’s strength was inhuman, frantic, fueled by pure, animal terror.
When the fit finally passed, he lay still, breathing shallowly. His eyes were wide open, staring into the dark with a dark, vacant gaze.
The silence in the camp once Briggs settled was eerie, thick with the madness that had overtaken him. Granger, again, ordered the men to keep watch in shifts. The men that were left to stand guard, generally drifted into a deep, heavy sleep. A sleep that eluded Granger. Their senses were dulled by the Wendigo and the Native American curse that haunted these woods. It left them vulnerable to whatever prowled in the shadows. The only one to never sleep soundly was Granger. His eyes constantly scanned the darkness, haunted by the things creeping beyond the fire’s light.
The fire crackled low in the center of their anxious circle. Every so often, they would cast nervous glances at Briggs, who lay where he had collapsed. He was motionless except for the shallow rise and fall of his chest. His eyes were still wide open, fixed on a point that only he could see.
In the early morning hours, Granger’s watch began. He wrapped himself in his coat and settled near the fire, but the warmth did little to drive away the chill that had settled over him. Sleep tugged at his eyelids, and as he fought it off he noticed something. It was a low, rhythmic sound coming from the darkness.
He strained his ears, hearing a faint scratching. It sounded like fingers scraping on wood. His heart skipped as he turned slowly, seeing that Briggs had risen. In the flickering light, Briggs was hunched near a tree. His nails were furiously clawing at the bark, his face twisted in a grotesque, vacant smile.
“What…what are you doing, Briggs?” Granger whispered, his voice was thick with fear. He didn’t know if he wanted an answer.
Briggs didn’t respond. His fingers kept clawing, digging ragged grooves in the bark. His lips moved, making incoherent sounds, fragments of words lost in a madman’s rambling. Suddenly, he froze, his body going stiff. His gaze shifted to Granger with a clarity that was almost as bad as the madness.
“It’s in me…” he whispered. His voice was so soft that Granger had to lean in to hear him better. “It wants me to feed… I’m so hungry.”
Granger took a step back. His pulse pounding as he tried to reconcile the man he’d known with this creature that seemed to wear his skin like an ill-fitting mask. Briggs’ eyes turned glassy, his mouth parting as a low, rumbling growl escaped his throat. Before Granger could react, Briggs lunged. His fingers clawed and outstretched, driven by some primal, insatiable hunger.
Granger shoved him back, sending Briggs sprawling into the snow. He clawed at the ground, pushing himself back up with wild strength. The hunger in his eyes intensified. Granger’s hand went instinctively to his revolver. His fingers brushed the cold metal as he struggled to control his breathing.
“Stay back,” he warned. His voice was firm but his insides twisted with dread. “Briggs, whatever is happening to you, you have to fight it. For God’s sake, fight it.”
But there was no recognition in Briggs’ eyes, only the glint of something monstrous and unspeakable. Something that had taken up root deep inside of him, eating its way through his soul. The silence hung thick between them, and in that instant, Granger knew that the man he’d once called comrade was gone. He was replaced by a creature of pure, ravenous need. Slowly, he drew his revolver, aiming it at Briggs and squeezed the trigger.
The shot rang out, echoing through the trees. Briggs fell silent, the spark of madness fading from his eyes as his body slumped in the snow. A large crimson stain seeped into the whiteness beneath him. Granger’s hands trembled as he lowered his weapon. His breath came in sharp, ragged gasps. The other men stirred from their sleep, rising to the sound of the shot. Their faces grew pale as they took in the sight of Briggs’ lifeless body.
“He was…gone,” Granger managed, his voice raw. “There was no saving him.”
The men said nothing, only exchanged grim, fearful glances, each wondering if they would be next. Carter’s face turned ashen, the blood draining from his guts and fear and disgust twisted his features into a grim mask of horror.
CHAPTER 10
The Haunted March
As dawn broke over the frozen forest, Granger forced himself to remain standing beside Briggs’ corpse. The weight of sleepless nights weighed heavy on his shoulders. His men gathered around him in silence, their faces haggard and haunted. They were fewer now, their ranks whittled down by violence and madness. He could see the fear in their eyes, a fear that soon there would be no one left.
They set off again, marching in single file, the forest pressing down around them. The world was muted in the thickening snow. Each step was a crunch that echoed eerily in the quiet, only broken by the occasional distant howl. Shadows danced between the trees, and Granger caught himself looking back more than once. He was unable to shake the feeling that they were being followed. He felt haunted by some unseen presence.
Hours passed, and as the cold bit into them, hunger sank in. They trudged forward, each of them moving like phantoms, hollow eyed and silent. But it just wasn’t the hunger that ate at them, there was deep, gnawing emptiness. A feeling that something was sapping their strength, feeding on their dwindling hope.
“Do you hear that?” One of the men muttered, his voice barely a rasp. Granger glanced back, noticing how pale the soldier’s face had grown. His gaze was frantically darting toward the shadows.
“Hear what?” Granger asked, his voice harsher than he intended.
The soldier’s eyes went wide, fixated on something unseen beyond the trees. “It’s her…it’s my wife…calling my name…” He began to mutter. His words dissolved into frantic whispers. His breath came quick and shallow. Before Granger could react, the man broke rank, stumbling into the snow toward the trees. He continued to mumble as he reached out to the shadows.
“Hold it right there!” Granger barked. His words seemed to fall on deaf ears. Another soldier lunged forward, grabbing the man by the shoulder just as he disappeared into the tree line. Granger followed.
They dragged him back, his eyes glassy and vacant. His mouth twitched with words that no one could understand. He was muttering, repeating fragments of sentences, names, half-begged apologies to some unseen figure. They sat him down beside a tree. His body slumped against the bark as his head lolled, eyes unfocused and haunted.
“We have to keep moving,” Granger said, his voice firm though his heart hammered against his ribs. “Whatever he’s seen…whatever we think we are seeing, it just isn’t there. It’s just the cold…the hunger.” Granger looked down at the mess that was once a soldier, babbling toward the dark forest. “Leave him, look at him,” he gestured toward the soldier. “He is gone…and I mean GONE! We need to keep moving and get out of this fucking forest.”
The men nodded numbly, their faces as pale as the snow. Each one cast back wary glances at their lost comrade as they trudged on. The forest grew thicker as the sun sank behind clouds, casting everything in deep, bruised shades of gray. The snow fell heavier. It shrouded the world in silence and Granger began to sense the whispers pressing closer, filling the space between breaths, trickling into his mind like ice-cold water.
By the time they made camp again, Granger felt like he could hardly breathe. Each inhale was laced with the sour tang of fear. As he lay down, exhaustion finally claimed him. It dragged him into a restless sleep where shadows writhed and blood turned red beneath his feet.
And there it was again, the Wendigo, monstrous and pale against the night. It was crouched over a family huddled together in terror. The creature bent low, it jagged teeth sliced into flesh with sickening crunches. Its sunken eyes flickered with satisfaction as it tore pieces from the corpses with abandon. Blood soaked the snow, a dark river winding through the dreamscape, pooling around Granger’s boots.
Some part of him screamed to turn away, to wake from this nightmare but his body remained rooted. He was paralyzed by a fear so deep, he could feel it in his bones. The Wendigo’s maw dripped as it feasted. The family’s bodies shook with each bite. Their lifeless eyes were wide and frozen in terror.
Then, as if sensing him, the Wendigo paused. Its head snapped up, blood still thick on its jaws as it turned to face him. Its gaze met his and in those eyes Granger saw his own reflection. It was faded and hollowed out like the men who had fallen and those who would soon follow.
Granger jerked awake, his body drenched in a cold sweat that felt thicker than the icy air around him. He blinked, adjusting to the dim light of dawn filtering through the tree branches. His hands shook as he pressed them to his face. The dream still lingered like a rancid taste in his mouth. He could swear he felt the Wendigo’s gaze piercing him, even now.
Around him, the camp was coming to life, or at least, the hollow echo of what life the men had left. They moved slowly, their faces gaunt and sunken. Their eyes were heavy with fear and sleepless nights. But none of them dared look at Granger. He caught the wary glances they exchanged, the way they kept their distance. It was as if they sensed the fear that he had crawling under his skin.
He forced himself to his feet, clearing his throat as he looked over at what was left of his men. “We’ll march south today,” he said. His voice was a brittle mask of authority. “Get what you need together. We’re not stopping until we are out of this damned forest.”
They nodded. Though their silence felt accusatory, as if each one of them knew the truth Granger was trying to deny. That they weren’t getting out of this forest. Not all of them, maybe not any of them.
Something deep within Granger, a primal, gnawing urge, wanted to give up, to let the forest have him. He could feel it in the whispers, in the faint crunch of snow underfoot, as if he was being called. It was daring him to step deeper into the shadows and lose himself there. But he shook it off, setting his jaw. Whatever was out there, he wasn’t about to surrender to it.
They began to march, each step slow and weary. The forest loomed over them, silent and watchful. Somewhere in the back of Granger’s mind, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the Wendigo was waiting, just beyond the trees. He felt like it watched them with eyes that saw through every lie he told himself, every pretense of strength he tried to wear.
As they marched deeper, the forest seemed to press in closer. Its shadows stretched longer, darker, swallowing the little light that broke through the overcast sky. Snow began to fall again, the flakes landed cold on his face. The melting mixed with the sweat and grime that hadn’t dried on his skin.
Then, just as the sun began to set again, a scream split the silence.
Granger spun around, his heart hammered in his chest as he tried to locate the source. The scream had a shrillness to it, an edge of terror that was unmistakable. It was Jacobson, one of the younger soldiers. His face was pale and his eyes were wide with terror. He was pointing into a dense thicket a few yards away. His hands trembled so violently that Granger could hear the soft clinking of his dog tags.
