A storm raged outside, mirroring the tempest brewing inside Evelyn Nesbit’s ramshackle laboratory on the shores of Chateaugay Lake. Rain lashed against the corrugated metal roof, the wind howling like a banshee. Inside, amidst the chaotic tangle of wires, flickering bulbs, and half-assembled contraptions, Evelyn hunched over a massive oaken table, the I Ching spread before her like a cryptic map.
Tonight, the ancient oracle spoke of progress and success, but with a chilling caveat – “movement in advance should not be lightly undertaken.” Evelyn’s brow furrowed. This wasn’t the first time the I Ching had issued such cryptic pronouncements. It was as if the very fabric of reality itself was resisting the birth of her most audacious creation yet – the Incredible Electric Wendigos.
These weren’t your run-of-the-mill robots. Inspired by the anarchic spirit of Dada, Evelyn envisioned hulking, nightmarish figures cobbled together from scavenged parts – the cast-off chassis of 1920s vacuum tubes, wires snaking like metallic veins, the whole thing held together with an unholy alliance of duct tape and rubber bands. But within this ramshackle exterior, she envisioned a marvel – a psychic-neural net, a chaotic symphony of analog circuits that would grant the Wendigos a form of… well, nobody quite knew what. Sentience? Empathy? The ability to play a mean jazz solo, albeit one that would leave your ears ringing and your furniture askew.
A manic glint ignited in Evelyn’s eyes. With a flourish, she grabbed a length of copper wire and dipped it into a vat of bubbling green liquid – her own concoction, a potent neurotransmitter soup designed to jumpstart the neural net. Sparks crackled as she connected the wire to a tangle of circuits, the room filling with the low hum of awakening power.
Suddenly, the workshop door lurched open, a silhouette framed by the howling storm. It was Sheriff Mel, a man as big as his reputation. Rainwater dripped from his Stetson, his expression a mix of concern and amusement.
“Evenin’, Nesbit,” he boomed, his voice a rumble that shook the floorboards. “Sounds like you’re wrasslin’ with a particularly stubborn washing machine in there.”
Evelyn whirled around, her eyes blazing. “Mel! Don’t you interrupt the birth of greatness!”
The room pulsed with an eerie green glow as the first Wendigo stirred. Its massive, antlered head, cobbled together from scavenged radio parts, twitched. A single, bulbous eye flickered to life, casting an unsettling crimson light across the room.
From somewhere within its metallic innards, a sound erupted – a cacophony of dissonant chords, punctuated by the screech of tortured vacuum tubes. It was jazz, alright, but a jazz played by a malfunctioning record player being strangled by a pack of rabid weasels.
Mel, unfazed, chuckled. “Sounds like someone needs to tune their fiddle.” He reached into his coat pocket and produced a well-worn violin, then proceeded to play a complex melody that seemed to weave its way through the cacophony, calming the Wendigo’s erratic thrashing.
In the ensuing quiet, Mel said, “You know, Nesbit, for all your fancy wires and flashing lights, there’s somethin’ to be said about the classics.”
Evelyn, amidst the pandemonium, couldn’t help but let out a begrudging smile. Sure, the Wendigo was a chaotic mess, a Dadaist nightmare brought to life. But it was her nightmare, and it was beautiful in its own way. Mel, with his booming voice and trusty fiddle, was an unexpected complication. But with the Incredible Electric Wendigos by her side, she was ready to face the future, head-on and with a hell of a lot of noise.
What mysteries of Chateaugay Lake haunt you?