CHATEAUGAY LAKE STEAMBOAT GAZETTE CO.

I.

The old mill sits brooding on the banks of the Chateaugay River, its wheel silent, windows boarded up tight against the creeping decay of time. At night, strange lights flicker behind those windows, and unearthly howls echo from within its crumbling walls.

The townsfolk of Brainardsville whisper of restless spirits, of curses and shadowy beings that lurk in the depths of the ruined mill. But old Jebediah knows better. He’s seen the truth with his own eyes, years ago on that fateful Halloween night when the mill went up in flames. Something came out of those flames, something…unnatural.

It all started earlier that evening, when Jebediah spotted that queer fella in the red cap skulking about outside the mill. He was new in town, a drifter passing through on his way up to the iron mines in Lyon Mountain. Jebediah didn’t trust him, with his sharp features and hungry gaze. He looked like a wolf waiting to pounce.

As dusk fell, an odd procession emerged from the nearby woods—pale men and women walking in a trance, staring straight ahead, oblivious to all else. They shuffled towards the mill and slipped inside, one after the other.

Soon, screams and unholy chanting erupted from within those brick walls, along with a fiery glow. Jebediah ran to sound the alarm, but by the time the fire brigade arrived the mill was an inferno, the flames shooting high into the night sky.

Amidst the crackling timbers and showers of sparks, something monstrous burst forth—a misshapen beast with antlers and smoldering red eyes. It let loose a bone-chilling roar and charged into the darkness, followed by a handful of survivors from the hellish scene: the drifter in the red cap and his wretched disciples.

In the aftermath, the townsfolk found a charred skeleton in the ruins, still sitting upright by the grinding stone. Though its features were melted away, Jebediah knew it belonged to the miller, for it wore his tattered overalls and cap. His remains were buried in the Star Cemetery on the east side of town.

But the true horror, Jebediah knows, still lurks out there in the vast wilderness around Brainardsville. The Wendigo has claimed this land, and woe to any who cross its path…

II.

We came upon the ramshackle cabin just before nightfall, seeking shelter from the bitter autumn wind. An old man answered our knocking, eyeing us warily before beckoning us inside. His simple dwelling comprised a single room, sparse except for a rough wooden table and chairs, an iron stove, and a cot tucked in the corner. He bade us sit before the fire as he prepared a meager meal of beans and hardtack.

I studied our host as he fussed about. His weathered face was etched with deep creases that spoke of a difficult life, but his eyes glinted sharply in the firelight. He introduced himself as Jebediah, a trapper who had lived in these parts for more years than he could recall. When I remarked upon the isolation of his lonely cabin, his eyes darkened.

“These woods aren’t meant for men,” he said. “Evil lurks here, an ancient evil as old as the hills themselves.”

He spoke of the nearby ruined mill and the fire that consumed it years ago. On that night, he claimed, a demon was summoned from some unholy place, a fiend known as the Wendigo. It had been stalking the wilderness ever since, hungering endlessly for blood and flesh.

My companion chuckled at this tale, clearly unbelieving. But I sensed a chilling veracity in the old man’s words. As if in response, the wind outside rose to an eerie howl, and strange shadows seemed to move in the corners of the cabin.

Jebediah leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You’d do well to be far from here come nightfall, strangers. The Wendigo has power over dreams and can invade a man’s mind, filling it with horrors to drive him mad. Only fire keeps it at bay.”

He glanced nervously at the window, where the last traces of dusk were fading. My companion laughed again, though it seemed strained, and made light of the old man’s warnings. But I could not ignore the creeping dread I felt or the tales of missing travelers in these parts. I resolved that we should quit this place at first light.

As we settled down to sleep, I noticed Jebediah place two strange symbols upon the door in charcoal, like a ward against evil. Outside, the wind rose again, and I thought I heard a faint howl echo through the trees…

III.

They came for old Jebediah in the deep of night, when the moon hid her face.

I awoke to cacophonous yells and blows striking the cabin walls. My companion slumbered on, oblivious. Grabbing my rifle, I crept to the window and peered out.

In the gloom I saw them surrounding the cabin—pale, hunched figures naked despite the cold. Their limbs seemed bent at unnatural angles as they scuttled about on all fours. Ropy drool hung from mouths filled with jagged teeth that gnashed ravenously. Eyes like smoldering coals reflected the torchlight.

