Wendigo

Paul kind of sighed. "Okay," he said, and then the wind picked up, and this time it was on every side, and it pushed the walls and ceiling in, like a giant fist around the whole house. The rafters creaked until they sounded like they would splinter and we heard the glass crack in the windows, and chunks of rock fell down inside the chimney and the sound was like being inside the mouth of a big, roaring animal.

I covered my ears, and Eric lost his footing and fell when the house shook, and finally Shawna ran forward and opened the door. When she did the wind stopped, and Paul was standing there on the porch, hands in his pockets, his normal self, smiling.

"Hey, sis," he said.

Shawna didn't move. She didn't react. I realized I'd never seen her scared before. I thought I should tell her to close the door, that it would be better to take our chances with the storm, that if he could come in on his own or knock the house down that he would have already, but everything was still happening from the other side of the thick pane of glass that separated me from the world, so I couldn't.

"Is Eric in there?" Paul said.

"Paul..." said Shawna. Her voice was very small.

"I really need to talk to him. Just take a second. Not a big thing. Eric?"

Eric stood on wobbly legs. He went halfway to the door and stopped.

"'sup bro?" said Paul. He smiled wider and I saw flecks of red between his teeth.

"What do you want?" said Eric. His voice was quiet, but steady.

"Eric; you stole my girl, didn't you?"

Eric shook his head. "It's not like that."

"Sure it is," said Paul, still smiling. "I understand, though. I was gone a while. That doesn't make it okay, but I should have expected something like this."

"Paul, leave him alone," said Shawna.

"Shut up, sis." Paul took a step forward, so that he was just at the threshold. "Thing is, I've been thinking about it, and I don't want anyone else to get hurt," he said. "I'm...I'm sorry about what happened out there already. I don't want any more of that. I figure, let's just settle this, you and me. You know: man to man. And the girls can go home. Sound okay?"

Eric said nothing, but he edged a little closer to the door. Shawna tried to push him back. "Eric, no, just stay here," she said. "He can't hurt us if we're in here, I mean look at him, he can't even come in."

"Sure I can," said Paul. "I'm just staying out here because it's safer for you. If I come in, people will get hurt."

"People are already hurt," said Shawna.

"All the more reason I don't want any more." Paul shrugged, like he always did. "Come on Eric, what do you say? You want to see everyone else go home, right?"

"Yeah," said Eric. He took another step, and now Shawna wrapped her arms around his waist to try and hold him in place.

"Eric, no!"

"It'll be all right, man," said Paul. He put his hand out. "I promise, it'll be all right."

"Eric!" said Shawna, but as she pushed him she slipped on some of the melted snow on the floor. I watched it all happen in slow motion: Shawna falling and Eric going to grab her and then slipping too, and then Paul reaching in, his arm becoming very long and his hand becoming huge, and the whites of Eric's eyes growing large as that great claw dragged him away. I think I tried to stand and help, to grab his arm and pull him in and maybe save him. But I just couldn't.

With a howl of wind the door slammed shut, and they were both gone. Everything was quiet. Even the wind and the snow stopped.

Shawna stood up and ran after them, but when she opened the door again there was nothing but the storm and those huge, animal-like tracks in the snow. She called Eric's name over and over. The wind called it back. If it weren't for me, I'm sure Shawna would have tried to chase them and probably never would have come back. Instead she locked the door again and we huddled together on the living room floor, crying quietly. Falling chimney debris had smothered the fire, but the embers still glowed, like dozens of tiny, winking red eyes, watching us.

Shawna was saying that Eric might come back. She obviously didn't believe it, but you had to hope. I watched the seconds tick off the clock one by one. An hour passed. There was no sign of Eric, or of Paul. Then, at a quarter after the hour, we heard the wind again. The house shuddered. The beast was hungry.

After thinking for a while, Shawna said it was time for us to make a break for it. She said that even if the sheriff's deputies got out here that there wouldn't be anything they could do. Only in town would be safe, she said, though her tone sounded doubtful about even that. She told me to wait here while she warmed up the car, that I'd be safer inside. In my right mind I would probably have objected to being left alone, but as it was I just nodded.

I didn't have long to wait anyway, as Shawna came back within minutes, telling me that the car was gone. She gave no further explanation, just "The car is gone," and I nodded and accepted this, thinking that if Paul could bring the house down on us and carry Eric off right in front of us there was no reason he couldn't spirit the car away too.

"Why is he doing this?" Shawna said. "That's not Paul. Paul wouldn't do this."

"Yes he would," I said. It was the first thing I'd said in a while and it startled us both. I looked at my hands (not hands anymore, really) as I talked. "You know how Paul was: selfish, hot-tempered, and a showoff. I loved him more than anyone, but you know how he was. We all knew."

Shawna shook her head. "Paul wouldn't hurt people."

"You don't know what he'd do if he had to. No one knows what they might do."