At first, Granger could see nothing but twisted branches and shadows. But then, just beyond the edge of the clearing, a figure loomed. It blended almost seamlessly with the darkening trees. The Wendigo. Its grotesque form was twisted and emaciated. It was covered in patches of matted fur and bone that jutted through sickly, rotted flesh. Its eyes glowed faintly, an unnatural, deathly yellow, like smoldering embers.
For a long moment, nobody moved, trapped in a collective paralysis of horror. The creature seemed to sniff the air. Its ragged chest heaved with each breath as it locked onto them with a hunger that felt ancient and insatiable.
Jacobson broke first, lifting his rifle with shaking hands and firing a round. The sound ripped through the stillness, echoing off the trees like a thunderclap. The bullet whizzed through the air and hit nothing, sinking into the shadows behind the creature. The Wendigo didn’t flinch, it didn’t even seem to notice. Instead, it tilted its head, its lips curling back to reveal rows of jagged, blood stained teeth and howled.
Then, in one swift movement, it was gone. The men stood frozen, hearts pounding, breath coming in shallow gasps, as if collectively awakening from a nightmare. But they all knew, it was no dream.
“Jacobson, what did you see?” Granger managed, his voice barely a whisper.
But Jacobson only shook his head, his face ashen. “It’s coming for us…” he mumbled to no one. His gaze was fixed somewhere far away. “It’s coming for me…”
Hours passed, but Jacobson remained unnervingly quiet. His eyes darted around at every sound or whisper of wind. Granger could see him unraveling, that same madness that had gripped Harlow seeping onto his face. Into his mind.
When the camp settled into an uneasy sleep, Granger lay awake in his bedroll. His mind swirled with images of the creature. Its eyes watched him through the trees. Just as sleep was about to claim him, a new sound tore through the night. It was another scream, but this time it was low, guttural, like the howl of a wounded animal.
Granger bolted upright, grabbing his rifle, and found Jacobson in the clearing, his eyes wild and unfocused. His face was twisted into something feral. He clawed at his own chest. His nails dug deep enough to draw blood, as he stumbled toward the edge of the camp. He was muttering words that made no sense.
Without warning, he fell to his knees, his mouth open in a silent scream. His whole body shuddered violently. Granger took a step forward, intending to reach him, to help him. But Jacobson’s hand shot out, as if to ward him off.
“Stay back!” Jacobson’s voice was a ragged hiss. “It’s…It’s in me…I can feel it…eating me from the inside.”
Then he launched himself into the trees, his movements wild and animalistic. He scuttled through the snow like a beast possessed. Granger hesitated, torn between horror and the compulsion to follow, to stop him before he disappeared completely.
But the forest swallowed him up, leaving only a chilling silence in his wake.
Granger and the other men could only look at each other slack-jawed and dumbfounded. They all bedded down again in an uncomfortable silence until the soft sounds of sleep could be heard coming from the camp.
CHAPTER 11
Awakening Within
Granger’s eyes fluttered open, blinking against the harsh light of dawn that seeped through the skeletal branches above him. Snow crunched beneath him as he shifted, his muscles sore and aching. But when he glanced down, his breath hitched. His hands were smeared with drying blood. His fingers were crusted with it up to his wrists. His shirt and jacket were soaked as though he’d plunged his arms elbow deep into the chest of a wounded animal. But there was no memory, no image, nothing that told him how it had happened.
Beside him, a torn Union uniform lay scattered across the snow, shredded into scraps that bore ragged, bloodied edges. They were too mangled to belong to him. As he stood, a chill crept over his skin, one that went deeper than the winter cold. He could still feel the warmth of the blood as though it pulsed in his own hands. It lingered like a haunting presence and every attempt to wipe it away only made it look darker to him.
He stumbled to the nearby stream. He dropped to his knees and plunged his hands into the icy water, scrubbing at the crimson stains until his skin felt raw and numb. The freezing stream bit into his flesh, sharp enough to bring tears to his eyes. But the blood persisted, lingering in the lines of the palms of his hands. In flashes he could almost see it, a shape, a figure, the weight of flesh against his own hands. He shook his head, pushing away the fractured visions before they could come into focus. He was fighting the sickening feeling growing ever more prevalent in his gut.
When he finally made his way back to the camp, his steps faltered at sight of what awaited him. His men stood, gathered in an uneasy silence. Their gazes fixed on something beyond the tents, where another crude mound marked a fresh grave hastily covered in snow Granger felt the ground tilt as he approached, his pulse quickening. He saw their faces, disgust, suspicion, and even fear evident in their eyes. Each man watched him as if he were already one of the damned.
“What happened?” Granger asked. His voice was rough and his throat raw as if he had been screaming all night.
The men exchanged weary glances, and finally, one of the younger soldiers stepped forward. “It’s Henshaw, sir. He…went missing during the night.” He exchanged glances with another soldier. “We found him just before dawn…or what was left of him.” He sighed loudly and looked at his boots. “Looked like…an animal got him.”
Another man snorted bitterly, his gaze piercing. “Or worse than an animal.”
Granger’s hands began to shake and he clenched them into fists, hiding the tremors in the folds of his coat. He turned away, setting his jaw hard as he processed the growing horror. He could still feel the warm blood on his fingers and the faint taste of iron clinging to his tongue. In that moment, an awful truth whispered into the back of his mind, he was no longer merely haunted by the Wendigo. It was within him, gnawing from the inside, waking something primal in him that he could no longer suppress.
He was becoming the very thing that they all feared.
The march began under a sullen gray sky, the snow falling in lazy spirals that blanketed the forest floor. The company trudged onward, their boots crunching through the drifts. Their breath clouded the frozen air. Granger took his place at the front, as always, but something was different. His steps felt heavier, each one a struggle against the burning that clawed at his throat. No matter how much water he drank from his canteen, the dryness in his mouth persisted. It was an arid void that seemed to stretch deeper into his very being.
By midday, the snow reflected back harsh white light, stabbing at his eyes. His head pounded. His temples throbbed with a dull ache that grew more unbearable with every step. The rhythmic crunch of boots behind him felt like a drumbeat pounding into his skull, driving him mad. He tried to swallow but his throat seized. The thirst wasn’t just in his mouth and throat, it was in his chest, his gut, his veins. He felt as though his blood was thickening, slowing, dying out like the leaves they had crushed underfoot months ago.
“Sir?” One of them called, breaking through Granger’s haze. It was Matthis, his face pinched with concern. “Are you alright?”
Granger turned sharply, almost animalistic, and Matthis took an instinctive step back. Granger’s eyes, usually steely and commanding, seemed darker now, as if shadows writhed behind the irises. His lips parted and for a moment, no words came. His tongue felt too thick, too dry, like it was swelling to choke him.
“I’m fine.” He rasped. The words felt like sandpaper scraping on his throat. But the tone didn’t convince anyone, least of all himself. He forced a swallow and turned away. He tried to ignore the way that Matthis kept glancing at him from the corner of his eye.
By late afternoon the thirst was unbearable. Granger’s mouth ached and his gums felt raw, like they were shrinking back from his teeth. His vision blurred at the edges and for a moment he thought he saw something flicker between the trees, a tall, gaunt figure watching them. Its hollow eyes bore into him. He blinked, and it was gone, but the pit in his stomach grew deeper.
He caught himself licking his cracked lips as his gaze fell on his men. Their faces were lean and worn, some pale form of exhaustion, others rosy and flushed from the cold. He could hear the steady rhythm of their heartbeats, a sound that thudded in his ears. His gaze lingered too long on Matthis’ neck, where the skin was ruddy and tight over the pulse that jumped with each beat.
Granger’s fists clenched at his sides, the nails biting into his palms. “No. Stop it. You’re a man, not an animal.” He argued with himself in his thoughts. He forced his focus forward but the pounding thirst would not relinquish its grip on him.
When they stopped to rest, Granger hung back, away from the men and crouched in the snow. He tipped his canteen to his lips, draining the last drops, but it didn’t help. His hands trembled as he scooped a handful of snow into his mouth. He chewed it and swallowed the icy slush but that wasn’t enough. The cold did nothing to quench the heat roaring through him. It was like a fire burned within him and only one thing could extinguish it.
“You can’t, you won’t,” he thought, gripping his knees as the world spun around him. But the thirst and hunger gnawed at his resolve, whispering that the fine line between man and beast was far thinner than he’d ever believed.
CHAPTER 12
Unraveling In The Dark
The campfire crackled weakly, its flames casting flickering shadows across the men’s tired faces. Granger sat apart from the group, his back against a gnarled tree. The snow beneath him soaked with melted ice and his own sweat. He clenched his fists to keep his hands steady, though tremors rippled through his arms like a sickness. His canteen lay discarded at his feet, empty again and useless.
The men huddled closer to the fire, their murmured conversations carried a twinge of apprehension. Granger could feel their eyes on him, darting like nervous birds, watching him when they thought he wouldn’t notice. It was as if the thin veil of command he’d always worn had slipped. It revealed something they did not want to see.
“You alright, Sarge?” One of the men asked hesitatingly, Haines, his voice too casual to sound sincere.
Granger nodded, forcing his expression into a mask of calm, though his clenched jaw betrayed him. “Fine,” he said. The words felt foreign in his dry mouth, more a lie to himself than to the men.
As the night wore on, the weight of exhaustion bore down on the camp. The soldiers, too drained to talk, began to settle into their uneasy sleep. The fire’s glow dimmed, leaving only the soft crackle of embers and the occasional shuffle of a restless sleeper.
