The wind whispered through the dark like a warning. Winter was coming and with winter came hunger and with hunger came madness. At least, that’s what the White men called it, because that is what they could understand. However, the people of my tribe, whose home was the vast forests of the northern wilderness, knew better than to so quickly dismiss the teachings of the elders.

We were all too familiar with how isolation and grief could affect the mind and had ways of healing; the sweat lodges and ceremonies where we would chant the ancient songs and release our sorrows to the Great Spirit who loves us.

Yet there were other spirits, spirits trapped in the world in an era before time began that stalked the shadows of the gloomy woods and stalked the minds of men, searching for any weakness they could use to their advantage.

They were eternally hungry and cursed to live with their affliction, unable to die and always craving human flesh. Yet with every bloody morsel they consumed, their hunger only grew worse and their sorrow deepened. We called them wendigo.

As I sat close to the fire, as much for warmth as to ease my fears of the darkness beyond the tree line, I felt my stomach rumble and heard the faint sounds of weeping from amidst the creaking pines.