CHATEAUGAY LAKE STEAMBOAT GAZETTE CO.

Alright, kids, gather around the fire. I’ve got a tale for you, and it’s not just any tale! This is a cosmic horror story with a twist of dark comedy, seasoned with existential dread and served with a side of hysteria. Picture this: it’s the summer of 1922, and we’ve got five college buddies, right? Amina, Jebat, Kasturi, Mahathir, and Radin. Fresh-faced, naive, and probably still drunk off their final exams, they decide, “Hey, let’s go camping at Chateaugay Lake!” Because nothing says relaxation like tempting fate in the middle of the frickin’ Adirondacks.

So they set up their camp by this eerie-ass lake, the kind of place where the shadows stretch out like they’re trying to grab your soul. They get the fire going, cook up some stew—because what’s camping without a little gourmet action? And then, Jebat, bless his brave but dumb heart, decides to crack wise about the Wendigo. “Imagine believing in that Wendigo crap,” he says. “Such primitive nonsense.” Oh, Jebat, you beautiful fool. Mocking the ancient spirit of endless hunger? Bold strategy, Cotton. Let’s see how that plays out.

The forest, it seems, doesn’t take kindly to their little stand-up routine. Suddenly, the trees start whispering. Yeah, you heard me right—whispering. Like they’re in on a joke and you’re the punchline. And these aren’t your regular ol’ night noises. We’re talking full-on, grade-A, creepy-as-hell whispers. And then come the howls. Not wolves, not coyotes. No, these are howls from the depths of existential despair, the kind that make your soul shrink and say, “I didn’t sign up for this.”

Mahathir’s all, “Did you hear that?” And Kasturi, trying to play it cool, says, “Just the wind.” Yeah, sure, it’s the wind. And my Aunt Petunia is the Queen of Sheba. But they try to keep it together. Meanwhile, the trees are practically shaking with laughter, like they’re in on a cosmic joke that these kids just aren’t getting.

Night falls like a goddamn sledgehammer, and the fire’s light starts to feel like the last matchstick in a windstorm. The tents start moving. Not a gentle breeze, but like invisible hands are playing the world’s creepiest game of patty-cake. Sleep? Ha! Sleep’s gone AWOL, folks. Replaced by sheer, unadulterated dread.

Radin wakes up, and he’s got a spectral finger poking him through the tent. He looks out, and there are these glowing eyes staring back. Not just any eyes, but the kind that say, “I see your soul, and it’s delicious.”

Kasturi gets clawed—yeah, clawed—by something outside the tent. She growls back, probably hoping to scare off a raccoon. But nope, what she gets is a chuckle. A deep, guttural, cosmic chuckle that says, “Oh, sweet summer child.”

Now, the Wendigo. Let me tell you about the Wendigo. This thing isn’t just a monster. It’s like the IRS, climate change, and your worst hangover rolled into one eldritch abomination. It’s ancient, it’s hungry, and it’s got a PhD in making you lose your freaking mind. It toys with them, scratches at their tents, pokes and prods, like it’s enjoying a five-course meal of human fear. And these kids, they’re the main course.

The hours stretch out, and time becomes this elastic, nightmarish thing. By dawn, the forest goes quiet. The friends emerge, looking like they’ve aged ten years in one night. They pack up, leave Chateaugay Lake, but let me tell you, the lake doesn’t leave them. Oh no. The Wendigo’s mark is on them, etched into their souls. They’ve looked into the abyss, and the abyss has looked back, taken notes, and laughed its ass off.

Years later, they don’t talk about it much. When they do, it’s in hushed tones, like talking too loud might bring the Wendigo back. They move on with their lives, but there’s a shadow over them, a cosmic reminder that the universe is a vast, indifferent place, and sometimes, the darkness laughs last.

So, next time you’re out in the woods and someone starts cracking jokes about ancient spirits? Maybe keep it to yourself. You never know who—or what—might be listening.