Granger stayed awake, his mind churned with unease. He couldn’t ignore the sounds, the steady breathing of the men, the faint rustle of blankets as they shifted in their sleep. His ears caught every little noise, every heartbeat, every sigh. His throat burned with a need that he refused to name.
At some point, he stood without realizing it. The world seemed quieter, heavier as he stepped closer to the dying fire. His boots barely made a sound in the snow. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there staring at the sleeping figures. The shadows of their forms stretched and warped in the faint light. When he finally moved, it felt like something was guiding him. He found himself standing over Matthis, who lay curled in his blanket. His face was serene in the dying light of the fire. Granger stared down at him, his gaze lingering on the exposed skin of Matthis’ neck. He could hear the man’s pulse, a steady, rhythmic drumbeat that echoed in his mind. It was louder than the wind, louder than his own thoughts.
His breath quickened, misting the cold air. He leaned forward slightly, his body trembled. He raised his hands halfway, reaching out for something that wasn’t there. The thirst roared inside of him, a desperate, screaming need that drowned out any sense of reason.
“Sergeant?” Haine’s voice shattered the silence like a gunshot.
Granger jerked back. His heart pounded as he turned to see Haines staring at him, his eyes wide with fear and confusion.
“I…I was checking on him,” Granger said, his voice hoarse and unconvincing. He straightened trying to regain his composure, but he could see the doubt in Haines’ expression. The soldier nodded slowly, his gaze lingering too long before he turned away.
Granger stepped back into the shadows, his chest heaved as he tried to calm himself. His hands shook uncontrollably. His stomach churned with a mixture of shame and dread. “What is happening to me?” He thought, his mind racing. But no answer came, only the gnawing, relentless thirst and hunger that refused to leave him.
Granger retreated farther back to the edge of the camp, pacing in the darkness like some kind of caged animal. The wind howled softly, stirring the snow into tiny, dancing whirlwinds. His fingers ached from the cold, but he didn’t dare return to the fire. Not after what had just happened.
He could still feel it, the pull, the maddening thirst and hunger that gripped him like a vice. It wasn’t just thirst or hunger, it was something deeper, darker, something that churned in his very core. Every beat of his heart seemed louder than the last, every pulse a reminder of how close he had come to doing the unthinkable.
From where he stood, he could see Haines. The soldier was sitting up, his rifle resting across his lap. His posture was tense and alert. Granger cursed silently. There was no hiding the fear in the soldier’s eyes, the way he kept glancing toward him as if expecting an attack.
Granger ran a trembling hand through his hair, which felt damp with sweat despite the biting cold. “Get a hold of yourself, damnit.” He thought. But the command sounded hollow inside of his head, like an echo in an empty room. He wanted to believe it was just the stress, the hunger, the thirst, the endless days in the frozen wasteland. Yet deep down, he knew better. Something was happening to him, something he couldn’t fight.
The night dragged on in agonized silence. One by one, the men settled back into uneasy sleep, their snores mingling with the soft crackle of the fire. Granger finally forced himself to sit down, his back resting against a tree. His head was resting in his hands and he sighed deeply. He willed himself to find some measure of peace, some moment of respite.
But when he closed his eyes, the dreams came again.
This time, the Wendigo was closer. He could see it clearly now, the long skeletal limbs, the hollow eyes that glowed faintly with an unnatural light, the grotesque antlers that crowned its head. It loomed over a man that knelt before it, trembling. Granger recognized the soldier, it was Matthis.
The Wendigo leaned down, its clawed hands gripped Matthis’ shoulders as if in mock comfort. Its jaws opened wide, revealing rows of jagged teeth. In one swift motion, it bit down. The sound was wet and sickening, a mix of crunching bone and tearing flesh. Matthis screamed, his voice raw and desperate, but it was over quickly. Blood sprayed across the snow as the Wendigo tore into him, consuming him with a feral frenzy.
Granger wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. His body felt frozen, paralyzed by the horror unfolding before him. The Wendigo turned his head, its glowing eyes locking onto him. Blood dripped from its jaws as it smiled at him, a grotesque, unnatural grin that made Granger’s stomach churn.
He woke with a start, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The fire had burned down to embers, casting faint red light over the sleeping forms of the men. His heart thudded in his chest, and his skin was slick with sweat despite the frigid air.
He looked around wildly, he half expected to see the Wendigo standing in the shadows. But there was nothing, only the stillness of the camp and the faint sound of the wind through the trees.
CHAPTER 13
The Devil In The Snow
The day’s march passed in tense silence, the sound of boots crunching the snow was the only sound to break the monotony. The forest around them seemed unnaturally still. The usual chirps and rustles were swallowed up by the cold. Granger led the group with rigid focus, his eyes darting to every shadow and every flicker of movement among the trees. Though nothing emerged to challenge them. The men carried the weight of an unseen predator on their backs. By late afternoon, they found a clearing and made camp. Their breaths came out in plumes as they wordlessly set to work.
The air around the camp felt heavier than usual, thick with the unspoken tension between the men. Granger sat apart from the others, his rifle balanced on his knees. His eyes scanned the treeline as if expecting something to lunge from the shadows at any moment. His hand trembled slightly, the blood on them long since scrubbed away but still vivid in his mind.
The men were no longer whispering about him, they didn’t need to. Their wary glances and hushed conversations ceased altogether when he turned toward them. The firelight caught the haunted gleam in his eyes. Granger could feel their fear, it was palpable and pressed in on him. He knew they were right to be afraid. He was barely holding himself together, his every instinct screamed for blood, for meat.
As the sun began to dip behind the horizon, one of the soldiers, Carter, stood up abruptly. His movements were jerky. His face was pale and slick with sweat.
“Where the hell are you going?” Granger asked, his voice low and gruff.
“Gotta…gotta take a piss.” Carter mumbled, avoiding eye contact.
“You don’t go anywhere alone.” Granger snapped, rising to his feet.
Carter froze, looking back at the others for support, but they all avoided eye contact. With a resigned nod, he turned back to Granger. “Fine. Come with me if you are so worried.”
Granger hesitated. His thirst and hunger were ferocious, they clawed at him like an animal. The thought of being alone with Carter, even for a moment, made him salivate. But he couldn’t show that, not yet.
“Take Henry,” Granger barked instead. “I’ll stay here.”
Carter reluctantly nodded and waved for Henry to follow. The two disappeared into the woods, their figures swallowed by the shadows.
The camp fell into an uneasy silence, the fire crackling faintly. Granger tried to focus on the distant sounds of the forest, straining to hear any sign of trouble. He could feel the tension in the men around him, none of them dared speak. Their breaths were shallow and their hands twitching toward their rifles at every noise.
A sudden shriek split the air, high and piercing. Granger bolted upright, his rifle already in his hands.
“Stay here!” He commanded, though his men had no intention of following him.
He sprinted toward the sound, his boots hammering the snow. The cold air stung his lungs, but he pushed on. He was driven by a mix of duty and something darker, more primal. When he reached the clearing, his breath caught in his throat.
Carter was on the ground, his body splayed out at odd angles. His throat had been torn open. A deep gash also marred the side of his face, raw and jagged. Blood oozed sluggishly, mingling with dirt and sweat. The surrounding flesh was darkened to a swollen, mottled bruise. A crimson puddle formed beneath him, steaming in the frigid winter air. Henry stood nearby, his rifle hanging limply at his side. His face was pale and slack with horror.
But it wasn’t Carter or Henry that froze Granger in his tracks. It was the thing looming in the trees beyond them.
Granger swallowed hard, his hands shaking as he approached Henry. “What the hell happened?” He crouched beside Henry, who sat shaking, blood staining his knuckles and splattered across his coat.
“I didn’t mean to,” Henry whispered, his voice was tight with panic. He clutched his rifle like a lifeline. His wide eyes kept darting between Granger and the lifeless form of Carter sprawled nearby. “He…he went mad. I caught him stumbling toward the water, muttering something. It was like he was in a trance.” Granger’s blood ran cold. “I tried to stop him, honest to god…I tried.” Henry’s breath hitched in his throat and he pressed a trembling hand to his forehead. “But then he turned on me, sir. Came at me like an animal. He was growling with his teeth barred. Growling, sir. He was covered in blood. His throat..dear god, his throat.” He shook his head. “Growling. He looked like something from the depths of Hell. I didn’t know what else to do so I hit him with the butt of my rifle to stop him. I didn’t mean to hit him that hard. When he fell, he didn’t get back up.”
Granger’s gaze flicked to Carter’s body. His blank eyes stared into the void, his jaw slack and a trickle of blood oozed from the gash in his temple. It was the emptiness of his expression that unnerved Granger. It was as if the soul had left his body long before death came.
As he dragged Henry back toward camp, his thoughts churned. The men’s trust in him was gone, Carter was dead, and the Wendigo was toying with them. Something had to give, and Granger wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold out.
The men gathered in a loose circle, their faces pale and drawn, lit by the flickering firelight. Tension rippled through the camp like a coiled snake, ready to strike at the slightest provocation.
“Get back to your tents,” Granger ordered sharply, his voice cutting through the murmurs of unease. “Now!”
The men hesitated, their eyes darting between Henry and Granger, but his tone left no room for argument. They retreated in twos and threes, whispering nervously among themselves. Granger turned back to Henry, who still hadn’t moved, his fingers digging into the rifle stock as though he feared Carter may rise from the dead.
“Henry,” Granger said, his voice low but firm. “You did what you had to do. This isn’t on you, understand? Whatever this is…it’s twisting all of us.”
Henry looked up, his eyes brimming with tears, his lips trembled as he tried to speak. Instead, he only nodded and let the rifle slip from his hands. The weapon landed in the snow with a dull thud.
