Eyes of the Wendigo

2 -

The wind howled outside the cabin, rattling the windows and slipping through the cracks in the walls, chilling the air inside. Sarah Mercer sat hunched on the edge of the bed, a thin woolen blanket draped over her shoulders, staring blankly at the photograph of Rob she clutched in her hands. It had been taken three years ago, during the summer, when everything had still been warm, vibrant, and alive. Rob's smile in the photo was broad, his arm around her shoulders as they stood in front of the lake, the sun glinting off the water behind them. She looked at his face now, trying to remember what his voice had sounded like, the timbre of it, the way he said her name. But all she could recall was the scream.

That scream had followed her ever since the night they found him. Rob's frozen, twisted body, locked in a permanent expression of horror, mouth open wide in a silent cry. It haunted her. Every time she closed her eyes, she heard it—a deafening, wordless sound that tore through her dreams and left her gasping awake, drenched in sweat. Even now, in the dim light of the cabin, the edges of her reality felt blurred, as if the nightmare was waiting just beyond the walls, ready to consume her again.

Sarah wiped her damp palms on her knees and set the photograph aside, feeling the weight of her grief settle heavily in her chest. Grief, yes, but something else too. Guilt. It gnawed at her insides like a slow, persistent ache, whispering to her that she hadn't done enough—that she hadn't been there for him when he needed her most.

She should have stopped him from going out that day, shouldn't have let him leave. Rob had been restless, more so than usual, his mind preoccupied with something she couldn't quite reach. He had talked about strange sounds in the woods, mentioned feeling watched whenever he ventured too far from the village. But she'd brushed it off, thinking it was just the winter playing tricks on him. They all felt it—the isolation, the long nights, the way the cold pressed in on you until you started to think things that weren't there. She should have listened.

But she hadn't.

And now he was dead.

The knock at the door startled her, pulling her from her thoughts. Sarah blinked, disoriented, and stared at the door for a long moment, as if she'd forgotten that there was still a world outside, beyond her grief. When the knock came again, louder this time, she forced herself to stand. Her legs felt shaky beneath her, and the room seemed to tilt slightly as she moved toward the door.

She opened it just a crack, peering through the small gap. It was Old Mrs. Halloway, the village elder. Her face was creased with concern, her weathered hands clutching a basket. She stood hunched over slightly, as if the years of carrying the village's burdens had finally weighed her down for good.

"Sarah," Mrs. Halloway said, her voice gentle. "I've brought you some soup. It's not much, but you need to eat."

Sarah stared at her for a moment, unsure of how to respond. She hadn't asked for anything. She didn't want anything. The idea of eating felt foreign, unnecessary. But Mrs. Halloway pushed the basket toward her, and Sarah found herself taking it automatically, as if her body was acting out of habit rather than will.

"Thank you," she muttered, her voice barely audible.

Mrs. Halloway nodded, her sharp eyes scanning Sarah's face. "How are you holding up?"

The question hung in the air, empty and meaningless. How could she answer that? How could anyone answer that after what had happened? She wasn't holding up at all. She was falling apart, piece by piece, every day a little more.

"I'm fine," Sarah lied, her voice tight.

Mrs. Halloway pursed her lips, unconvinced. "You shouldn't be alone, Sarah. Grief is a heavy thing to carry by yourself. You know the village is here for you, don't you?"