Shattered Memories: A Collection of Short Stories

Fragment 1: Wendigo

"...savage and formidable Potencies lurking behind the souls of men, not evil perhaps in themselves, yet instinctively hostile to humanity as it exists." 

-Algernon Blackwood, The Wendigo

The first thing he felt was the cold and the warmth. It was hot near his face, with the flickering light and waves of heat that personified a fire. The cold was on the rest of his body, and he could feel the wetness and frigidness against his legs. Snow. It all suddenly came back to him. Being out in the woods, wandering along a snowy trail alone at night...then nothing. He moved slightly, then hissed with regret when he felt an aching pain along his back and arms. His eyes widened as he tried to move, realizing his hands were bound behind him. 

Panic and fear began to rush into his body like a waterfall as he tried to stand up and move, and felt a small trickle of liquid down the front of his face. His nose was bleeding. He'd been attacked. He looked in front of him, trying to regain his senses as the haziness began to slip away. He could see a large fire in front of him, its orange and red flames flickering up into the sky, casting small ashes upwards amongst the stars above, passing by the large snow-covered trees.

As he was about to open his mouth to shout, he heard a voice. "I wouldn't do that if I were you, son." He shut his mouth quickly, then focused on the other side of the fire across from him. He saw a man sitting on a log, wearing a wide-brimmed hat, along with a brown leather jacket and blue jeans, with two black mittens on each of his hands. In one hand he held a long stick, and was poking the fire and moving some of the wood and coals around, stoking the flame. In the other he held a shotgun, its long barrel turned across his lap, cradled like a child. 

Putting the stick down, he now put both hands on the shotgun. "This is a Winchester Model 1200. Holds five 12-gauge rounds, one in the chamber, four in the tube. When one of these shells is fired, it spits 410 pellets of lead at about 15 metres a second. That's a hell of a lot faster than you can run, and much faster than it takes you to scream." His eyes stared into his, the brown irises flickering in the firelight. "So you're gonna sit, and be nice and quiet, understand?"

His heart was beating a million miles an hour. He was being held hostage, alone, in the woods, and no one knew he was out here. Looking up at the man with the shotgun, he spoke quietly, a tremble in his voice. "W-Who are you?" The man shook his head. "You're not the one asking the questions around here. I want your name." He could taste blood in the back of his throat, and swallowed it down nervously. "S-Steven."

The man with the shotgun sighed and leaned forwards, placing both arms on top of the shotgun, looking at him like he was a child who had said the wrong answer to a math problem. "No...I meant your real name." Steven was confused. "What are you talking about?" The man with the shotgun adjusted his hat and sat up, holding the shotgun. "That's the name of whoever you're pretending to be. I know you have a real name...one that you don't want people to say. So tell me." 

He was insane, rambling. Steven didn't know what to do. "Please, I-I don't know what you want me to-" The man with the shotgun interrupted him. "You ever heard of the wendigo, son?" Steven thought to himself. The name ignited the small flicker of a memory inside of him. A story he'd read in a book long ago. About two men who wandered into the snowy wood, and encountered a monster that could take on the form of a man, and lured them into his lair...then ate them alive.

Steven stared at the man. "I...yes." He nodded slowly, not wanting to upset him. "Vaguely...but it's just a story." The man shook his head again, in the same condescending way. "No story is just a story, son. Everything comes from somewhere. The wendigo is just as real as you or me. Besides, you should know better than anyone...because it's what you are." He looked at Steven dead in the eyes, the brown-coloured orbs boring into his face.