The 1960s, baby. Hair lacquered into beehives, tailfins like chrome cathedrals, and the Adirondack air thick with the promise of escape. For weary city dwellers, Chateaugay Lake was a cool balm, and at its heart pulsed the Banner House, a grand dame of summer soirees and wintery trysts. This year, though, the Banner House had a new, teeth-whitening grin: Wendigo Wellness.
It wasn’t your usual avocado-toast-and-yoga detox. Oh no. Wendigo Wellness was a carnivore’s Valhalla, a back-to-nature bro-down orchestrated by the enigmatic Dr. Blackwood, a man with a beard that could braid itself and eyes that glinted like glacier ice. His “Feast Like the Ancients” brochure, printed on faux elk hide, promised “Primal Rejuvenation” and “Embrace the Hunter Within.” The clientele? Wall Street wolves, socialites with noses sharper than ski blades, and a smattering of trust-funders looking for a thrill more potent than fondue.
I, Zenda, was there on assignment for “Modern Housewife” magazine. My editor, a woman with a permanent Cinzano hangover, had scoffed. “Wendigo wellness? Sounds like an appetizer at a cannibal convention.” But the expense account and the promise of a fur-lined bathrobe were too tempting.
The Banner House, shrouded in evergreen, creaked with secrets. Its cavernous lobby reeked of woodsmoke and something faintly meaty. A taxidermied moose head, mounted above the fireplace, seemed to follow me with its glassy eyes. Dr. Blackwood, all mahogany tan and tweed, welcomed me with a bone-crushing handshake and a predatory smile. “Welcome, Miss Crane,” he purred, his voice a basso profundo rumble. “Here, you’ll shed more than just pounds. You’ll shed your city skin, embrace the primal.”
The Wendigo diet was, well, carnivorous. Lean venison steaks for breakfast, rabbit ragu for lunch, elk burgers the size of hubcaps for dinner. Dr. Blackwood assured us the meat was “ethically sourced,” a phrase that sent shivers down my spine and gnawed at my vegetarian conscience. The days were filled with “survival skills” workshops – skinning squirrels, setting traps, and identifying edible roots that tasted suspiciously like dirt.
Nights were bonfires and primal scream therapy sessions, where Wall Street execs, stripped of their suits and dignity, howled at the moon like wounded wolves.
The forest, dense and brooding, was another key player. We were encouraged to “commune with nature,” a euphemism for getting chased by rabid raccoons and tripping over hidden sinkholes. One afternoon, I stumbled upon a clearing where the trees formed a macabre circle. In the center lay a pile of bones, gnawed clean, and a single bloodstained feather that caught the sunlight like a crimson teardrop. My vegetarianism morphed into full-blown carnivore terror.
Then there was the matter of the disappearances. A guest, a loudmouth hedge fund manager, vanished after a particularly raucous bonfire. Dr. Blackwood claimed he’d “gone hiking,” but the way the other guests, especially the ones with haunted eyes and twitchy smiles, avoided the topic, told a different story.
My unease reached a fever pitch during the Grand Hunt, the Wendigo Wellness pièce de résistance. Armed with spears fashioned from tree branches, we were instructed to “track and conquer” a wild boar released into the woods. The “hunt” felt wrong, primal and cruel. It wasn’t about food; it was about dominance, about the thrill of the kill. I refused to participate, hiding in my fur-lined bathrobe (big mistake) while the others, transformed into baying brutes, chased the terrified boar through the undergrowth.
When they returned, bloodied and exhilarated, the boar was nowhere to be seen. But something else was different. A glint in their eyes, a predatory edge that hadn’t been there before. They were no longer Wall Streeters or socialites; they were something… else. Hunger seemed to emanate from them, a palpable aura that made the hairs on my arms stand on end.
That night, under the cold stare of the moose head, I packed my bags. Dr. Blackwood, his smile wider than ever, stopped me at the door. “Leaving so soon, Miss Crane?” he purred. “The hunt has just begun.” His words, dripping with double meaning, sent a shiver down my spine. I ran, leaving the Banner House, the Wendigo Wellness retreat, and its cannibalistic clientele behind.
Back in the city, the Cinzano-scented office felt like a sterile haven. My editor, impressed by my exposé, “…minus the cannibalistic undertones, of course,” she snipped, taking a long drag from her cigarette), published a watered-down version, focusing on the “quirky charm” of Wendigo Wellness. But the memory of the Banner House lingered, a dark stain on my soul. The primal hunger I’d witnessed in those transformed guests, the glint in Dr. Blackwood’s eyes – it was a chilling reminder of the thin line between civilization and savagery.