These were no men, but beasts wearing the skins of men. The Wendigo’s cursed followers.

They scrabbled at the walls, clawing to get inside. I checked my rifle, knowing it would do little against so many. Where was old Jebediah? I hoped he had somehow slipped away.

A tremendous crash came from the back of the cabin. They had broken through! I raised my gun, ready to sell my life dearly in defense of my sleeping friend. A unearthly howl went up from the creatures’ throats as they flooded inward…

Suddenly, a blinding flash lit up the interior of the cabin, accompanied by shrieks from the intruders. Jebediah stood in the doorway, an oil lamp held aloft in one hand. With his other hand he hurled a powder into the fireplace. Flames surged up, burning with vibrant, unnatural hues.

The creatures cringed from the light and color. They scrambled back from the threshold in terror. Jebediah advanced, lamp extended before him. Where its glow touched them, boils and burns erupted on their pallid skin. Their wails intensified as they retreated into the forest.

My hands shook in the aftermath, my mind reeling. Jebediah set down the lamp and poured water over the fire until it had returned to normal. He turned to me with sadness in his eyes.

“It’s worse than I feared,” he said. “The Wendigo’s hold grows stronger. You must away from here at dawn, and tell no one of what you’ve seen.”

In the morning light, nothing remained of the creatures’ siege except for long gouges in the earth around the cabin. We parted ways with Jebediah, never to cross paths again. But the memory of that night lingers with me, and I wonder if he still fights alone against the ancient evil that claims the wilderness of Chateaugay Lake…

IV.

From the private journal of Dr. R.H. Elliott, psychiatrist. St. Lawrence State Asylum for the Insane, October 7th, 1920.

At last I have secured permission to interview the enigmatic patient known only as “Jebediah.” His file indicates he has been an inmate here for nearly two decades, though little else is known of his history. His prodigious memory remains intact, but he persistently insists upon an outlandish tale that cannot possibly be true…or can it?

My subject is an elderly man with wild, unkempt hair and beard and eyes gleaming with fervent intensity. He speaks lucidly and precisely, showing no other signs of madness aside from his unbelievable story.

He claims to have witnessed an occult ritual in which a demonic entity was summoned into our world, setting a mill ablaze in the process. This creature, which he calls the Wendigo, then went on a rampage before disappearing into the northern forests near a town called Brainardsville.

In subsequent years, Jebediah says he was continually haunted and attacked by this fiend’s monstrous followers. Though it sounds preposterous, he described these so-called Wendigo worshippers in such exacting, gruesome detail that I could not suppress a cold shudder.

He insists all his fortifications and mystical protections have kept the Wendigo at bay, but it relentlessly stalks the borders of our reality, seeking a way back in. It whispers madness into the minds of men, compelling them to perform horrible rites in its name. And its cult continues to grow, hidden within the remotest wilds.

I must confess myself disturbed by this elaborate delusion, so adamantly maintained over so many years. What could have caused such an obsession to take root in this man’s psyche? Was there truth to his outlandish tale after all? I find myself almost believing…wanting to believe.

Indeed, as I sit writing this, I feel a strange compulsion stealing over me. There are patterns here beyond what we understand. Our science only scrapes the surface of cosmic secrets. I must know more about this Wendigo. I begin to wonder what insights or powers such knowledge could grant…

No! I must maintain rational thought. But I sense this will not be the end of my inquiry into Jebediah and his disturbing account. I will schedule further interviews posthaste. There is something deeper here, waiting to be unearthed. What role might I play in uncovering the real truth? For now, I can only speculate…and dream strangely.

V.

The following transcript is excerpted from a police interview with one Lawrence Keeley, conducted June 19th, 1958. Keeley was the sole survivor found at the gruesome scene detailed below. Due to the highly disturbed mental state of the subject, transcription has been abridged for clarity.

[Begin Transcript]

Keeley: You have to listen! It was Cooper’s idea at first, just a stupid dare. We didn’t really think we’d find anything. But then we saw the old cabin…

Detective: Please slow down, Mr. Keeley. What cabin are you referring to?

Keeley: Deep in the woods past South Inlet. Looked abandoned. But we heard sounds coming from inside…chants, strange music. Like a weird ceremony.

Detective: And you went inside this cabin?

Keeley: God help me, we did. The door was locked but we broke a window. No one was on the first floor. But the chanting got louder from below. In the root cellar we found a hidden trapdoor and stairs leading down.

