First-Person POV (Marcus Hale)
The sun was barely up when I rolled into Blackwater Falls, West Virginia, the Nissan's tires crunching over gravel as I pulled into the police station parking lot.
Time to play FBI.
I adjusted the fake badge clipped to my belt—Agent Steve Rogers, because why the hell not—and strode inside like I owned the place.
The station was small, cramped, and smelled like stale coffee and regret. A bored-looking officer with a nametag that read Loony, A. glanced up from his desk.
"Help you?"
I flashed the badge. "Agent Rogers. FBI. Here about the hikers."
Officer Alfie Loony blinked. "FBI? For a couple of missing campers?"
I kept my face neutral. "The one they found was half-eaten. That tends to get our attention."
Loony paled. "Right. Uh. Let me get the file."
While he scrambled, I took in the station. Maps of the forest pinned to corkboards. A coffee machine that looked like it hadn't been cleaned since the '80s. And, most importantly, zero signs of anyone who might question my authority.
Perfect.
Loony returned with a thin folder. "Here's what we got. Two hikers—Benny Hayes and Carrie Lowell—went missing three days ago. Search team found Benny's… uh… remains yesterday."
I flipped open the file. The crime scene photos were brutal. Ribcage cracked open. Organs missing. Claw marks too clean for a bear.
Definitely a wendigo.
I snapped the file shut. "Any witnesses?"
"Just Carrie's brother, Jake. He was with them but got separated. Kid's pretty shaken up."
"Where can I find him?"
Loony scribbled an address on a sticky note. "He's staying with his aunt in town."
I pocketed it. "Appreciate the help, Officer."
As I turned to leave, Loony hesitated. "Agent Rogers… you think this was an animal?"
I met his gaze. "If it is, it's not one you want to meet in the woods."
---
Jake Lowell was a wiry kid, maybe nineteen, with hollow eyes and a death grip on a coffee mug. His aunt had let me in after one flash of the badge, her face pinched with worry.
I sat across from Jake at the kitchen table. "I know this is hard, but I need you to walk me through what happened."
Jake's hands shook. "We were just… hiking. Normal shit, you know? Then the fog rolled in. We got turned around. Next thing I know, Benny's screaming. I ran, but… Carrie didn't."
"Did you see what took them?"
He swallowed hard. "No. But I heard it. Sounded like… laughing. But wrong."
Wendigo.
I kept my voice steady. "Anything else? Strange smells? Cold spots?"
Jake frowned. "How'd you know? It was freezing all of a sudden."
Bingo.
I stood, sliding a card across the table. "Call me if you remember anything else."
The card had a fake number, but Jake didn't need to know that.
---
Back at the motel, I dumped my gear onto the bed.
Flare gun (wendigos hate fire).
Silver-coated machete (because decapitation never goes out of style).
Salt rounds (for backup).
And, of course, gasoline (for the inevitable burning-everything-down portion of the evening).
I strapped the machete to my back, checking my reflection in the mirror.
Yep. Definitely look like a guy about to fight a monster.
My stomach twisted with excitement.
What will killing a wendigo give me?
Speed? Strength?
Or something worse?
I shoved the thought aside.
One problem at a time.
---
The forest was eerily quiet as I trekked in, the trees looming like silent sentinels. The air grew colder the deeper I went, my breath fogging in front of me.
Not natural.
I slowed, listening.
A twig snapped.
I spun, machete ready.
Nothing.
Then—laughter.
High-pitched. Hungry.
Close.
I grinned.
"Alright, you ugly bastard. Let's dance."
******
First-Person POV (Marcus Hale)
The laughter echoed through the trees again—closer this time.
I tightened my grip on the flare gun, scanning the shadows.
Then I saw them.
Two.
Not one, but two goddamn wendigos, their emaciated frames hunched, their too-long limbs twitching with hunger. Their eyes glowed in the dim light, locked onto me like I was a four-course meal.
