Steamboat Dispatch, Chateaugay Lake, New York – 1883
Guest Editorial: “The Wendigo: A Haunting Presence” by Nathaniel Collins
To the Editor of the Steamboat Dispatch,
Now, I reckon it ain’t no small thing, settlin’ down in the deep woods ‘round these parts of Chateaugay Lake, where the trees seem to speak their own language and the mists roll ‘cross the water like some old-time phantom from the past. I ain’t one to waste breath on ghost stories or tales spun by folks with too much time on their hands, but there’s somethin’ that’s been weighin’ on my mind, somethin’ that has haunted these woods long before any of us started buildin’ roads and settin’ down proper houses.
I’ll start by sayin’ that most folks ‘round here know me well enough. I ain’t the type to let fear govern my thoughts. But it’s this here Wendigo I’ve been hearin’ whispers about that keeps me up on some nights. Now, I ain’t goin’ to tell ya this as a fancy tale, or somethin’ folks’d speak ‘bout in a tavern to get a laugh outta the boys, no sir. This here’s a true warnin’, and I’d best get it down before it gnaws at my conscience any longer.
Years ago, long before the lake started seein’ visitors from far-off lands, I had the unfortunate luck of runnin’ into what they call the Wendigo. Folks around these parts, if they’re smart, know better than to go wanderin’ too far into the dense woods of Shatagee. It’s not just the trees that’ll catch you in their branches—it’s somethin’ else, somethin’ that gnaws at your mind and makes your blood run cold, even when the sun’s high in the sky.
It was a cold winter evening, the kind where the frost bites at your bones and the snow falls thick as wool. I was out makin’ my rounds, checkin’ traps in the usual places, when I heard it. The air had a strange feel to it, heavy-like, as if the world was holdin’ its breath. And then I heard it—a scream that didn’t sound quite right. Now, I’ve heard all manner of yelps from critters in these woods, but this was different. It was a sound that crawled under your skin, rattled your insides, and made you feel like somethin’ was reachin’ for your very soul.
I thought maybe it was a fox or a coyote, but somethin’ told me to stay put, keep my eyes sharp. When I finally got close to the sound, I saw it—no mistakin’ it, it was him. The Wendigo. Now, don’t go laughin’ or dismissin’ this, because I saw it with my own two eyes. It was a gaunt figure, twisted and thin, skin stretched tight over bones like leather pulled too tight ‘round a barrel. Eyes—eyes that glowed like two cold embers in a dying fire—looked straight at me, and for a moment, I thought my heart might stop right there. Its face was more skull than man, and it had this kind of hunger to it, a hunger that wasn’t just for food, but for somethin’ deeper, somethin’ older than hunger itself.
It didn’t make no sense at first, but then I realized—this wasn’t just some wild animal or lost soul. This was somethin’ that had been with these woods for centuries, maybe longer. I’ve heard old-timers tell tales about the Wendigo for years, sure as the sun rises over Pratt Hill. It’s an old legend, that one—an evil spirit born of greed and hunger, a spirit that grows stronger the more it feeds, always hungry, always wanting more. But this? This felt real, like the stories weren’t just stories at all.
I didn’t stick around long enough to get a proper look at what the thing wanted—because it wasn’t me it was after. Oh no, it was somethin’ more. It’s like it had no interest in just takin’ a life, it wanted somethin’ deeper, somethin’ that tore at the fabric of who we are, something that left me feelin’ more hollow than I’ve ever felt before or since.
I’ve spent the years since thinkin’ about it, tryin’ to make sense of what I saw. What makes a man or a spirit like that? What makes something hunger like that? It’s the kind of thing that shakes a man to his core, makes ya rethink all the stories your grandpa told you about spirits in the woods and creatures that stalk the night. But I’ll tell ya this: if you ever hear that strange scream, if you ever feel the air thicken ‘round you like it’s pressin’ down from the heavens, you best turn your tail and run. Because that’s the Wendigo, and it don’t take kindly to strangers.
Now, I’m not one to say what others should believe, but I reckon there’s a lesson in all this for folks who come up to the lake wantin’ to chase thrills or find somethin’ they shouldn’t. We’ve got a history here, rich with stories, yes, but some of ‘em are better left untouched, better left to the mist and shadows of the woods.
So, to all the good folks readin’ this, I’m askin’ you kindly—heed the old stories. There’s things in these woods, things older than us, that we ain’t meant to understand. And the Wendigo? Well, let’s just say he’s a reminder that some ghosts aren’t meant to be chased, and some stories weren’t made to be rewritten.
Yours in caution,
Nathaniel Collins
Local Guide, Chateaugay Lake
1883
*Reprinted in the *Steamboat Dispatch* as a chilling reflection on the folklore that still weaves its way through the misty edges of Chateaugay Lake.*
What mysteries of Chateaugay Lake haunt you?