Eyes of the Wendigo

18 -

The village lay under a thick blanket of snow, its silence heavy, broken only by the whisper of the wind and the occasional creak of ice-crusted trees. Mark Grayson moved through the darkness, his breath shallow and his mind spinning. His body felt taut, coiled like a spring ready to snap. His steps were slow, deliberate, his boots crunching softly through the snow. The rifle slung across his back was cold against his skin, a constant, chilling reminder of what he had come here to do.

He was hunting Elias.

Mark's breath clouded the air as he paused, his eyes scanning the row of cabins that lined the village street. His heart hammered in his chest, his pulse a steady drumbeat in his ears. Every instinct told him that Elias was close, lurking somewhere in the shadows, hiding behind the same lies he had been feeding the village since Rob's death.

This is it, Mark thought, his fingers tightening around the grip of his rifle. I'll confront him tonight. I'll make him tell me the truth.

But even as the thought took root, doubt slithered through his mind, poisoning his resolve. He had been chasing Elias for so long, watching him, following him, leaving those cryptic notes to unnerve him. But for what? Did he really believe Elias would confess? Or was he just trying to justify his own descent into madness, to make sense of the chaos that had consumed him since Rob had died?

What am I doing? Mark asked himself, his heart pounding. Do I even want the truth anymore? Or do I just want someone to blame?

The doubt gnawed at him, making his hands shake. Rob had been his best friend. Losing him had torn a hole in Mark's life, a hole that nothing seemed able to fill. And now, as he stood on the edge of violence, his mind spun with a terrifying possibility: maybe he wasn't hunting Elias for the truth. Maybe all he wanted was revenge.

He could still hear Rob's voice in his head sometimes, his easy laughter, his calm reassurance. He could still remember the warmth of their friendship, the years they had spent hunting together, the trust they had shared. But now, those memories felt distant, like they belonged to someone else, a different version of Mark who hadn't yet been swallowed by obsession.

Obsession. That was what this had become. Mark could feel it in every corner of his mind, the way it twisted his thoughts, the way it pushed him to act. It wasn't about the truth anymore. It hadn't been for a long time.

It was about Rob.

Mark had spent weeks chasing Elias, convinced that he had something to do with Rob's death. The cryptic notes, the eerie cabin in the woods, the way Elias had been acting since Rob died—it all pointed to something sinister. But Mark had never asked himself the hardest question: What if I'm wrong?

His fingers tightened around the strap of his rifle as he stepped deeper into the village, his breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. He wasn't wrong. He couldn't be wrong. Rob was dead, and someone had to pay for that. Someone had to answer for what had happened.

And that someone was Elias.

The village was quiet, eerily so. Most of the cabins were dark, their inhabitants shut away, hiding from the fear that had gripped White Pines. The disappearances had only fueled the paranoia, and now, no one felt safe. But Mark wasn't hiding. He couldn't afford to.

He moved toward Elias's cabin, his pulse quickening as the small structure came into view. The windows were dark, the door shut tight, but Mark knew Elias was inside. He could feel it. Elias had always been careful, always guarded, but tonight, Mark was done waiting. He was done watching from the shadows.

Tonight, I'll get my answers, Mark thought, his heart racing. One way or another.

But as he neared the cabin, a new wave of doubt crashed over him, making his steps falter. What if Elias didn't confess? What if he had nothing to do with Rob's death? Mark had built this entire narrative in his mind, convinced himself that Elias was the villain, that he had orchestrated everything. But what if he was wrong? What if Elias was just another victim of the madness that had consumed White Pines?