"Son of a bitch," I muttered.
The first one lunged.
I fired.
The flare gun exploded with a whoosh, the burning projectile slamming into the wendigo's chest. It shrieked, stumbling back as flames licked up its body.
The second one didn't wait. It darted forward, claws slashing toward my gut.
I barely twisted out of the way in time, feeling the rush of air as its talons missed me by inches.
Too close.
I raised my hand, focusing hard.
STOP.
My telekinesis slammed into the wendigo like an invisible wall. It snarled, muscles straining against the force holding it back.
The first one was still burning, but it wasn't dead.
I gritted my teeth, splitting my focus—keeping the second one pinned while I grabbed the machete from my back.
The first wendigo staggered toward me, its charred flesh peeling away.
I swung.
The silver-coated blade cleaved through its neck in one clean strike. Its head hit the dirt with a thud, body collapsing seconds later.
The moment it died, something shifted inside me.
A rush of raw power flooded my veins, like my blood had been replaced with liquid adrenaline. My muscles thrummed with energy, my senses sharpening.
I flexed my fingers.
Holy shit.
The second wendigo broke free from my telekinetic hold, hissing.
I grinned.
"Your turn."
---
The wendigo lunged again, claws outstretched.
This time, I didn't dodge.
I caught its wrist mid-swing, my grip like iron.
The wendigo's eyes widened—just for a second—before I yanked it forward and drove my knee into its ribs.
The crack of bone was loud.
It screeched, stumbling back.
I didn't let up.
I moved fast—faster than I ever had before. My body was a blur, fists slamming into the wendigo's chest, its gut, its face. Every hit landed with brutal precision.
The wendigo couldn't keep up.
It swiped at me wildly, but I ducked under its arm, spinning behind it.
One hand on its skull.
One hand on its jaw.
Twist.
The snap of its spine echoed through the forest.
And I quickly take my flare gun and shoot it
The wendigo was toasted.
Another wave of power crashed into me, this one different—lighter, faster.
My legs itched with energy.
I took a step.
And then I was running.
---
Trees whipped past me in a blur. The wind screamed in my ears.
I was flying.
No—not flying.
Sprinting.
Faster than any human had any right to.
I skidded to a stop, kicking up dirt, and turned back.
I'd covered half a kilometer in seconds.
What the hell am I now?
A laugh bubbled up, wild and disbelieving.
I punched the nearest tree.
The trunk splintered, bark exploding under my fist.
I stared at my hand.
No pain. No broken skin.
Just raw, unchecked strength.
The wendigo's power.
Both of their powers.
One had given me strength.
The other had given me speed.
And now?
Now I was something more.
---
The cave was easy to find—stench of rotting meat and a trail of blood led me right to it.
Inside, Carrie Lowell was curled up in the corner, alive but barely.
She flinched when I stepped in, eyes wide with terror.
"F-FBI?" she croaked.
I knelt beside her. "Yeah. I'm getting you out of here."
She grabbed my arm, her grip weak. "The things… they talked…"
I froze. "What?"
"Whispers… in my head…"
A chill ran down my spine.
Wendigos didn't talk.
Not unless something else was controlling them.
I pushed the thought aside.
"Can you walk?"
She nodded weakly.
I helped her up, slinging her arm over my shoulders.
"Hold on tight."
Then I ran.
The forest blurred around us. Carrie gasped, clinging to me as we tore through the trees at impossible speed.
Five minutes later, we were at the edge of town.
I set her down gently near the road.
"Stay here. Help's coming."
She grabbed my wrist. "Who are you?"
I smirked. "Just a guy who hates camping."
Then I was gone before she could reply.
---
Back in the motel, I stared at my reflection.
Same face. Same eyes.
But I wasn't the same.
Not anymore.
I flexed my hand, watching the muscles shift under my skin.
Strength.
Speed.
Telekinesis.
What next?
And more importantly—
What the hell were those wendigos really doing out there?
---
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