Trigger Warning: This tale contains chilling Wendigo encounters, mischievous Krampus antics, supernatural standoffs, limerick-induced mayhem, a cantankerous goose, spectral revelry, and holiday chaos. Readers may experience sudden laughter, eerie chills, or an unshakable urge to save a mug for legends.
A Wendigo, a Krampus, and the Old Squire’s Brew
In the settling twilight of the 1840s, down at the bustling little outpost where Chateaugay Lake spills its waters into the outlet at Bellmont, young Darius Merrill was hunched over a splintered pine table in the forge. His cherrywood fishing pole leaned against the wall, forgotten, as he scratched out a limerick with a stub of charcoal. His mind, normally preoccupied with trout and mischief, had turned to poetry. And, of all topics, love.
Olive Susan Miles, the Old Squire’s spirited daughter, leaned over his shoulder. “You’re gonna write yourself into trouble, Dide,” she said, brushing a stray red curl from her freckled face. At her feet lounged a curious trio: her cat Captain Pounce, the big sheepdog Jupiter, and a cantankerous goose named Marigold, all watching with the suspicion only animals can muster.
Darius grinned. “Trouble? What kind of trouble can a love limerick cause? Listen to this—”
“There once was a maid from the shore,
Whose beauty, the lake did adore.
But her suitors all fled,
When they heard what she said—
‘I’ll marry a Wendigo before!’”
Olive clapped a hand over her mouth, half in shock, half laughing. “Dide, you fool, don’t you know the stories? Speak the Wendigo’s name too loud and it might come calling!”
The wind howled through the cracks in the forge walls as if to underscore her warning. Jupiter gave a low growl, and Captain Pounce arched his back, hissing into the gloom. Marigold honked indignantly, waddling to the door as if she’d half a mind to confront the source of the chill herself.
But Darius, never one to heed omens, stood up, grabbed a rusty cowbell from the wall, and proclaimed, “Well, if the Wendigo’s listening, it can come and enjoy a good verse!”
At that moment, the air seemed to freeze. Not just cold—no, this was the kind of bone-deep chill that silenced even the forest’s nocturnal creatures. A shadow flickered across the doorway, tall and thin as a sapling but twisted like the gnarled roots of an ancient tree. The Wendigo stepped forward, its skeletal frame illuminated by the faint glow of the forge. Its eyes burned like dying stars, fixed on the boy who dared mock its legend.
Before either could scream, there came another sound—a loud, jingling clamor and a booming laugh that seemed to rattle the very foundation of the forge.
“HO! HO! HO! What mischief have we here?”
Bursting into the room, larger than life and twice as menacing, came the Krampus, dragging chains, his long tongue flickering like a snake’s, and clutching a massive keg marked KRAMPUSNACHTBREW. The Wendigo hissed at the intruder, and the two ancient beings began to circle each other like wolves preparing to fight.
“Darius!” Olive whispered, tugging at his sleeve. “Run! Get Wes! I’ll fetch my brother Bill before this turns into something worse.”
The two darted out the door, leaving the goose Marigold flapping defiantly at the supernatural standoff. Darius sprinted to his family’s cabin, shouting for Wes, while Olive dashed up the road to find Bill “Miller” Miles, the largest and most no-nonsense member of the Miles clan.
By the time they returned to the forge—Darius with a bewildered Wes in tow and Olive flanked by her burly brother—they found a scene none of them could’ve predicted. The Wendigo and the Krampus were no longer circling, but sitting cross-legged in the dirt, deep in conversation. Between them was the now-empty keg of Krampusnachtbrew, and their eerie laughter echoed through the night.
The Old Squire himself appeared on the scene, his lantern swinging. “What’s this?” he bellowed, eyeing the drunken specters with a mix of irritation and curiosity. “A gathering at my forge, and no one thought to invite me?”
The Krampus hiccupped. “Apologies, good sir. Your hospitality is unmatched. Next time, we shall send word.”