Shawna was quiet for a while. The wind grew louder. She seemed to be making a decision, and finally she said, "We still have to run for it. If the car is gone so is most of our food, and if this storm lasts the snow could trap us in here. There's a ranger station on the map, a few miles away. We might be able to make it." She hesitated. "You can stay if you want to. I mean, I'm not going to make you go out there. It's dangerous either way."

"Is it more dangerous in or out?" I said.

Shawna shook her head. "I don't know."

I nodded. "All right. Let's go then."

We raided the hall closet, piling on as many layers of old winter clothes as we could. Shawna had to help me with every little button and zipper, since I couldn't grab onto anything. We found one pair of gloves big enough to fit over my bandages; I looked like I was wearing oven mitts. I was finally starting to feel the pain. The bandages had almost bled through now, and I wondered how much more blood I could afford to lose. Then I decided it probably didn't matter.

Shawna went to the kitchen and came back with a carving knife, one that looked like it was probably older than the house. It was ridiculous to think we could protect ourselves with something that looked like it wouldn't make a dent in a Thanksgiving turkey, but it was that or go out empty-handed. In my mind, I made a decision: If something happened, I wouldn't try to run away. I probably couldn't make it on my own; Shawna had a better chance. So if it came down to it, I'd do whatever I could to make sure she got away instead of me. This decision I made still from behind the glass, still with my mind not wholly conscious, still not fully grasping or believing what was happening to us, and what was about to happen.

Shawna went ahead of me, holding the best flashlight in one hand and the knife in the other. The map was in her back pocket, though she'd shown me where the ranger station was and roughly how I could get there, in case we were separated. I could hold a flashlight, albeit unsteadily, if I used both hands, so she gave me the second-best one and told me to keep behind her. God, it was so cold that night. I've never really felt warm again. That cold is down in my bones and it's never coming out.

No matter which way we went the wind blew in our faces, the ice and the snow stinging our eyes. The drifts were almost three feet high and every step took the effort of five. Shawna had tied an old coat around her waist and another around mine, tying the sleeves together. It was a smart move, since visibility was so bad that I lost sight of the house a hundred yards out. The entire world was a cold, wet, windy void, blank white in every direction. I tried not to think about where we were going. Forward was whichever way Shawna said it was. I knew we were doing to die. Shawna must have known too, but she would never sit down and wait for it to happen. She would die on her feet. I would die following her.

At first I couldn't figure out why we'd stopped, and then I followed the beam of her flashlight and saw the bones half-buried in the snow. There wasn't really anything left to tell by, but it must have been Eric. The skeleton was almost spotless, hardly even a stain on it, as though even every drop of blood had been licked away after the rest was gone. For some reason this made me stop, and even when Shawna was urging me on, even when she was begging and then screaming at me to keep moving, I couldn't stop staring at those bones.

There was so little blood, you see; not like with Karina's body at all. I wondered how that was possible. Shawna sounded like she was a million miles away. I thought about those huge hands splitting the carcass open, and those teeth stripping the flesh, and that big, rough, sandpaper tongue (I had forgotten about its tongue until just that moment) licking everything clean, but what about what had spilled? The snow here should be a mess of spilled blood. If the bones hadn't been buried yet then neither should the blood, so where was it all?

Shawna slapped me again, and I was beginning to get annoyed at her. And then I saw something else, and I started to laugh, hysterical. "Don't you see?" I said. "It really is Paul, it has to be, just look at that!"

I pointed to some furrows nearby, furrows that looked as if long, thin fingers had dug out handfuls of snow. "Remember when we were kids, and we used to throw hot caramel onto the snow and watch it freeze, and then scoop it up and eat it, like your grandmother showed us?" I went on. "You see, that's what he did with the blood, so that he didn't waste a drop. He scooped up the bloody snow and he ate it, just like we did with the caramel when we were kids. It's really him, it's really Paul. He's here. He's out there. He's..."

I trailed off. I started to cry. My hands hurt so much. The glass broke, and the world came back into focus, and God, I wish it hadn't.

Shawna was hugging me, and then shaking me, then telling me we had to keep moving or we'd die, and I knew she was right. But I also knew it didn't matter, because I heard it again:

The wind was calling my name.

The storm suddenly grew calm, and when we looked up there was Paul, right in front of us, like he'd been waiting for us. Shawna tried to push me behind her but I was rooted to the spot. Paul smiled a little and gestured, and then I was walking forward. Shawna stood in front of me but I pushed past her. I was at peace inside again, like the hypothermia victims lying down to sleep. The pain in my hands was gone and I couldn't feel the cold anymore. All I could think about was Paul. He was putting his arms out, waiting to hold me, and I wanted to be held, to make up for all the late nights I'd spent alone, crying, thinking about him, praying (to no one at all; I never prayed in my life until Paul disappeared) that he was still alive but knowing that it was impossible. Shawna was telling me to stop, and then she was screaming at Paul. He told her, "Go on, Shawna; leave. You're still my sister. I don't want you to get hurt."

