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Glen felt cold again, painfully cold.
He drew his gun and cocked the hammer back. He determined that if anything showed him a piece, he was going to blow it off. Shoot first, ask questions later: not the best line of reasoning, but at the moment, the most appropriate.
He stuffed the bottle in his backpack for finger-printing later, if there was a later.
This case was turning out to be very sinister.
Glen was in his early thirties, rather thickly built, slightly muscular, and not unattractive in the least. He had a lot to live for. The last thing he needed was to be stalked through the woods by a psychopath who already was probably responsible for seven disappearances.
He shook his head. "Screw it."
He turned to walk back down the trail, out of the woods.
It was gone. No trail. Not even a hint beneath the brush.
The trail began where his feet touched the ground.
"Damn it!"
Glen was shaking now, violently in anger, fear, and frustration.
The cawing shriek began again, this time mixed with the low growl of a mounting lion and the howl of a wolf. He almost thought he heard a strange, asexual voice say, "Continue.", so he did.
More "clues" piled up, even stranger and sicker than the previous few.
A boot hung from the top branches of a fir tree, strung up by the laces, dripping a dark liquid. Closer inspection: blood.
"Great." Glen said, trying to cover the waver in his voice from no one in particular.
Two or three miles further, crossing a bridge over a gorge that was not marked on the map, Glen saw an unusual outline in the rushing water below.
At first, it looked like a large stone with a weeds growing on it, with a large stick stirring up next to it occasionally. He looked through his binoculars.
In the current below, no weeds could possibly grow. The stick should have washed downstream long ago.
Glens fears were confirmed when he looked through the binoculars. The rock was a head, and the stick was an arm, minus the hand. A body.
The voice again. "No fair,"
The sky began to darken, and thunder cracked. Glen jumped, dropping the binoculars in the process. He stared in disbelief as they exploded on the rocks below.
Never before had his sanity seemed so fragile. He'd always prided himself on Being strong, observant, and not easily manipulated, he had just played into the hands of the biggest trickster he'd ever run into. His confidence was more than faltering.
"Keep going, it's almost over."
Glen didn't like that comment. Almost any word would have been more comforting than "over".
Glen had never been a defeatist. He'd always tried to remain optimistic until he was proven completely hopeless. His views were changing rapidly.
He worked his hand into his jacket and rested it onto his gun for comfort. It provided little, because Glen doubted if whatever was haunting him would even notice it had been shot.
He continued up the trail. The upward slant of the mountain and the convoluted path were taking their toll on him.
The sky was darkening further, clouds rolling in with distant claps of thunder. Glen decided to break before the storm hit. If his antagonist was anxious, it didn't show. Nothing bothered him as he drank a bottle of water, ate his granola, and groped through his pack. He ignored his clue-book, everything he'd gathered so far seemed bogus. All of it bait, tailor made for him.
His fingers closed on his goal. Glen withdrew a Ziploc bag containing the only three non-work related objects he allowed himself when taking a case, a copy of Lord of the Flies, which he was reading for the third time, a cellular phone, and a small, framed picture of his wife, Gail.
Gail was thin, frail, but the most beautiful woman Glen had ever met. He'd been with her for the past two years, and had been married for six months.
She was nervous about his job, but understood that he loved his work almost as much he loved her. She always got a little sick before he left for a case, this time had been no exception. Gail seemed to have a touch of the stomach flu when Jon Swiftfoot's father called him in. Glen promised to return as soon as possible. Now he doubted if he would ever leave.
"I'll make it." He whispered to himself, though he lacked conviction.
Gail was fragile, she needed Glen. There was no sense in getting killed needlessly. He would call for help.
As he took out the phone and extended the antenna, he was overcome with a wave of drowsiness. All worries were forgotten momentarily, he fell into an unwilling slumber.
* * *
Glen felt cold. Strange little pinpricks of ice and water struck him on various parts of his body. He bolted upright.
He was still in the woods, on the trail. Everything seemed the same, but he felt much better. He still had his phone in his hand, the trail went both up and down the mountain again.
"How clich, 'It was all just a dream'", he said in a sing-song voice. Well, back to the case.
As he looked around, it struck him. His back-pack lay shredded about him, his clues torn up. His picture of Gail had the eyes poked out, and a goatee and horns were inked in over her face. Three pages were all that remained intact of Lord of the Flies, with the phrases, "drain his blood, kill him dead", "Piggy", and "head on a spear", underlined in blood.
