Eyes of the Wendigo

31 -

White Pines had always been a quiet place. A small, snow-covered village nestled deep in the wilderness, where life was hard but simple. The winters were brutal, the isolation palpable, but the people had always managed to survive, to rely on one another when the world outside felt too far away. But now, the village was nothing more than a shell of what it once had been.

The snow fell softly, covering the rooftops and pathways in a thick blanket of white. It looked peaceful, serene even, but beneath the surface, there was a silence that felt different. An uneasy stillness that whispered of things broken, of lives lost.

Inside the few remaining homes, the villagers huddled together, their breath visible in the cold air as they whispered to one another. The once tight-knit community had unraveled, torn apart by fear and suspicion. Most of the hunters were gone—Mark, Elias, and Rob were just names now, spoken in hushed tones as the villagers tried to make sense of what had happened.

They had all heard the stories. The Wendigo, the ancient, flesh-eating spirit said to stalk the woods during the harshest winters. For generations, the legend had been passed down, warning children to stay close to the village, to avoid wandering into the trees alone. But it had always been just that—a story. Something to scare the children, something to explain the unexplainable.

But when Rob went missing, everything changed.

At first, the village had tried to remain calm. Disappearances weren't unheard of during the long winters—sometimes people got lost in the snow, sometimes they wandered too far into the woods and didn't come back. But when Rob's body was found, frozen and twisted in a way that made no sense, the fear began to take hold.

The whispers started almost immediately. Some said it was the Wendigo, others claimed it was a wolf or a bear, but no one really knew. What they did know was that something had changed. The village wasn't the same after Rob died.

Now, as the snow continued to fall, those who remained in White Pines were left to piece together the events that had led them to this point. The hunters—men who had once been the backbone of the community—were gone. Elias, the leader they had all trusted, had disappeared into the storm, never to return. Mark had followed, driven by some dark, obsessive need for answers, and he too was gone. Sarah had vanished, and no one knew where she had gone or if she was even alive.

And now, the village was falling apart.

The old woman, Margaret, sat by her small hearth, staring into the flickering flames with eyes that had seen too much. Her hands, gnarled and twisted from years of hard work, shook as she tried to keep the fire going, though the wood was damp and the flames were weak. Her daughter, Elise, sat beside her, knitting in silence, the rhythmic clicking of the needles the only sound in the room.

"They're gone," Margaret said quietly, her voice rough from age and cold. "All of them."

Elise paused her knitting, glancing at her mother with tired eyes. "Not all of them."

"Most of them," Margaret replied, her voice heavy with sorrow. "The hunters, the ones who were supposed to protect us—they're gone. And now we're left with nothing."

Elise sighed, setting her knitting down in her lap. "We still have each other, Mama."

Margaret shook her head, her gaze never leaving the fire. "What good is that when we don't know what's out there? When we don't know if we'll survive the winter?"

There was a long silence between them, the crackling of the fire the only thing breaking the stillness. The truth was, they didn't know what was out there. They didn't know if the disappearances would stop, or if more of them would be lost to the snow, to whatever force had taken the others.

But deep down, they all understood now. The real threat had never been a mythical creature stalking the woods. 

Across the village, in another small house, Thomas Kline sat by the window, his breath fogging the glass as he stared out into the snow-covered street. He had always prided himself on being level-headed, on keeping a clear head even when things got tough. But now, he wasn't so sure.

He had been there when the rumors had started, had watched as the village slowly descended into madness. First, it was the whispers of the Wendigo, then the accusations, the suspicions. People started turning on each other, seeing enemies in their friends, in their neighbors. And then, one by one, people began to disappear.

At first, Thomas had believed it was an outside force—an animal, perhaps, or some unknown danger lurking in the woods. But as the weeks dragged on, as more people vanished and the fear grew, he began to realize the truth. The real threat wasn't outside the village. It was the fear itself.

The fear had consumed them.

He had seen it in their eyes, in the way people had begun to withdraw, to avoid each other, to whisper behind closed doors. He had seen it in the way they had looked at him with suspicion, as if he might be the next one to disappear. And he had felt it in himself too—the gnawing dread, the creeping paranoia that had taken hold of him and refused to let go.

Now, with the village almost empty, Thomas couldn't shake the feeling that it was too late. They had let the fear win, and now, all that was left was the cold and the silence.

"I should have done something," he whispered to himself, his breath fogging the glass once more. "I should have stopped it before it got this far."

But what could he have done? The fear had taken on a life of its own, spreading like a sickness, infecting everyone in the village until there was nothing left but suspicion and madness.

In the small chapel at the edge of the village, Father Gregory knelt in front of the altar, his hands clasped in prayer. The candles flickered weakly in the cold, casting long shadows on the walls. The church had once been a place of solace, a place where the villagers could come together and find comfort in their faith. But now, it was empty. The pews were cold, abandoned, and Father Gregory's prayers echoed through the empty space like a hollow cry for help.

"Forgive us," he whispered, his voice trembling. "Forgive us for what we have done."

He had seen the way the village had fallen apart, had watched as fear had turned them all into something unrecognizable. He had tried to offer comfort, tried to remind them of their faith, but the fear had been too strong. It had consumed them all, even him.

"Forgive us," he repeated, his voice breaking.

But there was no one left to hear his prayers. The village was empty now, a ghost town buried beneath the snow. The people who had once filled the chapel, who had once relied on each other for survival, were gone. And those who remained—those few who still clung to the last vestiges of hope—were left to wonder how much longer they could hold on.

The disappearances hadn't stopped. Even with the hunters gone, even with Elias dead and the village reduced to a handful of people, the vanishings continued. But now, the villagers knew the truth. The real threat wasn't the Wendigo, or some ancient evil lurking in the woods.

The real threat had always been themselves. The fear that had consumed them, the paranoia that had turned them against each other. That was what had destroyed White Pines. Not a monster, but the fear of one.

As the night deepened and the storm continued to rage, the remaining villagers huddled together in their homes, waiting for the dawn, waiting for something to change. But deep down, they all knew that nothing would. The fear had taken hold, and now, all that was left was to survive—or to disappear like the others.

The village had fallen, not to a mythical creature, but to the cold, to the isolation, and to the fear that had destroyed everything they had once held dear.

And now, as the snow fell silently around them, they waited. For what, they didn't know. But they waited.