Eli had been hiking alone for two days through the northern woods of Ontario, chasing solitude after a long year of city noise. The forest was dense and quiet, muffling sound in a way that made his heartbeat seem louder than it should have been. When dusk came, he found a small clearing by a frozen creek and pitched his tent. The cold air bit at his skin, sharp as teeth.
By the time he got his fire going, the trees had swallowed the last of the sun. The night was a shade too dark—thicker than he remembered it being. He cooked a small meal of beans and rice and listened to the crackle of the fire. That's when he heard it.
A cry.
It was distant but carried through the trees—a long, ragged wail that didn't sound quite human. Eli froze, spoon halfway to his mouth. A second cry followed, closer this time, cracking midway through as if something was trying and failing to mimic a person.
He told himself it was a coyote. Maybe a moose. But deep down, he knew it wasn't.
He doused the fire early and climbed into his tent, clutching his knife. The woods went silent again—completely silent. Not even the wind moved through the branches. And in that silence, he heard footsteps.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Crunch.
They circled the tent once, slow and deliberate. Eli held his breath, his hand trembling around the knife handle. The thing outside let out a low, wet sniffing sound, like something dragging air through rotten lungs. Then—nothing. The steps retreated into the woods.
Eli didn't sleep.
When dawn came, he packed fast, eager to get back to the trail. But his path was gone. The snow had shifted overnight, covering everything, and his footprints had vanished. He pulled out his compass—spinning. Broken.
By noon, he realized he'd been walking in circles. Every tree looked the same. The forest felt wrong—too still, too watching. Then he saw the tracks.
Not human. Not animal. Long, skeletal prints with claw marks deep in the snow, and a strange drag between them, as if something tall had been leaning forward as it walked. The air grew heavy, pressing against his lungs.
He began to run.
Somewhere behind him, he heard the crunching again—faster this time. The stench of rot filled the air, thick and sour. He caught a glimpse through the trees: something tall and gaunt, its limbs too long, its skin stretched thin over bones that jutted at impossible angles. A skull-like face turned toward him, eyes burning faintly with hunger.
He didn't think. He just ran until his legs screamed.
He stumbled into a ravine, sliding down through mud and snow until he hit the frozen creek below. Above him, the thing crouched at the edge, sniffing, its ribs heaving. Its voice came then—a warped echo of his own, calling softly:
"Eli… help me…"
His stomach turned. It knew his name.
He pressed himself flat beneath a fallen log, forcing his breath silent. Minutes passed—long, unbearable minutes—until the creak of ice shifted and the forest went still again. When he finally dared to look, the Wendigo was gone.
He followed the creek for hours until he saw headlights through the trees—an old ranger truck parked near a trailhead. He collapsed beside it, sobbing, half-frozen, unable to speak when the ranger found him.
They said he was lucky to be alive.
But sometimes, when he closes his eyes, he still hears it.
That voice, just beyond the edge of the firelight.
Soft. Hungry. Familiar.
"Eli… you left me in the dark."