The Wendigo nodded solemnly. “Indeed. A fine brew for a fine evening.”
Darius, Olive, Wes, and Bill stood dumbfounded as the Old Squire, with a grumble about “manners,” marched into the forge, grabbed his best mug, and joined the spectral gathering. The night ended with the most unusual chorus of laughter and ghostly caroling the settlement had ever heard, echoing across the lake and into legend.
The next morning, the Steamboat Dispatch ran the headline:
“WENDIGO AND KRAMPUS CELEBRATE AT MILES FORGE: OLD SQUIRE DEMANDS INVITATION TO NEXT GATHERING!”
The article concluded with a cheerful note:
May your hearth be warm, your spirits bright, and may you always save a mug for unexpected guests—whether they come from the lake, the woods, or beyond. Merry Christmas to one and all!
STEAMBOAT DISPATCH
KRAMPUSNACHT EDITION
WENDIGO AND KRAMPUS CELEBRATE AT MILES FORGE
OLD SQUIRE DEMANDS INVITATION TO NEXT GATHERING!
Bellmont, NY—It was a night to remember, folks, as Chateaugay Lake’s most peculiar yuletide gathering left the community abuzz with chatter louder than a loon’s cry at sunrise. Witnesses report that two legendary figures—the notorious Wendigo of local lore and the infamous Krampus of alpine tradition—shared an evening of revelry at the Miles Forge, turning a night of frosty fear into what can only be described as a spectral holiday hootenanny.
A Frosty Start
The commotion began when young Darius Merrill, a poet with more ambition than caution, composed a limerick at the forge late last night. What started as harmless rhyming (or so he claims) summoned not one but two otherworldly beings. The Wendigo arrived first, its skeletal form chilling the very air, drawn, it seems, by the lad’s ill-advised verses. But before things could turn grim, the Krampus stormed in like a gale-force wind, dragging chains and carrying a keg labeled Krampusnachtbrew.
A Legendary Standoff
Eyewitnesses, including Olive Susan Miles and her brother Bill “Miller” Miles, describe the two mythical creatures initially circling each other with clear intent to settle centuries-old grievances—or perhaps just to establish dominance. However, things took a curious turn when the Krampus uncorked his keg and offered the Wendigo a mug. What followed was a scene none could’ve anticipated: the pair sitting cross-legged in the dirt, sharing tales and tankards as though they were old chums reunited after many long winters.
“I reckon they worked out their differences over the brew,” said Olive, still clutching her goose Marigold, who reportedly honked at the Wendigo before retreating to safety. “Who knew supernatural critters could be so… sociable?”
Enter the Old Squire
As the supernatural celebration continued, Old Squire Miles arrived, lantern in hand, to investigate the racket. Upon discovering his forge occupied by legends and laden with empty mugs, the Squire expressed his displeasure in no uncertain terms. “A gathering on my property and no invitation? Outrageous!” he reportedly declared before fetching his best pewter mug and promptly joining the festivities.
A Holiday to Remember
By dawn, the forge was quiet once more, the Wendigo and Krampus having departed, leaving behind only the faint scent of pine, frost, and whatever potent concoction had filled the Krampusnachtbrew keg. The Squire, however, wasted no time in issuing a demand to his supernatural guests: “Next time, send word ahead! And bring more brew!”
The Miles family assures the community that the forge will be open for business as usual—though they’ve taken to keeping an extra mug or two on hand, “just in case.”
Editorial Note
Folks, it’s not every day that local legends come to life, let alone share a pint. The events of last night remind us all to keep our hearths warm, our mugs full, and our spirits bright. Should unexpected visitors—be they from the woods, the lake, or parts unknown—come knocking, remember: it’s the season of goodwill to all, even to the strangest of guests.
Merry Christmas to one and all!
— Submitted by your ever-curious and slightly frostbitten Banner House corresondent, C.F. KIRBY.
What mysteries of Chateaugay Lake haunt you?