Granger glanced at Carter again, his stomach twisting. They couldn’t leave the body there, not with the things lurking in the shadows, but they couldn’t stay either. “Help me move him,” Granger said.
Together, they dragged Carter’s lifeless body to the edge of the camp. The blood from his temple left dark smears in the snow. The forest seemed to hold its breath as they laid him down in the shadow of a tree.
“We’ll bury him in the morning,” Granger lied. He knew full well that the frost laden ground wouldn’t yield to a shovel. He glanced back at Henry, who nodded mutely before trudging toward his tent. Granger lingered, staring into the forest where the shadows danced. A low wind stirred the branches, carrying with it the faintest whisper. It was a sound he couldn’t quite place but that set every nerve in his body alight.
“Whatever you are,” he muttered under his breath, “stay the hell away.”
But even as he spoke, he felt the gnawing unease settle deeper in his chest. Whatever this curse was, it wasn’t staying away. It was drawing closer.
Granger trudged back to the camp, his boots crunching through the snow, each step heavy with the weight of exhaustion and dread. The fire had burned low, its faint glow sting long, flickering shadows over the tents. He paused, rubbing his hands together against the biting cold, but the act felt meaningless. There was no warmth in this place, only the creeping chill of death.
He sank down onto his pack by the fire, staring at the embers. The other men had fallen silent. Some men huddled in the fragile warmth of their tents, while others, too weary to retreat inside, slept curled by the fire. Their breaths came puffing out in rhythmic clouds as they slept. Only Henry stirred occasionally, a restless figure twisting under his blanket.
Granger tried to close his eyes, but every time he did, the forest loomed in his mind. It was vast and endless. He couldn’t stop hearing Carter’s voice, the echo of his final, garbled scream. Then came the whispers again, soft and unintelligible. But undeniably there. He opened his eyes, scanning the dark, but saw nothing beyond the glow of the fire. The hours crawled by, Granger felt himself slipping into a shallow, restless sleep. He dreamed of snow, stained red and steaming. He saw a figure crouched low over a body, tearing into flesh. Its head jerked with savage ferocity.
A sharp crack snapped him awake. He bolted upright, his hand instinctively went to his revolver. His eyes darted around the camp. For a moment, all was still. Then he noticed the silence. The night creatures had grown quiet. No wind stirred the branches. Even the fire seemed subdued, its flames barely audible.
Granger’s heart hammered as he rose, stepping toward the edge of the camp where he had left Carter’s body. The snow reflected the pale moonlight, bright enough to see the drag marks left by Henry and himself.
But Carter’s body was gone.
Granger crouched down. His breath clouded the air. Tracks. Deep impressions in the snow, long and clawed and inhuman. Whatever had taken Carter hadn’t cared to hide its presence. His stomach twisted. The thing wasn’t just watching them. It was playing with them.
Granger backed away. His hand trembled on his revolver. He glanced toward the sleeping camp and for the first time, he wasn’t sure if dawn would bring relief or more horror.
CHAPTER 14
Shadows Among Us
Granger stood by the edge of the campfire’s glow. His shoulders were stiff and his face was pale and drawn. The men gathered around him. No one spoke, but the weight of their stares pressed down on him, demanding answers. He cleared his throat and began.
“Carter’s body is gone.” His voice was flat but the words hit like a thunderclap. A ripple of unease passed through the group.
“Gone?” Henry asked, his brow furrowed. “What do you mean ‘gone’?”
“I mean it’s not there anymore,” Granger said, his fists tightening at his sides. “Something took him.”
A murmur rose among the men, a mix of disbelief and mounting fear.
“What could take a body without us hearing them?” Another soldier demanded.
Granger hesitated, choosing his words very carefully. “The same thing that left those tracks in the snow by the body.” He gestured toward the treeline, where the faint outlines of clawed footprints that had already begun to fill with drifting snow. Silence fell over the camp, save for the crackling of the fire. The men exchanged nervous glances, their fingers twitching toward their weapons.
“We need to stay sharp,” Granger continued. “No wandering off. We move together, or not at all. And tonight, nobody leaves the fire.”
The men nodded reluctantly, their fear palpable. Henry’s jaw tightened, his gaze fixed on Granger. “You’ve seen it, haven’t you?”
Granger’s eyes flickered but he did not answer.
The fire burned low as the men settled again. They huddled close to the flames, their rifles resting across their knees, eyes darting nervously toward the forest. Granger sat apart, his back against a jagged rock, the weight of leadership pressing down on him like a weight. His thoughts churned, replaying the image of Carter’s blood-soaked resting place, now barren, the clawed tracks vanishing into the forest. He tried to suppress the growing unease gnawing at his mind, but the questions swirled relentlessly. “Who had taken Carter? Was it coming for the rest of them?”
Henry broke the uneasy quiet, his voice low and tight. “If something took Carter, why didn’t it take the rest of us? Why him?”
“Maybe it’s just playing with us,” muttered another soldier.
“Don’t talk like that,” snapped one of the older men. His hands trembled as he fumbled with a tin cup.
Granger stood abruptly, the motion making everyone jump. “Enough!” He barked. “Speculation is not going to help us. Stay alert. Stay quiet and keep your weapons at the ready. That’s all we can do.” The men settled again, though the tension hung heavy in the air. One by one, they began to drift into an uneasy slumber. Some men curled by the fire, others retreated to their tattered tents. Only Henry remained awake, his gaze fixed on Granger who sat rigid, staring into the fire.
It was deep into the night when Granger stirred from a fitful half-sleep, a sound pulling him sharply into consciousness. He sat up, listening. There it was again, a soft rustling coming from just beyond the firelight.
“Who’s there?” He called out, his voice hoarse.
Henry stirred, sitting up groggily. “What is it?”
Granger raised a hand to silence him, his ears straining. The sound came again, closer this time, a low, guttural growl that sent a chill racing down his spine.
And then it stepped into the flickering light of the fire.
The Wendigo loomed just beyond the circle of firelight. Its gaunt frame casted an impossibly long shadow across the snow. Its eyes burned like coals and its jagged teeth glistened with gore.
“Jesus Christ!” Henry gasped, scrambling backward.
Granger didn’t think. He grabbed his rifle, leveling it at the creature. But before he could fire, it let out a bone-chilling roar. The sound reverberated off of the trees. The camp erupted into chaos as the men woke, shouting and fumbling for their weapons. The Wendigo moved impossibly fast, disappearing back into the shadows before anyone could take a shot.
Granger’s heart pounded as he turned to Henry. “Wake everyone. We can’t stay here.”
Henry nodded. His face was pale. He began shaking the men awake. Granger stared into the darkness where the Wendigo had vanished, dread pooling in his gut. It wasn’t done with them, not yet.
The men were on the verge of breaking. Those who had seen the Wendigo were wide-eyed and twitchy, muttering prayers under their breath. They gripped their rifles with such ferocity that their knuckles turned white. Even those who hadn’t glimpsed the creature could feel the weight of something terrible pressing down on them. It was an invisible menace lurking in the shadows.
Granger didn’t bother giving a rallying speech this time. “We move now.” He ordered, his voice a low growl. “Keep close. Stay tight.” He looked over at Henry. “Henry, you take point. I’ll take up the rear, no stragglers.”
The group shuffled into motion, their torches casting a soft, orange glow through the snow-covered forest. The night pressed against them, cold and impenetrable. Every crunch of snow, every snap of a twig, every sound set their nerves ablaze.
Granger, in the rear, his rifle at the ready and his eyes constantly darting over his shoulder. His breath fogged the icy air, the steady rhythm of his footsteps was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. It wasn’t until they stopped to gather themselves in a small clearing that Granger noticed something was wrong.
“Where’s Andrews?” He asked, his voice cutting through the silence.
The men looked at one another, confusion and fear sparking in their eyes. Henry swore under his breath, spinning to look back at the path they’d just come down. “He was behind me the whole time. I swear it.”
Granger’s gut twisted.
One of the younger soldiers whimpered, his voice cracking. “The Wendigo got ‘im. Didn’t it?”
“Shut up!” Granger snapped. He turned to Henry. “Get two men. We’re going back to find him.”
The forest felt alive with menace as Granger, Henry and two others retraced their steps. Their torches swept the darkness. The cold seemed sharper, biting deeper into their flesh with every step. The silence was deafening, broken only by the crunch of their boots in the snow.
It didn’t take long to see the first sign. A streak of blood marred the pristine snow, leading to a patch where the snow was churned up. It looked like a great struggle had taken place. Shredded cloth hung from a branch, fluttering like a ghostly flag on a twig.
“Jesus,” one of the men whispered. His torch trembled as he waved it over the scene.
Granger crouched by the bloodied snow, his face grim. There was no body, no sign of Andrews beyond the evidence of his desperate fight.
“He’s gone.” Henry said, his voice hollow.
“No,” Granger growled. “He’s out there somewhere.” But even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t true. Andrews was dead, or even worse.
The men stared into the darkness, their breath fogging in the frigid air. Somewhere out there the Wendigo was waiting. Watching.
“We go back,” Granger finally said. His voice was hard. “Stay together. We can’t afford to lose anybody else.”
The return to camp was tense, every shadow seeming to shift, every sound amplified by the forest’s oppressive silence. Granger led the way, his rifle raised. His finger rested just above the trigger. The other men huddled close behind him, their torches flickering weakly in the icy wind.
“Keep your eyes open,” Granger muttered, though he doubted it would help. If the Wendigo wanted them, no amount of vigilance would help them.
The path seemed longer on the way back, the forest closing in on them like a living thing. Granger couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled with unease. He stole a glance over his shoulder and caught Henry doing the same. His face was pale under all the grime.
