This fireside tale dives into chilling encounters with ravenous Wendigos, featuring intense wilderness peril, supernatural dread, and hair-raising survival—readers beware, this story may stir unease and keep you restless through the night.
Johqu Bogart and the Night of the Wendigos
The Shatagee Woods Museum of Unnatural Hysteria wasn’t just where Johqu Bogart welcomed the occasional curious visitor—it was where he lived, surrounded by the artifacts of the region’s history and his own life. Tonight, however, it served a simpler purpose: the place where his grandchildren gathered close to the fire, eyes wide, ready for one of his tales.
Johqu leaned back in his chair, his rough-hewn features lit by the flickering light of the hearth. He took a deep breath, his gaze distant as though the smoke curling from the fire carried him back to another time.
“You young ones want a scary story before bed, eh? Well, let me tell you about a night that still makes these old bones shiver—one that taught me never to underestimate the Shatagee Woods. Back when I was just a lad, barely big enough to carry a flintlock, I had an encounter that could’ve been the end of me.”
He paused, watching their faces, and when they nodded eagerly, he continued.
“The snow had let up that evening, but the sky above looked like a blanket of gray wool, heavy with its own secrets. I was out hunting—my pa always said you couldn’t grow into a proper woodsman without braving the wild alone. I’d been tracking a deer that whole day, only to find nothing but old trails and the faintest scratches in the snow. Hunger’s a mighty motivator, and I was starting to feel it claw at me as I pressed deeper into the woods.”
He stopped to toss another log onto the fire, the sparks flying up like startled fireflies.
“The woods, you see, were quiet that day. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your ears strain to hear what’s missing. Then it hit me—a stench like rot and swamp water, thick enough to make a feller gag. I figured maybe I was near some carcass the wolves hadn’t finished, but my gut told me otherwise.”
Johqu’s grandchildren were riveted now, leaning in so close they could’ve toppled into his lap.
“It wasn’t long before I noticed shadows slipping between the trees, moving too fast and quiet to be any animal I’d ever seen. My heart was thumping like a drum at a barn dance, and I started marking my trail, carving little notches into the trees so I wouldn’t get turned around. That’s when I saw it—big as a man, but wrong. Its limbs were all stretched out like a spider’s, and its eyes glowed like coals fresh out of the forge.”
One of the children let out a little gasp, and Johqu grinned, his teeth flashing white beneath his bushy mustache.
“That’s right, kids. A Wendigo. You’ve heard the stories. Spirits of hunger and greed, cursed to roam the woods forever. And let me tell you, they’re not just tales to keep children from wandering too far. They’re real. I saw ‘em with my own eyes.”
He leaned forward, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
“The first one came at me like a streak of lightning, its claws swiping through the air so close I felt the wind from ‘em. I swung my flintlock—not to shoot, mind you, but like a club. Caught it square on the jaw, and it let out a screech that’d make a barn owl sound like a lullaby. It slinked back into the shadows, but there were more of ‘em. A whole pack.”
The fire crackled as if punctuating his words.
“I ran, my boots slipping on the snow, my breath puffing out in great clouds. I didn’t have a plan, just raw panic pushing me forward. Then I spotted it—a big ol’ rock, jutting out of the ground like a tooth. I scrambled up, nearly losing my footing on the ice. From up there, I could see ‘em circling below, their glowing eyes watching me like wolves eying a wounded deer.”
“What did you do, Grandpa?” one of the grandchildren whispered, her voice barely audible.
Johqu smiled and ruffled her hair.
“I did what any smart woodsman would do—I made fire. I had coals in my pack, wrapped up in moss to keep ‘em alive, and I set to work. Found some damp branches, but they caught well enough. Once I had the flames going, I started tossing burning sticks at the beasts. They didn’t like that one bit—most of ‘em scattered like dry leaves in a windstorm. But one of ‘em, bigger and meaner than the rest, climbed right up after me.”
He paused, his voice dropping to a near-growl.
“That thing’s face was inches from mine, its breath reeking of death. I grabbed the nearest branch, still burning on one end, and shoved it right into its face. The stink of singed flesh was worse than anything I’ve smelled before or since, but it worked. The beast let out a scream that made my ears ring and bolted back into the woods. The others followed, leaving me alone with the fire and my shaking knees.”
Johqu let out a long breath, leaning back in his chair as though reliving that moment.
“I waited until dawn before I climbed down from that rock. My legs were so wobbly I could barely stand. I found my way out of the woods by following the notches I’d made, and when I finally stumbled into a logging camp, the men there looked at me like I’d seen a ghost. Maybe I had.”
He spread his hands, the firelight glinting off his weathered skin.
“So, there you have it. The night your grandpa stared down a pack of Wendigos and lived to tell the tale. Now, off to bed with you—and don’t let the shadows in the woods keep you awake.”
The children scampered off, their laughter tinged with nervous excitement. Johqu watched them go, a sly smile playing on his lips. The fire crackled behind him, and for a moment, just a moment, he thought he saw a flicker of glowing eyes in the shadows beyond the window.
What mysteries of Chateaugay Lake haunt you?