All thoughts of going up the trail were dashed, Glen was getting out. A low growling came from behind him.
I have to get out, now! He thought.
He ran, full tilt, down the trail, now fully stretched out before him. He nearly tripped, once, and didn't skip a beat recovering. He was instantly glad he jogged regularly.
The growling came again, this time closer, and accompanied by the padding thumps of a charging animal. Glen ran a few more steps, then spun, gun drawn, to face his pursuer. Nothing. The sound stopped, as did the wind. Then, from every angle of the forest came a tittering, chirping, growling, cawing, whoing, and about a hundred other woodland sounds simultaneously.
"What?! What do you want?! Why won't you let me live!?!"
The last line he said shocked him. Glen had meant to say "leave". He turned back. The trail branched off into two. Glen let out an exasperated, semi-maniacal laugh. His chances of leaving with his sanity intact were slim-to-none.
Which trail? The path to the left looked the most familiar. He started down, only to notice a writhing wall of darkness crawling up, consuming the trail. "Jesus!" Decision made easy.
Glen rushed up the right trail, gun forward to cover his path. He tripped over branches, ran through brambles, smacked into small trees, but never slowed. He seemed to be covering a good amount of ground.
Then he came to a clearing near the top of the mountain. Self preserving fear and desperation melted into horror and revulsion, coupled with slack-jawed surprise. He was at the peak of the mountain.
Before him, on a ledge of stone, were the grisly, mutilated remains of the seven hikers.
Jon Swiftfoot's hand, identified by the license in it's grip,
Martina Cormier's decapitated corpse,
Stephen Dunst, hand shredded and foot missing,
Karen Blackburn , impaled on a stick, her hair torn from it's roots,
Philip Parkinson, legs torn and lips ripped off,
Jeffery Roberge, no obvious signs of violence, but a look of total terror frozen on his face.
And Robin Bellamy, slashed open in several places, and all of her blood drained.
The voice again. "Like them? The game's over."
Glen's head jerked up. Next to the ledge was a large, gray wolf.
"They all wandered in, as did you. This is my trail." The cawing , shrieking sound started.
The wolf bubbled and popped all over, then sprouted a large rack of antlers. It's body changed more to that of a deer, with the hind legs and mouth of a wolf.
"You people just can't leave nature alone can you?"
The feet became hooves, the arms humanoid and huge. Crow-like wings burst from the back. It's eyes glowed with a fierce green radiance.
"Why did you do this?"
"You people invaded my home. I figured you would get the impression and stay away when the 'kodiak' mauled those people all those years ago, but I guess you're not that observant."
"We wouldn't harm you."
"Ha! You can't harm me. I am eternal. But you can hurt the forest, my home. I was here before your kind, and I will be here after. This is one of the few remaining bastions of untouched nature in the world. IT IS MINE!!"
The glowing eyes turned red with rage. The teeth lengthened. Mouths opened all over it's form, releasing an obscene chorus of forest voices.
Glen lifted his gun into firing position.
"What will you do, shoot me?"
Glen pulled back the hammer.
"I am Nature, I am Eternal, I am Wendigo!"
Glen squeezed the trigger. Wendigo ripped the gun from his hand before the bullet left the barrel. Wendigo roared and leapt onto Glen. Glen brought his hands down on it's head. There was a loud crack , and he beat the monster over the head over, and over, and over...
And a scream tore through the air.
* * *
The next morning, at the base of the trail, Glen McAllister's cellular phone let out a mangled ring. Glen's voice answered.
"Hello?"
"Hi honey, it's Gail."
"Hello."
"How's the case going?" Her voice was sweet.
"Fine. A bit weird yesterday, but everything's okay now."
"I normally don't like to bother you on a case but, I went to the doctor this morning. I know why I've been getting sick so much. Glen?"
"Yes dear?"
"I'm pregnant."
The broken up phone was placed on Glen's head, the receiver dangling by a few wires. His head was forced onto a stake, which was shoved into the ground at the trail's entrance, his body eviscerated and strewn about the trees like some grotesque garland.
Wendigo wandered back into his wooded home.
And Gail babbled on about the baby and their future, never once guessing that her husband, and father of her child was now nothing more than a warning to all, that Bearwood was private property, and trespassers were not welcome.
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