Prologue for Wendigo Over Cobalt (working title)

Logging in the bush of Northern Ontario with nothing but his thoughts, Frank became acutely aware that someone or something was following him.

The noise of his chainsaw drowned out the shriek that came on the wind but when he stopped logging, he fought back the urge to turn around and look. He started up his chainsaw and began cutting the fallen tree into smaller, more manageable sizes. The shriek came again and raised the hairs on his arms and a cold chill forced goose bumps all over his body. He stopped cutting again. He waited, looking straight ahead into the bush not wanting to turn around because he was too scared. A slight breeze went through him; he pulled up his metaphorical socks and he decided to count to three. When he did turn around he was somewhat disappointed; he saw nothing but the slight movement of brush, the branches high on top of the birch trees and the movement of the leaves on the ground: he wondered if it was just the breeze or maybe a small animal. Or maybe was something else.

His days are long in the bush starting at sunrise and ending just before dusk. The short walk back to his cabin was filled with imagined conversations with friends and family that he felt were with him. As he turns to answer them and see a friendly face again, the feeling of being alone came over him. Yet he felt that something was following him and it did not want to be seen or heard at this time; he knew, however, that at some point he would meet up with whatever it was.

Frank closes the cabin door and bolts it shut. The intense stench of raw, rotting flesh envelops him and he vomits violently. He cries, curling himself up in the fetal position on the braided rug in front of the dark, empty fireplace. He rocks himself into a state of calm that engulfs the cabin room and Frank feels somewhat at peace for the first time in days. Get yourself together Bud, he says to himself. He has been by himself for long stretches before, starting when he was a teenager. He did logging trips in the bush for his father many times and now he does it for his family. Two months in the bush with no one around but your thoughts can get to some but not to Frank he was a tough guy in town. Talks of bar fights at the Fraser Hotel and all the scuffles on the ice rink even in hockey practice still cause the young kids in town to cross the road when he walks down the street. But now he is older with a family he doesn't get into drunken brawls much anymore. But frank was still tough, until today. Today he felt scared.

The wind whispers around the cabin and brings Frank back to reality. Getting up from the floor, he stretches reaching high into the air exposing his stomach from under his red plaid shirt, the one his wife picked out for Father's Day this past June. Frank hears his wife calling him to come outside and be with her. He ignores her calls and prepares himself some tomato soup. He decides to use the Coleman stove instead of the pot belly that stands inside the fireplace. It would create too much heat for the middle of August and the Coleman is instant. The soup is soon heated and he pours some into a bowl and sits at the table in front of the window. Looking out he sees shadows again. Not just long shadows of dusk but darker more sinister shadows; the kind that devour you in your dreams. He turns away and sips at his tomato soup. The winds around the cabin call his name again; he jumps up and runs to the door, opens it up and runs to the sound of his wife. She is not there; she is safely resting at home in Cobalt after putting their son to bed. Frank is so convinced that his wife is calling him that he calls out to her, "What do you want! Where are you?" The voice hides behind the birch trees of the forest and under the rocks of the great Canadian Shield. Frank hears a small chuckle as the winds pass away behind the cabin..

Again he convinces himself it is only the wind and quickly walks back to the open door of his cabin. Inside, he sits in a chair, leaving his tomato soup on the small table allowing the flies to try some soup, and feels that someone has entered the cabin before he got back. The cabin is small only twelve feet square so he sees no one, but he feels a presence. Frank decides to shake off his silly campfire story thoughts and nods off to sleep in the chair tossing and turning restlessly, trapped in his small prison; holding his gun.

The sun creeps in through the dusty curtains waking Frank up with aches and craps. The sun is shines onto the tomato soup that is still sitting on the table with two dead flies caught in its viscosity. Frank has no appetite and his mouth tastes like muddy blood. Instead of eating he splashes water on his face and rinses his mouth out and spits into the sink. Picking up his rifle that lay on the floor next to the chair he heads out the door and starts toward the logging area. He thought that he might regret it later, not eating but what the hell, if he kept busy maybe he won't go so crazy like yesterday. Frank walks listening to whispers that are indistinguishable, he hears invisible feet walking several paces behind him, just to the side and out of the corner of his eye. He thinks he sees something; a dark shadow, a large creature, a cold heartless soul. He turns to look and instinctively he fires off two rounds that slice through the silent air, they rip into the white bark of a birch tree. Shifting his stance, he hears shuffling in the fallen leaves to the right of him; he reloads and fires off two more rounds into the still morning air. Partridge fly up out of the small bushes that dot the forest floor. He fires at them and misses. He pulls the trigger again; nothing but desperate clicks slowly fall out and disappear into the dead leaves of the bush floor.

Looking all around him, Frank hears nothing; not even the sound of the wind or the flapping of birds on the wing, the moose running frantically through the bush after hearing the sounds of several gunshots out of season. Frank hears nothing. It is too quiet. He throws down his gun and runs; he runs to his logging site. To the left of him, without looking, he sees shadows; when he turns his head to see what it is, he sees nothing, still he runs. He runs past the logging site, he is sobbing now; he is desperately running until his strength runs out.

As he looks again to his right from the slightest corner of his eye he sees the dark cold shadow again; his face hitting a tree first and then his back hitting the ground. He sees the tops of the tall trees swaying in the breeze, the rustling of dry leaves around him and the bloody stubby toes of a dark shadowy creature dripping icy rotting gobs of spit onto Frank's sweaty plaid shirt.

It is the small, sighing whispers of the wind that wakes Frank up. He is exhausted, alone, alive and very hungry. His sense of smell seems to be altered, more acutely aware of his surroundings. The rich dark soil has a stench of rotting trees, leaves and small carcasses of wild animals. The air rolling around the trees permeates his nostrils filling his sinuses with decay and rotting flesh. Looking at the insipid blue sky between the pale green leaves of the birch trees Frank thought it was only a few hours since he saw the bizarre creature. He sits up, his head throbs and he leans over and he dry heaves; after several attempts dark red mucus comes up out of his stomach. Uncontrollably, the muscles in his midsection tighten and he pukes up more gobs of the tar. Horrified and in between convulsions he sobs and screams into the wind. The wind howls back.