Eyes of the Wendigo

3 -

Mark Grayson had always been a man of routine. Hunting required it. Every day had a rhythm, a structure: get up before dawn, grab your gear, and head out into the woods before the frost settled too thickly on the ground. There was comfort in it. The regularity of it kept him focused, even when the rest of the world felt like it was falling apart. But since Rob's death, that rhythm had begun to unravel, piece by piece, until Mark barely recognized himself anymore.

Rob's death had been the first crack. His best friend, his hunting partner, gone without warning. The two of them had been inseparable since childhood, growing up in the same small, snow-locked village, learning to hunt in the same woods that now felt strange and hostile. Mark still remembered the sound of Rob's laugh, sharp and booming, the kind of sound that filled up a room, that told you everything was going to be okay.

But that laugh was gone now, frozen out of the world like a flame snuffed in the dark.

Mark stood by the window of his cabin, staring out at the snow-covered landscape beyond. The woods seemed endless, stretching out beyond the horizon, the trees looming like dark sentinels against the pale sky. His breath fogged the glass as he leaned closer, squinting through the frost. It was early morning, the sun barely a sliver of pale light on the horizon. It was the time he should have been heading out, just like always. But his gear remained untouched, leaning against the wall where it had been for days.

He didn't want to go out there. Not anymore. Not after what he'd seen.

A shiver crawled up his spine, and Mark turned away from the window, rubbing his hands together to warm them. He hadn't told anyone about it yet—what he'd seen that day deep in the woods. No one would believe him. Hell, he barely believed it himself. But it was real. He was sure of it.

It had been a week after they found Rob's body, and Mark had been out on a solo hunting trip, trying to clear his head. The forest had always been a place of solace for him, a place where he could breathe, where the weight of the village and its people fell away. But that day, something was different. The air had been thick with tension, like the forest itself was holding its breath.

Mark had been following a set of tracks—deer, by the look of them—and he'd ventured farther than usual, into the deeper part of the woods where the trees grew taller and the underbrush was dense. It wasn't a place many of the villagers went, not without a damn good reason. But Mark had needed the distraction. He hadn't been able to stop thinking about Rob, about the way his body had been found, frozen and twisted in a way that didn't make sense.

And that's when he'd seen it.

At first, he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. The figure had been distant, barely visible through the trees, just a flicker of movement in the corner of his vision. He'd squinted, trying to focus, but the figure had been gone before he could get a clear look. He'd shaken it off, chalked it up to exhaustion, maybe even the cold.

But then, not ten minutes later, he'd seen it again.

This time, the figure had been closer, standing just at the edge of a small clearing. Mark had frozen, his breath catching in his throat. The figure wasn't a deer, wasn't any kind of animal. It was a man. Tall, broad-shouldered, standing perfectly still, as if waiting for something. Mark had taken a few cautious steps forward, squinting against the glare of the snow, his mind racing.

And then the figure had turned.

Mark's blood had run cold. He knew that face. He knew it better than his own. It had been Rob. Standing there, as plain as day, staring at him through the trees. His face pale, his eyes dark, hollow.

But that was impossible.

Rob was dead.

Mark had stood there, paralyzed, his heart pounding in his chest, his mind spinning. He had wanted to call out, to say something, but his voice had been trapped in his throat. And then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the figure had turned and walked into the woods, vanishing into the trees like a ghost.