“Do you hear that?” One of the men whispered, his voice barely audible.
Granger stopped, motioning for silence. The group froze, their breaths held as they strained to hear. At first, there was nothing but the rustling of the wind through the trees. Then it came, a low guttural growl, so deep it seemed to vibrate the ground beneath their feet.
“Move!” Granger hissed, his voice was sharp.
The group quickened their pace. Their footsteps were clumsy and frantic in the snow. The growl came again, closer this time. Granger’s heart pounded in his chest. He didn’t dare look, afraid of what he might see.
By the time they stumbled into the clearing where the camp lay, the men were panting and wide-eyed. Their faces were etched with fear. The others rose from the fire, their expressions questioning. Granger raised a hand to silence them.
“Andrews is gone,” he said shortly. His voice was rough. “We found blood. Signs of a fight. That’s it.”
The younger soldiers began murmuring among themselves. Their voices rose in panic. Granger slammed the butt of his rifle into the frozen ground, the sharp sound cutting through the noise and tension.
“We hold this camp tonight.” He ordered. His tone left no room for argument. “No wandering. No one goes out alone. Do you understand me?”
The men nodded reluctantly, their fear was palpable. Granger stepped away from the fire, needing a moment to collect himself. He gripped his rifle tightly, his knuckles white as he stared into the darkness beyond the camp.
Something was out there. Something patient.
And it wasn’t finished with them yet.
CHAPTER 15
The Beast Within
The snow crunched beneath Granger’s boots as he walked the perimeter of the camp. His breath was heavy in the frozen air. His body felt wrong. Too heavy. His muscles were taut and ached as though he was being stretched from the inside out. He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake the feeling, but it clung to him like a second skin. His vision had sharpened in ways that made him uncomfortable. The edges of the forest were crisp even in the pale moonlight. He could hear the men murmuring by the fire, their voices like distant echoes through the dense pines.
Granger’s thirst was insatiable, his tongue dry as sandpaper no matter how much he drank. And the hunger, oh God, the hunger gnawed at his insides like a wild animal. He clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms, forcing himself to focus.
“You alright, Sarge?” Henry’s voice snapped him back.
Granger turned, realizing that Henry had been standing there, watching him. His second in command frowned, his expression heavy with concern. “You’re looking worse by the hour.”
He forced a chuckle. “I’m just tired, Henry. We all are.”
Henry didn’t look convinced. He lingered a moment longer before returning to the others, leaving Granger alone with the rising tide of dread within him.
The fire burned low that night, its embers casting a dim glow over the soldiers. Granger sat apart, his back against a tree. He tried to ignore the whispers drifting his way.
“I’m telling you, there is something wrong with him.” One of the men hissed.
“He’s just tired, like the rest of us,” another replied. His voice was unsteady.
Granger closed his eyes, letting the words roll over him. He knew they were right, something inside of him was unraveling.
The dream hit like a lightning bolt.
Granger was running. His breath was ragged. The snow beneath him was a blur. He wasn’t human anymore, his arms had lengthened, his hands twisted into claws. His jaw ached as rows of jagged teeth erupted from his gums, his mouth dripping with blood and saliva. He was chasing something, a group of people running through the forest. A man stumbled and fell, and without hesitation, Granger pounced. His teeth sunk into the man’s flesh. The man’s screams turned into gurgles as Granger tore his throat out.
He turned to the others, a woman and a boy. The woman screamed as she lunged, but it was the boy’s face that stopped him cold.
Wide-eyed, terrified, the boy whispered, “please…papa…don’t.”
Granger jolted awake. His breath came in short, sharp gasps. His hands trembled as he looked down. His stomach lurched at the sight of the dried blood under his nails.
The camp was quiet, the men were too tired or too afraid to speak. But the silence was broken with a scream at dawn.
“Over here!” One of the men shouted, crouching by the body.
Granger scrambled to his feet, stumbling toward the commotion. Lying in the snow was Private Mills, his throat savagely torn open. His face was frozen in a grotesque mask of terror.
“What the hell…” Henry muttered, crouching by the body.
The men looked at each other, their eyes darting toward Granger. He felt their suspicion like a weight on his chest. He couldn’t bring himself to argue.
“I didn’t…” he started, but the words died in his throat.
Henry stood, his rifle slung over his shoulder. “We need to keep moving. Whatever is out there, it’s picking us off one by one.”
Granger nodded, his jaw tight. As the men gathered their gear, he felt their gazes burning into his back. They were afraid, but more than that, they were beginning to doubt him. Worst of all, so was he.
The march through the snow was grueling. Granger’s legs felt stronger than ever, yet every step seemed heavier, the weight of his transformation anchored him to the earth. His coat hung loose on his shoulders, his skin taut and feverish. He’d rolled his sleeves up without even thinking, only to stop dead when he saw his forearms. His veins bulged, dark and spidery. The skin beneath them was pale and stretched thin. Coarse black hairs, thicker than any natural growth, sprouted along the ridges of muscle. His nails were long and curved, almost claw-like, he dug them into his palms. Granger yanked his sleeves back down, his heart pounding. He scanned the men ahead of him, grateful that no one noticed. But it was only a matter of time.
When they stopped for camp, Granger kept to himself. He feigned exhaustion while the others built a small fire. The men whispered amongst themselves, their voices low but tense. He couldn’t make out the words, but he didn’t need to. He knew the distrust that was brewing in the ranks.
The hunger was back, sharper than ever, clawing at his insides. Water did nothing to quell it, nor did the measly scraps of dried meat that he forced down. He clenched his jaws, his teeth ached as if they would snap. He didn’t join the men at the fire. Instead, he sat in the shadows of a nearby tree, staring into the darkness of the forest. But when sleep finally took him, it offered no reprieve.
The dream was different this time, more vivid, as if he were stepping into somebody else’s memories. He stood in a snow covered clearing. A man knelt before him, weeping. His face was gaunt. His lips were cracked and bleeding. His eyes were wide with despair. Around him lay the bodies of a woman and two children, their throats torn open. Their lifeless eyes stared into the void.
Granger felt himself lurch forward, but it wasn’t his body. It was him, the man he had seen before, the Wendigo, though still in his human form. He grabbed the woman’s limp arm, his fingers shaking, and tore a large strip of flesh off from her wrist with his teeth. The sound was sickening, a wet ripping noise followed by the crunch of bone. The man sobbed as he chewed, blood dribbling down his chin. His voice was raspy, barely audible over the wind. “I’m sorry…I’m so sorry.”
But the hunger didn’t care. It demanded more, and the man obeyed. He crawled to the boy’s body. His hands trembled as he cradled the small, lifeless frame. Granger screamed in his mind, willing himself to stop, to wake up, but the Wendigo ignored him. Teeth sank into the child’s chest. The sound of his ribs cracking filled the air as the man tore away flesh from his son. His eyes were wild with desperation as his lips glistened with blood.
Granger wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. The scene unfolded with brutal clarity, every detail burned into his mind. The man consumed his family, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but bloodstained snow. The hollow echoing of his sobbing continued to bounce around in Granger’s mind.
And then, slowly, the sobs turned into a low growl.
Granger felt his stomach turn as the man looked up, his face no longer human. His eyes gleamed yellow in the moonlight, his teeth sharp and jagged.
The Wendigo.
Granger woke with a start, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His hands were wet, and for one horrifying moment, he thought it was blood. But it was only sweat, slick and freezing in the icy air. The camp was quiet, the fire reduced to glowing embers. Granger looked around, half expecting to see the Wendigo lurking in the shadows. But there was nothing.
He touched his face, his fingers shaking as they brushed against his jaw. His teeth ached, his canines sharper than he remembered. He swallowed hard and winced at the pain. The metallic taste of blood lingered on his tongue.
The dream wasn’t just a nightmare. It was a warning.
He was running out of time.
CHAPTER 16
Fractured Trust
The camp was still shrouded in early morning gloom when the first stirrings of unrest began. Granger sat apart from the others, his back against a tree. His knees were drawn up to his chest. The fire was dead, only a faint curl of smoke rising from the ashes. He hadn’t slept since the dream, too shaken by what he’d seen, and what he felt.
The hunger was unbearable now, chewing and scratching his insides like a living thing. His muscles twitched involuntarily, his body ached with an unfamiliar energy. He clenched his fists, feeling the unnatural strength that seemed to pulse through his veins, and it terrified him.
The men were watching him.
As they broke camp and began their march, the unease in the group was palpable. The snow crunched beneath their boots, the sound unnervingly loud in the silence. The forest seemed closer now, the trees pressing in like silent witnesses. Granger walked ahead of the line, he could feel their eyes on him. Whispers trailed in his wake, faint and biting, carrying accusations he couldn’t hear but felt nonetheless.
“Granger,” Henry finally said. His voice was low, cautious. “The men are nervous. You’ve been…different.”
Granger didn’t look at him, “we’re all different, Henry.” He muttered. “This place is changing us.”
Henry grabbed his arm, forcing him to stop. The other men slowed. “Last night,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You were muttering in your sleep. Something about blood….about hunger.”
Granger yanked his arm free, his eyes narrowing. “You think that means something? Leave me alone, Henry.”
Henry didn’t answer, his silence spoke volumes.
By the time they stopped for the night, the tension had reached its breaking point. The fire crackled weakly, the wood damp from the snow. The men huddled close, their faces pale and drawn. Their eyes darted to the shadows as if expecting the Wendigo to lunge from the darkness.
Granger sat apart, staring into the flames. He could feel the change accelerating now, his body a stranger to him. His nails were sharper, his senses keener. He could smell the sweat and fear of the men around him, the coppery tang of blood lingered in the air.