We couldn’t see a damn thing down there. The chanting stopped. Cooper flicked his lighter and…Oh, God. I can still see it.

Detective: What did you see, Mr. Keeley? Please, I need you to continue.

Keeley: There were robed figures standing around a crude stone altar. On it lay a woman’s body, lifeless, throat slashed ear to ear. The blood…

And above her loomed this unspeakable thing… Not human. Too many limbs, too many eyes. It turned, saw us. The scream that came from it… Not of this world.

Then the cultists saw us too. They had knives, axes. I ran. Heard Cooper screaming behind me as they cut him down. I didn’t look back. Just ran.

You have to believe me! The Wendigo…it’s real. It got inside my head. The screams… I can’t… Please, just lock me up. Keep me away till you catch those bastards! It’s still out there… Still hungry… [unintelligible]

[End of Transcript]

Note: Police investigation of Keeley’s claims discovered seven brutally murdered bodies at the scene, including his friend Cooper. The remote shack contained makeshift religious paraphernalia and strange fetishes as described. No other suspects were located. Several months after giving his statement, Keeley committed suicide while institutionalized. The case remains unsolved to this day.

VI.

The dreams grow more vivid each night. I stand before the yawning gulf at the heart of the universe, where nameless shapes swim in the blackness. Somewhere across that cosmic gulf, the Wendigo awaits.

It calls to me. It promises power, knowledge beyond human limits. I have only to open the way, to welcome it into this world once again. To offer the sacrifices it demands.

I try to resist, but can feel my will eroding. Each dawn I awake exhausted, my memory clouded, thoughts chaotic. I find strange mud on my feet, leaves in my hair. The wild places call to me now even in waking. I hunger ravenously, for sustenance I cannot name.

I fear what is happening, fear what will come to pass. But I cannot resist the siren song luring me toward revelation. Something primal and ancient slumbers in my blood, awakened by the Wendigo’s whispers.

Soon I will be lost completely. My humanity stripped away, all that I was mere memory. Another vessel molded to serve that cosmic will. Yet even as dread overwhelms me, so too comes an ecstasy at the approaching metamorphosis.

For beyond this limited flesh lies the promise of apotheosis. The Wendigo King has chosen me as consort, to stand beside it in the new era of shadow it shall usher in. A grotesque bride for the messenger from Outside.

The stars come right soon. The wait has been eons upon eons. But the hour approaches. A crack widens in the cosmic egg.

Reality shall bleed.

Humanity shall feed us well.

VII.

Lights flicker in the rubble-choked basement. The staircase creaks under my weight as I descend slowly, gripping an axe. Jebediah said this was the only way. I don’t want to die, but I’ll not become one of those…things.

My throat is parched, every swallow painful. My gaze lingers on the dirty syringe atop the packing crate that serves as my bedside table. Just a taste, to give me courage. But no – that path leads only to madness. The cosmic poison must be purged.

Reaching the dank cellar, I call out to the presence I know lurks in the shadows. “I’m here. Let’s finish this.”

It steps forward, horned and hulking, eyes smoldering like dying embers. My blood turns to ice as the massive antlers brush the ceiling. I raise the axe in defiance. In a voice filled with eons of hunger, it croaks my name.

I strike quickly, burying the axe in its chest before it can react. A howl shakes the foundation of the ruined mill, otherworldly blood sizzling on the cold cellar floor. The axe blade begins to corrode.

Not a moment too soon, I realize. The Wendigo’s human guise melts away to reveal its true eldritch form. I scream and keep hacking, opening deeper wounds from which sickly vapor pours. An inky portal yawns open where the beast falls.

With a final swing I sever the misshapen head, sending it tumbling into the void. The portal consumes the Wendigo’s remains, then blinks shut and vanishes. Silence settles.

I drop the ruined axe and collapse. Outside, the trees slowly regain their normal shapes as the wake of evil dissipates. The cosmic taint in my veins begins to fade. But scars remain, inside and out. Scars to remind me the Wendigo is never truly banished.

VIII.

After the stranger appeared in town, odd events plagued the rural hamlet of Brainardsville. Cattle turned up mutilated in the fields, their organs arrangely removed with surgical precision. sin against creation. Residents suffered vivid nightmares that left them haggard and shaken. Queer lights and unholy shrieks emanated from the ruins of the burnt-out mill.

