The Wendigo

The CampfireThe openingFree

A long time ago, in the north woods of Canada, a group of men went moose hunting in the fall. The country there goes on forever. Lakes and pine forest, hundreds of miles of it, with no towns and no roads. The only way in is by canoe.

There was a doctor named Cathcart, who'd come for the hunting. His young nephew, Simpson, a divinity student on his first trip to the wilderness. And two guides. One of them was a big, cheerful French Canadian named Défago.

Défago knew the woods better than anyone. He sang. He told jokes. He could paddle all day. Everyone liked him.

But when they made camp the first night, and the cook mentioned a certain lake to the west, Fifty Island Water, Défago went quiet. And when the cook mentioned the thing that people said lived out there, Défago got angry, and told him to shut up.

So of course, a few days later, the hunting was bad, and Simpson and Défago went west together, by canoe, to Fifty Island Water.

They camped on the shore. A little tent. A fire. Défago was nervous the whole time. He kept stopping, lifting his head, sniffing the air like a dog.

"What is it?" Simpson asked.

Défago laughed it off. "Just the smell of the woods," he said. "Smells like lions."

Lions. In Canada.

That night, in the tent, Simpson woke up. Défago was crying in his sleep. Sobbing, like a child. Then he was quiet.

And outside the tent, something sniffed. Something big. All around the tent, slowly. Breathing in.