Title: The Limericks of the Fireside Serpents
Author: J. M. Trickster, as told by the Shadowed Spirit of Chateaugay
Young Darius Merrill had always been a boy whose thoughts wandered where the woods wove thickest, where the trees whispered tales to those willing to listen. That day, as he strolled through the Shatagee Woods, his mind was a knotted tangle of Old Fred Shutts’s offer to sell his lakeside cottage to Darius—a deal as odd as the tales that haunted those ancient woods. Fred’s offer came with a twist of the tongue, a half-smile that hinted at something unsaid, like the punchline to a joke too dark to laugh at.
Deep in thought, Darius didn’t notice the first rustling. But the forest has a way of tugging at the edges of your awareness when something isn’t quite right. The leaves shivered with the kind of breeze that didn’t belong, the kind that carried more than just the scent of pine. Darius stopped, a cold sliver of unease slicing through his daydreams. He turned, and the shadows in the clearing seemed to breathe.
And then, like a fever dream come to life, five hulking figures lumbered out of the underbrush. Their forms twisted and grotesque, they moved with the drunken sway of men too deep in their cups—but these were no men. These were Wendigos, and not the kind that filled the cautionary tales of the old folks. No, these beasts were something altogether worse. They reeked of decay, their breath a sickly sweet stench that clung to the air like a curse.
Their eyes, hollow pits of darkness, gleamed with a malevolent hunger as they staggered about, each one belting out limericks—vile, twisted verses that made the blood run cold. “There once was a settler from Chateaugay,” one crooned, its voice like a rusted saw on bone, “whose flesh made a fine stew one day!” The others cackled, a hideous symphony that echoed through the trees, a mockery of life and death, of hunger and satiation.
Darius stood frozen in terror as the Wendigos encircled him, their words seeping into his bones, turning his legs to lead. He was on the cusp of flight, of turning and fleeing into the thick woods where even the Wendigos would not follow, when a familiar figure emerged from the shadows.
Old Fred Shutts, rifle in hand, stepped out from behind a twisted oak as though he’d always been there, waiting for just this moment. “Not so fast,” he growled, his voice low and rough like gravel grinding underfoot. “Mike and his pals tipped me off about this sorry lot. They’ve been hitting the Brazen Serpent’s whisky again, the kind that doesn’t just burn going down but burns straight through to the soul. Makes ‘em monsters, it does, Wendigos in mind and body.”
Fred’s eyes were sharp, glinting with a knowledge that seemed older than the trees themselves. He didn’t hesitate as he took aim, firing off shots as quick as thought. The Wendigos howled, a sound that shattered the night, not of pain but of something deeper, something primal. Their howls were the last echoes of a hunger that would never be satisfied, the cries of creatures caught between worlds.
One by one, the beasts fell to the ground, their monstrous forms crumbling into dust that swirled in the moonlight, carried away on a breeze that hadn’t been there a moment before. And with their demise, the air seemed to grow lighter, the oppressive weight of their presence lifting as though the forest itself sighed in relief.
“That should do it,” Old Fred muttered, lowering his rifle, the moonlight casting long shadows over his lined face. He turned to Darius, who was still rooted to the spot, fear clutching at his heart. “You did good, boy, keeping quiet like that. But let’s not go filling heads with stories, eh? Some things are best left between those who’ve seen them. Go on home, tell folks we had ourselves a grand old time at Magoon Brook today, fishing for trout.”
Darius, still too shaken to speak, only nodded. The forest around him felt different now, as though the shadows held secrets he wasn’t meant to understand, at least not yet. He hurried away from the clearing, the remnants of the Wendigos’ terrible song still ringing in his ears.
He never spoke of that night, and the forest never spoke of it either. But if you were to listen closely on certain nights, when the moon hung just so in the sky, you might hear a faint rustling in the leaves, followed by a wretched limerick whispered by a voice that doesn’t quite belong. And if you do, well, you’d best keep walking. For the woods are old, and the Wendigos are only the beginning of the tales that haunt the Shatagee Woods.
What mysteries of Chateaugay Lake haunt you?