Eyes of the Wendigo

9 -

The nights were bleeding into one another, and Mark could no longer tell where one ended and the next began. He hadn't slept in what felt like days, maybe weeks. It was impossible to know anymore. Every time he lay down to rest, his mind buzzed with the same looping questions, the same gnawing obsession that had taken hold of him ever since he'd seen that figure in the woods. That figure that looked so much like Rob.

It was Rob. It had to be.

Mark sat on the edge of his bed, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused, staring blankly at the ice-covered window. The room was dim, the only light coming from the dying fire in the hearth. The cold crept through the cabin, biting at his skin, but he barely felt it. His entire body was numb—numb from exhaustion, from the cold, from the endless cycle of doubt and hope that churned inside him.

He ran a trembling hand through his unwashed hair, his fingers shaking as they brushed against his scalp. He could barely think anymore. His thoughts came in fragments, disjointed and fleeting, like snowflakes dissolving into nothingness before they could take shape.

And then there was Rob. Always Rob.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Rob's face. It was there, waiting for him in the darkness, watching him. At first, it had been in his dreams—vivid, terrifying dreams where Rob stood at the edge of the woods, his eyes wide and hollow, his face twisted in an expression Mark couldn't read. But now, it wasn't just in his dreams. It was everywhere. He saw Rob's face in the reflections of the ice-covered windows, in the frozen pools of water that dotted the village, in the shiny, slick surface of the snow at night.

It was always the same. Rob's face, staring at him. Accusing him.

Mark rubbed his eyes, trying to push the image away, but it lingered, just out of reach, like a shadow that followed him no matter where he went. He couldn't escape it. He couldn't escape him.

The cabin felt too small, too confining, the walls pressing in on him. He needed to get out, needed to move. If he stayed inside any longer, he would lose what little sanity he had left.

Without a second thought, Mark grabbed his coat and rifle, slinging it over his shoulder as he stumbled out the door and into the cold night. The wind hit him immediately, sharp and biting, but it was nothing compared to the storm brewing inside his head.

The village was quiet, as it always was at this hour. The cabins were dark, their windows frosted over, the smoke from their chimneys rising in thin, wispy trails that vanished into the night sky. But Mark didn't care about the village. He only cared about the woods.

The woods, where Rob was.

He headed toward the tree line, his breath coming in shallow bursts, his boots crunching in the snow as he moved. The night was dark, the moon barely visible behind thick clouds, but Mark didn't need light. He knew the path by heart. He had walked it every night for what felt like forever.

As he reached the edge of the woods, Mark slowed, his heart pounding in his chest. He stood there for a moment, staring into the darkness between the trees, his mind spinning with the same question that had haunted him for weeks.

Is Rob really alive?

The logical part of his mind, what little was left of it, told him no. Rob was dead. He had seen the body. He had buried him. But that figure—he couldn't shake the image of it. The way it had stood, the way it had moved. It had looked so much like Rob. Too much to be a coincidence. And then there were the voices.

He had been hearing them for days now. Faint, distant, carried on the wind. Rob's voice, calling his name. It always started as a whisper, barely audible, but it grew louder the longer he listened, until it was as clear as if Rob were standing right next to him.