"Paul, no!" said Shawna. "Paul, come on, stop, just stop!" I took a few more steps. Paul smiled. I wanted to tell Shawna to forget it, that I never would have made it anyway. Maybe I even did and she just wasn't listening. "Take me instead," Shawna said.

"I can't," said Paul. His expression faltered for a second. "You're family. Family is different."

"She's family too," said Shawna.

"Not really," said Paul. "Not anymore. Not since we..."

He looked pained then, and I stopped walking, and I felt a little stab just under my heart. My tears froze.

I knew that Paul planned that trip with his friends so that he could get away from me for a week, and at the time I resented him for it, but even back then I recognized how much pain he was in. It hurt him not knowing how we were anymore or what we were to each other, and he was confused by trying to be friends and family and lovers all at once; because when you try to be everything to someone you end up as nothing.

Paul, or whatever was left of Paul now, wanted to be with me, just like he used to; but, just like he used to, he also couldn't bear the thought. And now he finally had a solution: to make me part of him, so that we could be both together and separate, finally, at last. It was a beautiful idea; in a horrible way.

Shawna ran straight into me and finally succeeded in pushing me down. I fell on my back and sank in the snow, just like with the ill-fated snow angel of our childhood, and then Shawna cut the knot tying us together and screamed "Run!" and threw herself at Paul.

She barreled right into him and they fell in a heap, and I saw her raising the knife and bringing it down, and then I saw that huge shape rise up, grappling her, pushing her down, disarming her, and then Shawna was screaming, and I ran.

I ran and ran, feet churning the snow. I ran blindly through forest, and the trees rose up around me, and all of them were monsters, and they shuddered and shook in the wind, and the wind no longer called my name. Instead the wind just screamed. It screamed and screamed, and I screamed with it.

And, in a way, I've never stopped screaming.

***

I should have died.

Between being lost, having no real protection from the storm, and all the blood I'd lost, they say there's no way I should have survived. Somehow I got to the main road, and the deputies who fought the storm to answer Shawna's call about Karina found me. I was raving and hysterical, and I spent four days in intensive care before I even fully regained consciousness.

I should have died. They call it a miracle.

There wasn't anything they could do to save my hands, of course. It's all right. I have a nurse now who helps with the little things I can't do, like typing this. They tell me that the pain will fade eventually. Phantom pain, they call it. They don't know how right they are.

I told the police everything. There was no lie I could imagine that would account for it all, so I told the truth instead. They humored me, of course. Everyone humors the crazy woman.

Two days after I was found, a rancher shot a bear on his porch, the same bear they believed attacked a hiker the night Shawna and Eric and Karina died, and all the deaths were blamed on the animal. A man-eating bear was a story everyone could be comfortable with; not like my crazy story about how my ex boyfriend came back from the dead and killed everyone. True or not, no one was ever going to rest easy with that story. So they believed what they wanted

I have a psychiatrist who tells me that it's perfectly normal to invent delusions as a defense mechanism. The trauma of losing so many people close to me in such a short period of time leads the mind to cope through fantasies, she says.

She also explained about the wendigo: Certain Algonquin-speaking tribes had stories about people who became monsters after resorting to cannibalism in the winter. The wendigo was half-man, half-spirit, and it moved with the wind. It was all skin and bones because it was cursed with a hunger that could never be satisfied, a man and a monster at war with itself for all eternity.

It was a story to enforce the taboo against cannibalism, she explained, so that no one got any crazy ideas during bad winters. She said that I might have heard wendigo stories before (even if I don't remember them) and that my subconscious mind probably adapted them to the trauma I experienced, as a way to reconcile my grief over Paul with the pain of losing my other friends. It almost makes sense when she says it. But I don't buy it.

The wendigo story gets me to thinking about Paul sometimes, though, and about how four other people went up the mountain with him, and how they found everyone's bones but his.

Bones that had been gnawed on.

I think about how he must have been trapped out there for weeks and weeks while the search parties combed every part of the mountain except where he was. I remember how it felt when I was lost in the cold, and how dying in the cold seemed like the most awful thing in the world, and how I felt like I might do anything to keep from dying that way. And Paul, well, he might have done anything too, while he was trapped with no food and no way to get help.

Maybe the others were already dead by the time he got to that point. Then again, maybe they weren't.

And who could blame him? After all, he'd never heard of the wendigo. He couldn't have known what would happen.

Not much has changed for me. I've gotten older. I'm cold all the time, no matter what the weather is like, but I'm used to it now. I still have nightmares, but they're not so bad. The phantom pain isn't so bad either. Mostly it's the wind that gets to me.

There are still nights—usually winter nights, when I know that it's snowing way up in the mountains—when I think I hear the wind call my name. No matter where I am or what I'm doing or how hard I try to hide from it, the wind calls my name.

And some nights, when I stay up late and watch the trees sway back and forth and try to remember if all of those shapes had been there when the sun went down, when the pain in my wrists is the worst, and when I think about Paul, and Shawna, and Eric, and poor Karina...

On nights like that, when the wind calls my name, I call back. And it comforts me.