When the community confrontation night devolved into violence, panicked witness claimed they saw their neighbors warped bodies bulge and distended to take on monstrous proportions, faces deforming into fanged maws that howled inhumanely for blood. But then the disappearances began, as solitary travelers traveling through vanished without a trace. Gelled disembodied mildew blanketed the countryside, foreshadowing some kind of weird, horrible cosmic disaster.

Locals whispered that the stranger headed out towards the mill at night to conduct strange rituals under the moon, chanting in baleful tongues while adorned with profane accoutrements fashioned from bone and hide. Some claimed to see cloven prints not of this earthly sphere trodding obscenely through the darkened forests and along the riverbanks.

When a contingent of grim-faced men went to root out this evil in their midst, no trace of life remained at the mill. Just a charnel house of offal and gore soaked in viscous ichor, as if some unholy feast had transpired within those crumbling ruins. Even hardened trappers accustomed to sights of death and horror could not abide what they beheld, and fled full of dread.

In the dismal days that followed, mass hysteria gripped Brainardsville in an epidemic. Former friends barricaded themselves in their homes, brandishing guns against imagined enemies.

Many swore they had glimpsed the fiend in myriad forms prowling about the derelict mill and surrounding wilderness, an invisible miasma of fear and paranoia preceding its loathsome approach. None who ventured out alone after nightfall were ever seen again.

Then one morning, the stranger’s rented room was found empty, covered in strange diagrams and occult symbols etched in blood. The mill churned silently once more. Birds sang from familiar roosts, and the pall over Chateaugay River lifted as if it had never been.

No further explanation or reckoning was forthcoming.

IX.

Twenty years later, a young folklorist named Alan Pierce arrived in Brainardsville seeking insight into the strange events that had transpired there. The few lifelong residents still remaining regarded him with a mix of suspicion and fear when he asked about the mill fire and the sinister stranger. Most refused to speak of it at all, while others provided only vague snippets of hearsay and rumor.

Pierce managed to track down Jebediah, now a taciturn old hermit living deep in the woods. After some coaxing, the wild-eyed man gradually unburdened himself of the whole dreadful tale, stoking the dying embers of memory into new flame.

He spoke of occult forces beyond human understanding, of starving demons that wore the flesh of men. The stranger had been one such hollow vessel, he claimed, seeking to shatter the invisible walls that divide our world from Otherness. On that fiery Halloween night, those walls had briefly cracked open.

But the most disturbing revelation was that the ritual had not ended entirely in failure. According to Jebediah, something unnatural yet inchoately human had emerged from the conflagration at the mill. Warped and incomplete, it had fled into the night even as its summoner disappeared.

In the following years, this tormented hybrid creature supposedly stalked the forests around Chateaugay Lake, shunning daylight and eschewing human society. Sightings eventually dwindled away as it retreated deeper into the untamed wilderness. But Jebediah remained certain the thing still lurked there, neither fully mortal nor demon. A haunting reminder of twisted mystic forces beyond comprehension.

X.

Obsession sank its talons deeply into Alan Pierce over the following months. He pored endlessly over faded newspaper clippings, indigenous legends, and hand-scribed notebooks inherited from his occultist grandfather. Nightly, he wandered the shadowed woods near the long-abandoned mill, drawn by strange compulsions he could neither explain nor resist.

Pierce became convinced that the being Jebediah described was a manlike avatar of the ancient Wendigo archetype—an eater of human flesh possessed by bottomless hungers, eternally apart from mankind. He developed a dangerous longing to gaze upon this cryptid firsthand, to witness the living embodiment of primal myth.

Late one autumn night, a cloaked figure emerged from the dilapidated mill and lurched into the forest. Alan gave chase, off the path and through choking underbrush. He caught fleeting glimpses of his quarry between the trees: hunched, atavistic, and crowned by antlers.

The pursuit ended abruptly at the mouth of a lightless cave reeking of carrion. Alan hesitated only a moment before following the dark passage deeper into cold subterranean stone. There he finally came face to face with the object of his obsession.

Later, a search party would find Alan’s mutilated remains strewn outside the cave entrance. The fragments told a tale of an unholy rituals and post-mortem predation. But no trace could be found of the misbegotten horror that had dragged him back to its lair beneath the ruined Brainardsville mill—the dreaded Wendigo which had at long last fully claimed Alan Pierce as its own.