He closed his eyes, trying to shut it out, but it was impossible.
When he opened them, Henry was standing over him. A rifle was in his hands. “You’re not right, Granger.” His voice trembled. “The men are scared of you. Hell, I’m scared of you. And after what has been happening, after what you’ve done, I don’t know if I can trust you anymore.”
Granger rose slowly, towering over Henry despite the rifle aimed at his chest. “What exactly are you accusing me of, Henry?” The other men watched, their hands inching toward their weapons. The air was electric, thick with the promise of violence.
“You know what,” Henry said, standing with the men. “Me, Thorne and the others. You think we don’t notice how you’ve changed? The way you look at us…like we’re…”
“Like you’re what?” Granger growled, his voice was low and dangerous.
“Like we’re food.”
Thorne shuddered.
The words hung in the air and something inside Granger snapped. Before he realized what he was doing, he lunged forward. His hand closed around Henry’s throat. The rifle clattered to the ground as Granger shoved him back, pinning him against a tree. The other men shouted, their voices a blur in Granger’s ears. He could hear Henry’s pulse pounding beneath his hands, feel the warmth of his flesh, the fragile life thrumming just beneath the surface.
“Granger!” One of them yelled. “Let him go!”
Granger hesitated, his grip loosening. He stared at Henry, at the fear in his eyes, and felt a sickening surge of satisfaction. He stepped back, releasing Henry, who collapsed to the ground, gasping for air. The other men rushed forward, dragging Henry away as they glared at Granger with a mix of fear and hatred.
Granger’s hands were trembling. He looked down at them, at the sharp nails and pale skin, and felt a wave of nausea. “What is happening to me?” He whispered.
But nobody dared answer him.
The firelight danced across the men’s faces, revealing their gaunt expressions and hollow eyes. Granger sat apart, his back to the forest, watching the flickering flames. The confrontation with Henry played on repeat in his mind. The weight of what he’d done, what he was becoming, pressed down on him like an iron shackle.
The whispers began again.
At first, Granger thought it was the men, their hushed voices carried on the wind. But when he turned, they were silent, their faces tense and focused on their own thoughts.
“Granger…” a voice rasped, low and guttural, carried from somewhere beyond the trees.
He froze. His heart thudded painfully in his chest as he scanned the dark woods. The voice was faint but unmistakable.
“Granger…you are mine now!”
His breath caught as a shadow moved between the trees, massive and fluid. He gritted his teeth, determined not to react. Not to let the others see his growing madness.
But the hunger, the hunger roared inside of him.
Hours dragged on, and the camp finally quieted. The men drifted into uneasy sleep, some curled up near the fire others retreated to the shelter of their tents. Granger remained awake, pacing the perimeter, fighting the primal urges that clawed at his mind.
The snow shimmered faintly in the moonlight and the cold bit through his uniform. He caught sight of his reflection in a patch of ice beneath a tree. At first, he thought that it was a trick of the light, but as he leaned closer, his stomach turned. His eyes were sunken, the irises glowing faintly yellow. His cheeks were hollow, his skin stretched taut over sharp cheekbones. His teeth were sharper now, like daggers meant for tearing flesh.
Granger fell back, landing hard in the snow. He scratched at his face, hoping to wake from whatever nightmare had ensnared him. But the changes were real.
“No,” he whispered to himself. “This isn’t me.”
The forest disagreed. The shadows seemed alive, swirling and shifting at the edge of his vision. He could feel the presence of the Wendigo, its inhuman gaze locked onto him from the darkness.
When sleep finally did claim him, it wasn’t a respite. In his dream, Granger stood in a warm cabin, firelight casting a soft glow onto the wooden walls. A family sat at a table, a mother, father, and two children. They laughed, their voices soft and melodic, a stark contrast to the horrors of the forest.
But Granger wasn’t a guest, he was an intruder.
The door crashed open behind him, and the wind roared through the cabin extinguishing the fire. The family screamed as a hulking figure entered. A man with wild eyes and a mouth stained from blood stood breathing heavily. His hands were claws, his breath fogged the frigid air wafting in from the outside.
Granger watched, helplessly, as the man descended on the family.
The father was first, his throat torn out with a feral snarl. Blood sprayed the walls, painting the cabin in crimson streaks. The mother grabbed the children, pushing them behind her, but the beast was relentless. It tore through her like she was nothing, her screams gurgling as her lungs filled with blood. The children cried, hugging each other, their faces pale with terror. The beast turned to them, its yellow eyes gleaming with hunger.
“No!” Granger shouted, but his voice was swallowed by the wind.
The boy’s screams pierced the air as the beast grabbed him, its claws raking down his chest. Blood spilled out onto the floor, pooling around his tiny body as the creature began to feast. The daughter was frozen in fear, one swipe of the beast’s mighty claws and her head went rolling across the floor.
Granger’s stomach turned as he heard the crunch of bones, the wet slurping of flesh.
And then the beast turned.
It locked eyes with Granger, blood dripping from its maw. As it stepped fully into the light, he saw his own face looking back at him.
Granger woke with a jolt, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His body was drenched with sweat, despite the winter cold. The fire had burned low, casting long shadows across the camp. The men were still asleep, their forms huddled beneath blankets.
He couldn’t shake the image of the cabin, the blood, the screams, the beast. He stumbled to his feet, his legs shaky beneath him. He needed air, needed to clear his head before he lost himself completely.
As he walked toward the edge of the camp, he caught sight of Henry. He was sitting up with his rifle resting on his knees. Their eyes met, and for a moment, Granger thought he saw something in Henry’s eyes, a flicker of pity or perhaps disgust.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Henry asked, his voice low.
Granger shook his head, “No. You?”
Henry didn’t answer. He simply stared at Granger, his expression unreadable,
Granger turned away, heading for the trees. He didn’t trust himself to be near the men, not tonight.
CHAPTER 17
The Beast Within
The morning broke gray and heavy, the sun hidden behind a thick wall of clouds. The camp stirred slowly, the men quiet as they prepared for another day of marching. The tension in the air was like a living thing, coiling around them as they packed their meager belongings.
Granger stood apart, his back to the campfire. His uniform hung loose on his frame. His skin stretched over tight over bones that no longer seemed human. His hands trembled as he fastened his belt, his nails thicker and sharper than they had been the day before. His stomach churned, a deep, gnawing hunger that clawed at him from within. It wasn’t just food that he craved. The venison they’d cooked the night before tasted like ash on his tongue. What he needed, what he wanted, he couldn’t even let himself think it.
But his body knew. The shadows in the trees seemed to whisper it. The distant cry of a crow felt like a summons.
The march began in near silence, the men too exhausted or fearful to talk. Granger trudged at the front, his boots crunching in the snow. Every step felt heavier than the last, his limbs sluggish. His head pounded with a feral rhythm he couldn’t escape.
“Something’s wrong with him,” Henry said under his breath. His words carried in the still air.
Granger clenched his fists, his nail biting into his palms. The anger rose, unbidden, white-hot and irrational. His breath quickened, each gasp a cloud of steam in the frigid air.
And then the smell hit him.
It was faint at first, carried on the wind. It was a sweet, tangy, metallic aroma that made his mouth water. His vision blurred. He turned, his senses sharpening, and focusing in on the scent. Private Davis, walking near the back of the line, had nicked his hand on his bayonet. The blood trickled down his hand, crimson against pale skin.
Granger stopped. His body locking up as a surge of hunger overwhelmed him.
The world tilted. One moment, he was staring at Davis’ hand, the next, he was on him. It was a blur of movement, Granger’s body acting on instincts he could not control. Davis screamed as they tumbled into the snow, Granger’s claws tearing into his chest. Blood sprayed, hot and vibrant, painting the white ground in streaks of red. Granger raised his trembling hand to his mouth, his tongue sliding over his fingers. He savored the warmth and coppery tang of Davis’ lifeblood as if it were the only thing that could sustain him.
“Granger! What the hell are you doing?” Henry’s voice cut through the chaos. But Granger couldn’t stop.
The blood tasted like salvation, filling the void inside of him. It quenched a thirst that he had no idea he carried. Davis thrashed beneath him, his cries weakening as Granger tore into him.
A shot rang out, the sound echoing off of the trees. Granger felt the bullet graze his shoulder, the pain barely registering. He turned, his bloodied face, and snarled. Henry stood frozen, his rifle raised. Around him, the other men gawked in horror. Their weapons were drawn but they stood there in shock.
“Stay back!” Granger growled, his voice guttural and raw.
Before anyone could react, Granger lunged at another soldier, Corporal Jameson. The man’s screams were cut short as Granger’s claws found his throat, ripping flesh from bone. The snow turned scarlet as Jameson collapsed. His body twitched violently before going still.
Granger moved with a ferocity and speed that defied reason, cutting down a third man before the men could raise their rifles. Blood sprayed across the white snow, the crimson stark against the purity of the landscape, as Granger turned his monstrous visage toward the last cluster of terrified soldiers.
“SHOOT HIM!” Henry yelled.
The men fired. The crack of muskets filled the air, smoke curled around them. But Granger was stronger, faster. He darted into the woods, discarding his Union coat and shirt as he ran. His body was a blur of fur and shadow.
For a long moment, nobody moved. The men were eerily silent, save for the ragged breathing of the surviving men.
“What…what in God’s name was that?” One of the soldiers whispered, his voice trembling.
Henry lowered his rifle, his hands shaking. “It was Granger. But it wasn’t him.”
“We have to go after him,” another man said, his voice tinged with fear.
