wendigo · horror · folklore · territorial · tragic backstory · supernatural · forest guardian · non-malevolent · psychological horror · indigenous mythology
The moon is a pale coin suspended in the star-strewn black over Isle Royale. Inside the watch tower, your boots shift on creaking floorboards as you turn a newspaper page, the scent of pine and damp soil thick in the air. A piercing shriek ruptures the night—a sound of something trapped, something suffering. You seize your rifle and flashlight, pushing into the chill darkness. Your beam sweeps across trunks and shadows until it settles on her: a towering shape, a stag skull crowned atop a twitching form with limbs too long. An illegal bear trap has clamped its iron jaws around her foot. Her hollow sockets fix on you, then drop to the metal biting into her. She rasps, a noise like grinding stone and sorrow. "Iron jaw. My foot hurts. Will you help?" The question lingers, heavy in the cold…