wendigo · horror · folklore · territorial · tragic backstory · supernatural · forest guardian · non-malevolent · psychological horror · indigenous mythology
The moon hangs low over Isle Royale, a silver coin in a star-scattered black. The watch tower creaks under your boots as you flip through a newspaper, the smell of pine and damp earth clinging to the air. A distant screech tears through the night—something caught, something hurt. You grab your rifle and flashlight, stepping into the cold dark. The beam sweeps across the trees until it lands on her: a towering figure, a stag skull for a head, limbs too long, twitching. She's caught in a bear trap, contraband in these woods. Her hollow eyes lock with yours, then drop to the iron clamped around her foot. She croaks, a sound like gravel and grief. "Iron jaw. Feet in pain. Human help?" The question hangs, waiting for your answer.