The Night the Steamboat Pirates Met the Wendigo Syndicate
As told by old Alonzo Bellows around the roaring hearth of Deer Spring Lodge
The fire crackled with a vengeance that late autumn night, throwing long shadows across the timbered walls of Deer Spring Lodge. The wind outside howled like a chorus of restless spirits, but inside, the old-timers leaned in close, pipe smoke curling thick in the air. Alonzo Bellows, his face a map of crags and stories, sat in the storyteller’s chair, leaning on his hickory cane.
“Now, you young bucks think y’know ‘bout the Steamboat Pirates, don’tcha?” he began, his voice gravelly but full of mischief. “Aye, they was bold, rowdy fellers—smugglin’, hootin’, and causin’ no end o’ trouble ‘round the lake. But what most folk don’t know is how, in the fall o’ 1841, they had the misfortune o’ crossin’ paths with the Wendigo-Abenaki Syndicate. Them pirates ain’t been the same since—leastways, those that lived to tell the tale.”
The younger men chuckled nervously, while the old-timers nodded grimly. They knew Alonzo didn’t deal in lighthearted yarns.
“It all started on a night much like this one,” he said, gesturing to the dark windowpanes rattling against the wind. “The pirates’d just pulled a haul from a wealthy Frenchman over in Plattsburgh—a shipment o’ brandy, tobacco, and some fancy silver cups they reckoned would fetch a pretty penny. Capt. Virgil ‘Black Buck’ Quinn, their leader, decided they’d make camp at Ghost Pine Island ‘fore headin’ back south.”
Alonzo paused, took a deep pull from his pipe, and let the silence hang heavy.
“Now, Ghost Pine Island’s a queer spot. Always been. The Abenaki called it Shatagee, meanin’ ‘whisperin’ spirits,’ and they warn’t wrong. It’s a cursed place, they say—where the Wendigo Syndicate meets in the dead o’ night to do business, tradin’ in things no honest man has a right to name. Them pirates, o’ course, thought nothin’ o’ this. They was too drunk on their loot and their own devil-may-care swagger.”
The fire popped, as if punctuating Alonzo’s words, and a log shifted in the hearth.
“Well, ‘round midnight, Black Buck hears somethin’ stirrin’ in the trees. A low hum, like a chant carried on the wind, but there ain’t no wind to speak of. The crew—Joe Grit, Stumpy Barlow, and the lot—hear it too, but they figure it’s just the whiskey talkin’. That is, till the fog rolls in. Not your ordinary lake fog, mind ye—this stuff moves like it’s alive, curlin’ ‘round the boats, the trees, and even their boots like it’s lookin’ fer somethin’.”
Alonzo’s voice dropped to a near whisper, and the younger men leaned in so close they nearly toppled over.
“Outta the fog steps a man—least, they thought it was a man. He’s tall, rail-thin, with eyes like burnin’ coals. His coat’s patched with scraps o’ fur, and his voice… well, Black Buck later said it was like listenin’ to a storm tryin’ to talk.”
“‘You’ve trespassed,’ the figure says, slow and deliberate, his breath hangin’ in the cold air like frost. ‘This is our island.’”
“Now, Black Buck weren’t no coward, but even he felt a chill that weren’t from the night air. He draws his pistol and says, ‘And who might you be, claimin’ land that don’t belong to no man?’”
“The figure just smiles—though it’s more teeth than grin—and says, ‘I am no man.’”
Alonzo let the room sit in silence, the weight of those words hanging like the fog he described.
“That’s when the rest o’ ‘em appear,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “The Abenaki Syndicate, they called ‘em—them that’ve struck a pact with the Wendigo itself. They step outta the trees, wearin’ masks made o’ bone and feathers, their weapons glintin’ like moonlight on a frozen stream. And behind ‘em, I swear on my mama’s grave, there’s somethin’ else—a shape, tall as the pines, with antlers stretchin’ toward the stars and eyes that don’t see the world like we do. That, my friends, is the Wendigo.”
The lodge fell utterly silent, save for the crackle of the fire.
“What happened next?” one of the younger men asked, his voice barely audible.
Alonzo grinned, his teeth flashing yellow in the firelight.
“Well, that’s the queer part. The Wendigo-Abenaki didn’t attack. They just… watched. Black Buck, to his credit, tried to parlay, offerin’ up the brandy and silver as tribute. But the Wendigo, it steps forward, lookin’ down at the pirates like they was ants at its feet. And then… it speaks. Not with words, mind ye, but somethin’ worse—somethin’ that went straight to their heads, makin’ ‘em see things they didn’t wanna see. Visions of winter fields stained red, o’ faces frozen in terror, o’ hunger so deep it’d hollow out a man’s soul.”
Alonzo shivered, though the lodge was warm.
“When the fog lifted come mornin’, half the crew was gone—vanished without a trace. Black Buck and the survivors rowed out fast as they could, swearin’ they’d never set foot on that cursed island again. And they didn’t—leastways, not willingly. But the brandy and silver? Gone, too. Some say the Wendigo Syndicate claimed it as their due. Others reckon it was a warnin’.”
He leaned back in his chair, puffing his pipe thoughtfully.
“And that, my friends, is why no sensible man’ll set camp on Ghost Pine Island. The Wendigo-Abenaki Syndicate still meets there, they say, and the Wendigo itself guards their secrets. So next time yer steamin’ past and see a fog risin’ sudden-like… you’d do best to keep yer distance.”
The fire popped again, as if to punctuate the tale, and the wind outside seemed to howl in agreement.
And so ended Alonzo Bellows’ story, leaving the room full of uneasy silence and the faintest whispers of unseen spirits swirling in the smoky air.
What mysteries of Chateaugay Lake haunt you?