The Wendigo

by Aidan Aboud

His black, hardened muzzle dusted the snowy ground, sniffing a fading trail of blood. The snow that fell, stinging his back, obscured his vision, the cold air freezing the sweat on his face. But his nose, that hardened muzzle, could still smell the trace amount of blood, the red haze hovering in the air before his eyes, pointing him towards his prey. His heart began to race, and his eyes dilated, his mind giving into that maddening torrent of thought that haunted him so. He began to run, his body growing in length, until he was licking the ground beneath his feet, longing for an early taste of that sweet sweet mortal ichor. He grinned beneath his mask, howling into the night. The trees seemed a blur in the edges of his vision. He could see his prey now, hear its frantic, limping gait, smell the source of blood that came ever closer. He ran, further into that black night, that blanket of sin. He caught up to the form right as its legs gave out. Stopping for a moment, he titled his head, in that curious manner that only the most savage of animals do, thinking, contemplating, his courses of action. Something in the back of his mind screamed at him. Told him to run. But the temptation was too great. No one need know. He began to reach out. Suddenly, something snapped. The mask that adorned his face seemed to melt into his head, and he arched his back, his bones growing longer, stretching his skin tight across his back. He bent over, screaming into the night. He continued his grasping approach, his fingers melting into claws, and then he was tearing into his prey. He could hear it screaming. “Stop. Please. Think of the others.” It gritted its teeth against the onslaught, and then lay silent, accepting its fate. The monster never stopped to consider why it did this, but then there was no going back. His prey laid limp in his fingers. And he savored every bite of that soft, sweet, human flesh.