Months later, a news report sent a jolt through me. A hiker had gone missing near Chateaugay Lake, his last known location: the vicinity of the Banner House. The authorities found nothing but scattered clothing and bloodstains. No trace of the hiker, no trace of foul play. Just an unsettling silence in the Adirondack woods.
The incident was buried under more pressing news, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was connected. Was Wendigo Wellness still operating? Had Dr. Blackwood perfected his macabre brand of “rejuvenation”? Or was something even more sinister at play?
Driven by a morbid curiosity and a desperate need for closure, I booked a return trip to Chateaugay Lake. This time, I wouldn’t be checking in as a guest. I was going undercover, determined to expose the truth behind the Banner House and its secrets.
The drive upstate was fraught with apprehension. The once-familiar landscape now seemed menacing, the trees like skeletal fingers reaching out from the shadows. Arriving at the Banner House, I found it eerily deserted. The windows were boarded up, the once-grand entrance choked with overgrown vines. A sense of desolation hung heavy in the air.
Undeterred, I ventured into the woods, following a barely discernible trail that led towards the clearing where I’d found the bones before. My heart hammered in my chest as I approached the clearing. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the rustle of unseen creatures in the undergrowth.
And then I saw it. A flicker of movement in the periphery of my vision. A figure emerged from behind a cluster of trees, tall and gaunt, its movements predatory. As it stepped into the sunlight, I gasped. It was Dr. Blackwood, but not as I remembered him. His eyes burned with an unnatural hunger, his once-manicured beard matted with blood. He wore a crude cloak of animal skins, and in his hand, he held a spear dripping with a dark liquid.
“Welcome back, Miss Crane,” he rasped, his voice a guttural growl. “The hunt continues.”
Terror flooded my veins, but a spark of defiance ignited within me. I wouldn’t become another victim of this twisted game. I turned and ran, adrenaline pumping through my veins, the forest floor a blur beneath my feet. Dr. Blackwood’s guttural laughter echoed behind me, urging me on, fueling my desperate flight.
I don’t know how long I ran, but eventually, my lungs burned and my legs gave way. I collapsed at the foot of a towering oak, gasping for breath. Tears streamed down my face, a mixture of fear and exhaustion.
Suddenly, a deep, primal growl shattered the silence. I looked up to see Dr. Blackwood standing over me, his spear raised high. His eyes glinted with a feral hunger, his face contorted into a predatory mask.
Just as he lunged, a deafening crack echoed through the woods. A figure emerged from the trees, silhouetted against the setting sun. It was tall and powerful, its form shrouded in shadow. In its hand, it held a massive bow, the arrow that had felled Dr. Blackwood still embedded in its chest.
The figure stepped into the clearing, revealing itself to be a Native American woman, her face etched with ancient wisdom and a fierce determination. She spoke in a language I didn’t understand, but the message was clear. She was the guardian of these woods, the protector against the darkness that lurked within.
With a nod of respect, she turned and vanished into the forest, leaving me alone with the fallen Dr. Blackwood and the unsettling knowledge that the real horrors of the Banner House lay not just within its walls, but deep within the very heart of the Adirondack wilderness.
The news never reported the truth about Dr. Blackwood or the Banner House. The official story was a tragic bear mauling, another unfortunate soul lost to the unforgiving wilderness. But I knew better. The woods held their secrets close, the silence masking the lingering echoes of primal screams and the gnawing hunger that never truly dies.
I left Chateaugay Lake behind, forever haunted by the experience. The city, once a haven, now felt suffocating, a pale imitation of the raw power I’d witnessed in the woods. The memory of the Native American woman, a silent protector in the face of darkness, flickered in my mind, a beacon of hope amidst the shadows.
The “Modern Housewife” article, devoid of its sinister undertones, became a footnote in my career. Yet, the story refused to be silenced. It seeped into my writing, adding a layer of unease to my seemingly mundane tales. Every time I wrote about nature, about the beauty and danger it held, the ghost of the Banner House loomed, a chilling reminder of the thin line between civilization and the primal hunger that lurks within us all.
Years passed, the scars of the experience fading but never truly gone. One day, while flipping through a dusty travel magazine, I stumbled upon an advertisement. A picture of a grand, yet slightly dilapidated, lakeside hotel nestled amidst evergreen trees. The caption read: “Banner House: Experience the Untamed Beauty of the Adirondacks.”
My heart lurched. Was it the same Banner House? Had they simply rebranded, erasing the horrors of the past? Or was something more sinister at play, a new chapter unfolding in the twisted legacy of Wendigo Wellness?
The answer, like the secrets of the Adirondack woods, remained shrouded in shadows. But as I stared at the advertisement, a cold certainty settled in my gut. The hunt, in some form, would continue. And somewhere, deep within the untamed wilderness, the hunger still waited.
What mysteries of Chateaugay Lake haunt you?