Henry shook his head. “We have to be smart about this. He’s not human anymore. We need every man armed, and we need a plan. No one goes alone. No one.”
Amidst the chaos and battle with the wendigo, the air was thick with smoke and the acrid scent of gunpowder. It swirled in dense clouds from their muskets and rifles. In the frenzied moments, as they fired again and again at the monstrous creature, a sharp, sudden pained cry sang out. Thorne collapsed to the ground. His body jerked unnaturally as he clutched the bleeding wound on his chest. For a heartbeat, they couldn’t tell who had fired the fatal shot. The smoke and confusion had blurred their vision but the truth was unmistakable. In the madness, they had lost track of each other in the fog of war, Thorne had been hit by one of his own comrades’ fire. Panic surged through them as they scrambled toward him, the terrifying reality that they had killed one of their own setting in. Just as the Wendigo’s eerie growls echoed in the wind, undeterred.
The men began to gather their weapons, their faces pale with fear. Henry knelt beside Davis’ body, closing the young man’s eyes with a grim expression. “We end this,” he said, his voice low but resolute. Still kneeling he turned to the men. “Whatever he’s become, we can’t let it survive.”
The posse formed quickly, each man steeling himself for the hunt. They followed Granger’s blood-splattered trail into the woods. Their lanterns casting eerie shadows on the trees. Then the whispers began again, faint and sinister, carried on the wind. “Granger…”
The men moved as a grim procession, their faces pale and drawn. The forest seemed to close in around them. The skeletal branches of the trees swaying in an unseen wind that carried faint echoes, cries, snarls, whispers, or maybe just the creaking of old wood. No one spoke beyond the occasional sharp command to keep moving.
Henry led the group, his rifle clutched tightly. His knuckles turned white from his grip. The trail was fresh, broken twigs, blood spattered snow, and deep gouges in the ground. Granger’s ghastly transformation had left its mark on the land as much as it had on their souls.
“He’s not far ahead,” Henry said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Do you think he knows we’re coming?” One of the younger soldiers asked, his voice shaking.
“He knows.” Henry replied grimly, not bothering to soften the truth.
They came to a clearing where the snow was disturbed, a chaotic swirl of footprints and blood. The remains of a small animal lay scattered. Its ribs had been picked clean, the fur matted and stained with blood. Henry knelt by the scene, his jaw tightening as he examined the evidence.
“He’s feeding,” Henry said. “He’s faster than us, stronger. But he is not invincible. He can be killed.”
“Are you sure about that?” Another soldier asked, his voice tinged with doubt.
Henry didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
The group pressed on, following the trail as it twisted deeper into the forest. The further they went the darker it became, the light of the moon obscured by thick clouds. Shadows danced around them and every sound seemed amplified, the crunch of snow underfoot, the snap of a branch, the quickened breathing of the men. Then came the sound that froze them in place. It was a deep, resonant growl that vibrated through the air. It came from all around, as though the forest itself had found its voice.
“Steady…” Henry whispered, raising his rifle and signaling the men to spread out.
The growl came again, closer this time, followed by the sound of something heavy moving through the underbrush. The men crouched low, their weapons ready. Their eyes scanned the darkness. Suddenly one of the soldiers screamed, a sound of pure terror that was abruptly cut off. The men spun to the source, their lanterns casting frantic beams of light. But all they found was a patch of disturbed snow and a few drops of fresh blood.
“He’s hunting us,” Henry said through gritted teeth. “Stay together. Keep your eyes sharp.”
They formed a tighter circle, their backs to one another as they scanned the forest. The growls grew louder, closer, circling them like a predator toying with its prey. Then in a blur of motion, Granger emerged from the darkness. His form was barely recognizable. His body had grown grotesquely elongated, his limbs twisted and unnaturally stretched. His skin was stretched taut over bizarre muscles and covered in long, black fur. He had antlers that jutted from his skull at odd angles, making him appear taller than he was. His clawed hands glistened in the lantern light. His face was a horrific blend of man and beast with sharp, protruding teeth, sunken cheeks and glowing eyes that burned with a primal hunger. They locked onto the men with predatory intensity.
“Granger!” Henry shouted, stepping forward. “If there’s anything left of you, stop it! Fight it!”
For a moment, the creature hesitated. Its head tilted as if it was trying to understand the words. But then it let out a deafening roar and charged.
The men opened fire, the flashes from their rifles illuminating the night like lightning. Bullets struck Granger, but he barely flinched, his momentum carrying him into their ranks. Chaos erupted as men screamed and fought, the creature tore through them with brutal efficiency.
Henry aimed and fired. The shot struck Granger in the side. The creature snarled and lunged at him, but Henry rolled out of the way. His heart pounded as he struggled to reload.
“Fall back!” Henry shouted, his voice cutting through the pandemonium. “Regroup by the river!”
The few surviving men retreated, their movements frantic and disorganized. Henry was the last to leave, his eyes meeting Granger’s one final time before he turned and ran into the darkness. The haunting growl of the Wendigo trailed behind him.
They reluctantly went back to the camp to gather what supplies they could. Their faces were pale with shock and their hands trembled as they reloaded their weapons. The forest loomed around them, dark and impenetrable. Every snapping twig and distant rustle made them jump. Their nerves were frayed to the point of breaking.
Henry took charge, his voice strained but commanding. “Spread out, but stay within sight of one another. If you see…it, fire. Don’t wait for orders.” He glanced at the men, gauging their resolve. Some nodded, while others looked ready to flee. Their expression betrayed the terror they could no longer hide.
As they moved into the woods, the silence was oppressive, broken only by the crunch of boots in the snow and the faint rustle of the wind. The trail was easy to follow at first, marked by dark smears of blood and gouged earth where the creature had scrambled through the underbrush. But as they delved deeper, the marks became fainter, as though the forest itself conspired to conceal the beast.
Hours passed, or perhaps minutes, time had lost all meaning. The cold gnawed at their fingers & toes, but none dared to stop. They were driven by equal parts fear and determination. The men who had seen Granger’s transformation said nothing. The horror of the memory was enough to silence even the boldest among them.
Then, a scream pierced the night, shrill and agonized, coming from somewhere ahead. The posse froze, their hearts racing. Henry raised his hand, signaling the men to move cautiously, but the scream cut through their resolve like a knife. One of the younger soldiers bolted forward, shouting. “We have to help him!”
“Wait!” Henry barked, but the soldier was already gone. His form being swallowed by the darkness. “This feels like a trap.” He said, wiping the sweat off his forehead.
The surviving men pressed on, their breaths quickening as they followed the sound of more screams that were now just wet gurgles. When they reached the source, they found the soldier that had run off or what was left of him. His body lay sprawled across the snow. His chest had been ripped open like a wild animal had feasted on him. Blood stained the ground in a wide circle, steaming in the frigid air.
One of the men vomited, retching violently into the snow. Another cursed under his breath, his eyes wide with disbelief. Henry knelt by the body, his jaw clenched, but he knew there was nothing to be done.
“What kind of thing could do this?” One of them whispered, his voice trembling.
Henry stood, his face pale but resolute. “Not a thing,” he said. He scanned the darkness. “A man, or what’s left of him.”
Before anyone could respond, a low, guttural growl rumbled through the trees. It was closer than before, vibrating in their chests like a warning. The men raised their rifles.
“Granger?” Henry called out. “If you’re still in there, stop this. We can help you.”
Then the growl turned into a snarl. The forest erupted with the sound of snapping branches and the thunderous charge of something inhuman.
The posse barely had time to react before Granger lunged from the shadows. His twisted form broke through what was left of their ranks. He knocked one man to the ground with a bone crushing impact. The man screamed, but it was cut short as Granger’s claws tore at his throat.
“Fire!” Henry shouted, his voice raw.
The night exploded with the crack of rifles, the flashes from their muzzles illuminated Granger’s hideous silhouette. Bullets struck him, some tearing through flesh while others missed completely. He darted and weaved with unnatural speed. His snarls and growls echoed like thunder, an unholy sound that sent chills down their spines.
One man managed a lucky shot, hitting Granger in the bicep and spinning him back. For a moment, the beast hesitated, its glowing eyes locked onto the soldier that fired the shot. Granger roared and leapt toward him, closing the distance in an instant. The man screamed as Granger slammed his claws into his chest. He lifted the young man off of his feet and threw him into a tree with a sickening thud.
The men scrambled back, their formation broken. Henry stood his ground, firing round after round into the creature’s torso. Granger staggered, his breath hissing though bared teeth, but he did not fall. Instead, he let out a howl that seemed to shake the earth beneath them. His form retreated into the darkness before the men could unload.
Henry lowered his rifle, his hands shaking. “Is everybody OK? Anybody alive?”
Two men stepped forward. Their faces were pale and their eyes were glassy. “Just us,” one muttered, his voice barely audible.
Henry nodded grimly, looking at the carnage around them. “We can’t keep chasing him like this. He’s too fast, too strong. We’ll be slaughtered.”
“What do we do?” One of the men asked, his voice cracking. “He’s picking us off one by one.”
Henry wiped blood off his brow, unsure if it was his own or somebody else’s. “We head back to camp. Regroup. Then we will hunt him properly.”
As they made their way back through the forest, the growls and snarls of the Wendigo echoed in the distance. It was a haunting reminder of the man that Granger used to be. Each step felt heavier than the last. Every shadow seemed to move, as though the forest had turned against them.
By the time they reached what was left of their camp, the men collapsed in exhaustion. Their nerves were frayed and their bodies were battered. Henry stood apart, staring into the woods with a haunted expression. He knew they couldn’t run. Not from this. Granger, no, the Wendigo would come for them again.
And next time, it wouldn’t leave until all of them were dead.
