Eyes of the Wendigo

6 -

Mark stood at the edge of the village, the trees towering in front of him like blackened sentinels against the dark sky. The moon was hidden behind thick clouds, casting the woods in near total darkness. Only the pale glow of snow reflected the faintest light, just enough to make out the faint outlines of the tree trunks, stretching endlessly into the distance. The cold was biting, his breath forming clouds of condensation as it escaped his mouth in shallow puffs, but he barely felt it anymore. He had become numb to it, as numb as he had become to everything since Rob's death.

He didn't know how long he had been out here—hours maybe, or perhaps just minutes. Time had begun to lose its shape, slipping through his fingers like snow. It had been like this for weeks now, ever since he'd seen the figure in the woods. Ever since he'd seen Rob.

Mark's eyes scanned the tree line, searching for any sign of movement, any flicker of shadow that might confirm what he already knew—that Rob was still out there. He hadn't imagined it. He couldn't have. The figure had been real, solid. And it had been him. The way it had stood, the way it had moved—it was all too familiar. Mark had known Rob his whole life. He could recognize his best friend anywhere, even in the eerie darkness of the forest.

But how could that be possible? How could Rob be alive when they had buried his body? The thought gnawed at Mark's mind, pulling at the edges of his sanity, fraying the once-clear lines of reality. He tried to push it away, tried to focus on the task at hand, but the questions wouldn't leave him. They clung to him, digging into his brain like icy claws.

He wasn't supposed to be out here. He had told himself that over and over again. But he couldn't stay away. Every night, as soon as the village quieted down, as soon as the fires in the hearths began to die and the windows went dark, he found himself slipping out of his cabin and making his way to the edge of the woods. He was drawn to it, like a moth to a flame. He couldn't help it. The pull was irresistible.

He told himself it was to keep watch, to make sure that whatever had taken Rob didn't come for anyone else. But deep down, Mark knew that wasn't the whole truth. He was searching. Waiting. Hoping to see Rob again, hoping for some explanation, some sign that would make everything make sense again.

But the nights had passed in silence. Nothing but the distant wind rustling through the trees, the crunch of snow underfoot, and the oppressive weight of the cold pressing in on him from all sides. No figure. No Rob. Only the quiet, suffocating isolation that felt like it was slowly driving him mad.

Maybe I already am, Mark thought bitterly as he paced back and forth along the perimeter, his rifle slung over his shoulder. His boots left deep impressions in the snow, but he didn't care. He wasn't trying to hide. If anything, he wanted whatever was out there to see him. He wanted it to come out, to face him, so he could finally put an end to this madness.

But it didn't come.

He glanced back toward the village, its cabins dark and silent, smoke rising in thin wisps from the chimneys. He was alone out here, as he had been every night. No one else knew what he was doing, and if they did, they would think he was insane. Maybe they'd be right. But Mark didn't care what they thought. He only cared about finding Rob—about finding the truth.

Suddenly, a sound broke through the stillness.

A voice. Faint, distant, barely more than a whisper, carried on the wind.

"Mark..."

He froze, his breath catching in his throat. His heart pounded in his chest, the sound of it loud in his ears. He stood perfectly still, straining to listen, his eyes wide as he scanned the tree line.

Nothing.

The voice had been so quiet, so faint, that he wasn't even sure he had heard it. Maybe it was just the wind. But then it came again, clearer this time, unmistakable.