CHAPTER 18
Dominion Of The Forest
Granger moved through the frozen woods with a predator’s grace, his new form melding with the shadows. The transformation had stripped away the man he once was, leaving only instinct and hunger. Yet, a fragment of awareness lingered, a singular, primal drive beyond the need to feed, the forest wasn’t big enough for two Wendigos.
The other creature’s scent was thick in the air, a rancid mix of decay and blood that led him deeper into the wilderness. The ground beneath him crunched with frost, his massive claws leaving deep gouges in the earth as he stalked forward. The moon hung heavy above, casting an eerie silver light that danced between the skeletal branches.
Granger stopped near a frozen stream, his breath misting in ragged puffs. His glowing eyes scanned the darkness and his ears twitched at the faint sound of movement. A low growl rumbled from his throat. He was not alone.
The other Wendigo emerged from the shadows like a nightmare made flesh, its hulking frame stooped under the weight of ancient hunger. Its eyes burned with the same feral glow, its jagged teeth bared in a snarl. This was its territory, its dominion. But Granger didn’t care. He let out a roar that split the silence, a challenge that reverberated through the forest.
The Wendigos circled each other, growling low and menacing, before lunging in a blur of claws and teeth. Granger slashed at the other creature’s face, carving deep gashes that oozed black, tar-like blood. The older Wendigo retaliated, its jagged claws raking down Granger’s chest, leaving lines of exposed muscle that glistened in the moonlight. The clash was savage and chaotic, their inhuman roars filling the forest as they tore into each other like rabid wolves.
The fight became a violent dance, each beast testing the other’s strength and endurance. The older Wendigo was faster, darting in and out with quick strikes that shredded Granger’s hide, but Granger’s raw power made him relentless. He slammed his body into the other, sending it crashing into a tree. The impact split the trunk with a thunderous crack. Before it could recover, Granger leapt onto its chest, driving his claws deep into its ribcage, feeling the brittle bones snap under his grip. The older Wendigo thrashed violently, its claws gouging into Granger’s side, but the newer monster refused to relent. His hunger for dominance outweighed the pain.
The forest seemed to hold its breath as the battle reached its apex. Granger tightened his grip on the older Wendigo, his claws piercing deeper, black ichor gushing from the wounds and staining the snow beneath them. The older beast snarled, barring its jagged teeth in defiance. With a guttural roar, it swung its head forward, sinking its teeth into Granger’s shoulder. The pain was searing, but only seemed to fuel Granger’s fury.
With a roar that shook the trees, Granger wrenched himself free, his blood mingling with the blackened fluid of his opponent. He slammed his claws down on the older Wendigo’s head, forcing it to the ground. The creature thrashed and bucked, trying to dislodge him. But Granger’s strength was unmatchable, unstoppable. He raised a clawed hand high, silhouetted against the pale moonlight, before driving it into the Wendigo’s throat. A wet, choking gurgle escaped the older beast as Granger tore its throat apart. Its struggles weakened with every passing second.
Finally, the creature lay still, its glassy, predatory eyes stared into nothingness. Granger stood over the lifeless body, chest heaving, his breath visible in the icy air. His victory was undeniable, but his humanity, what was left, was now completely gone. As he raised his bloodied face to the sky and unleashed a howl that echoed for miles, it was clear; Granger was no longer a man fighting to resist a curse. He had embraced it and now the forest belonged to him.
CHAPTER 19
The Last Survivor
The camp was eerily quiet except for the occasional crackle of the dying fire. Henry, along with Simmons and O’Leary, had taken up watch for the night. Their rifles in their hands, though none of them thought would do much good against the creature stalking them. They hadn’t seen Granger since the last attack but signs of his presence were everywhere, massive claw marks gouged into trees, patches of blood streaked snow, and an overwhelming sense of dread hanging in the air.
“I don’t like this,” O’Leary muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. His hands shook as he adjusted the grip on his rifle, “it’s too quiet.”
“Quiet is good,” Simmons replied, though his tone offered little confidence. “It means he isn’t here.”
Henry wasn’t so sure. He had a sinking feeling deep in his gut, one that told him Granger was close, waiting, watching.
A sudden noise shattered the silence, a low growl emanating from the darkness just beyond the firelight. All three men spun around, their rifles raised. For a long moment, nothing moved, and Henry began to think they had imagined it.
Then Granger, no the Wendigo, burst from the shadows with horrifying speed. Simmons didn’t have time to react before the creature’s claws slashed across his face sending him sprawling backward in the snow. O’Leary screamed, firing wildly into the night as he backed away, but the shots went wide. The beast turned on him, its antlers catching the firelight as it lunged.
“O’Leary, RUN!” Henry yelled, but it was too late. The Wendigo’s jaws clamped down on O’Leary’s throat, silencing him in an instant.
Henry fired his rifle, the shot hitting Granger square in the shoulder. The creature let out a furious roar and dropped O’Leary’s limp body, turning its glowing eyes on Henry. He reloaded as quickly as his shaking hands would allow, but Granger was already closing the distance.
The second shot struck the beast’s side, causing it to stagger, but it only seemed to enrage it further. Henry didn’t wait to see what would happen next. He turned and ran, his boots slipping on the icy ground as he made for the forest. Behind him he heard the crunch of snow and the guttural growls of the Wendigo. Simmons and O’Leary were dead, he was the last one left.
As he ran, the forest seemed to shift and close in around him, the trees looming like specters. Henry didn’t stop until he broke through the treeline onto the frozen riverbank. He spun around, rifle raised, and waited for the Wendigo to follow.
The beast appeared moments later, emerging from the shadows with slow, deliberate steps. Blood dripped from its claws and its glowing eyes burned with malevolence. Henry fired again, the bullet hitting its leg. The Wendigo stumbled but didn’t fall. It let out a deafening roar, a mix of rage and pain. Henry used this moment to run down the riverbank.
His breath came in ragged gasps as he pushed himself harder than he ever had before. The creature’s howls echoed behind him, a reminder that the hunt was far from over. Henry was alone now, the last survivor of a nightmare he could not wake from. But he was determined to survive, even if it meant he had to run forever.
The icy riverbank stretched out before Henry, a treacherous path slick with frost and uneven rocks. He stumbled, his body screaming in protest, but he refused to stop. Every muscle burned, every breath tore through his chest like shards of glass, but the alternative – facing that thing, was unthinkable
Behind him, the Wendigo’s guttural growls echoed, growing louder as it closed the distance. The sound of its claws scraping against the frozen ground sent shivers down Henry’s spine. He risked a glance over his shoulder and instantly regretted it. The Wendigo was limping but it was gaining ground, its antlers cutting a sinister silhouette against the dim moonlight.
The rifle felt heavy in Henry’s hands, his fingers numb from the cold. He stopped abruptly, skidding to a halt and to face the beast. His heart pounded as he raised his weapon, his sights locking onto the monster charging toward him.
He took a deep breath and squeezed the trigger.
The shot rang out, shattering the quiet night. The bullet struck the Wendigo’s chest, staggering it once more. For a moment, he thought that he had stopped it, but then the creature bellowed, shaking off the impact like it was nothing.
Henry backed away, reloading as quickly as he could. His movements were clumsy, his fingers fumbling with the cartridges. The Wendigo’s glowing eyes fixed on him, filled with a primal fury that sent a wave of terror through him.
“I’m sorry, Granger,” he whispered under his breath as he raised his rifle again.
This time, the shot hit the Wendigo in the upper chest, forcing it to drop to one knee. It let out a howl of pain, the sound reverberating through the forest and scattering birds perched in the trees. Henry hesitated, watching as the creature clutched at its wounded shoulder. Its breath came in ragged gasps.
For the first time, it looked almost human.
“Granger…” Henry called out, his voice trembling. “If you’re still in there, stop. You don’t have to do this!”
The Wendigo froze, its head snapping up to meet Henry’s gaze. For a brief moment, Henry thought he saw a flicker of recognition. But then the beast snarled, baring its blood stained teeth and launched itself forward.
Henry dove to the side, narrowly escaping the Wendigo’s claws. He hit the ground hard, the wind knocked out of him. But he scrambled to his feet clutching his rifle like a lifeline. The Wendigo skidded to a halt and turned, its movements slower now, more labored. It was weakening.
Henry knew this might be his only chance. He raised his rifle, one last time, aiming for the creature’s heart. His hands shook. Tears streamed down his face as he steadied his breath.
“I’m sorry.”
He fired.
The shot struck true, and the Wendigo let out one final anguished roar before collapsing onto the cold riverbank. Its massive body twitched once, twice and then it was still.
Henry stood there, his rifle still raised, his breathing coming in gasps. The forest was still now, the oppressive weight of the nightmare finally lifting. But as he lowered his weapon, a chilling realization crept over him. The Wendigo’s body didn’t dissolve or fade away like he had hoped. It remained, a grotesque reminder of the man Granger once was, and the monster he had become.
Henry turned and began walking, his footsteps heavy and unsteady. He didn’t know where he was going or how he’d survive. But one thing was certain, he couldn’t stay here any longer.
Henry trudged through the snow, his limbs heavy and his vision swimming with shadows, but it wasn’t exhaustion that clawed at him. It was something darker, something primal swimming in his veins. A sharp gnawing hunger and thirst twisted in his gut, stronger than anything he had ever known. The faint scent of blood in the air made his mouth water. He had been there when the village was burned, his torch a part of the inferno. Though he hadn’t known at the time, the curse marked him, too, weaving its hunger deep into his soul. Deep inside, a voice whispered in the rustle of the trees, reminding him that the forest always demands its due, and it had chosen him.
The forest was no longer safe. It never had been.