A few years back there was a young girl named Sierra. She, like many children, liked to pretend there was nothing in this whole wide world that could possibly scare her. Of course, that was just pretend. She couldn’t keep that game of pretend going, especially after what she came across one summer when she was six years old.
Sierra always listened to Grandfather’s ghost stories, and unlike her cousins, she believed them all. She knew better than to think Grandfather would lie to them. One night, as she by Grandfather’s rocking chair by the fireplace, Grandfather told the most terrifying story Sierra had ever heard.
“Sierra, are you sure you want to hear this story- I told it to your cousins when they were eight and ten and they were frightened even then!” Grandfather questioned in his low voice that rolled like thunder.
“Ha! Grandfather, I’m not scared of anything! You know that!” Sierra pontificated.
“Alright.” Grandfather took a breath, readying himself. He knew this tale, unlike many he had told in the past was, for a fact, true.
“There are spirits in this world that mean nothing but harm to all those who may cross their path. One such spirit is that of the Wendigo- It’s a voracious demon of emptiness that takes hold of creatures when they are at their weakest and makes them do unspeakable things. It feeds off of rage and distorts the longing for self-preservation into something evil, demonic. It makes those it possesses devour their own kind and leaves them hungry, until their insatiable appetite eats away at any soul that may have remained. Wendigos are manipulative- they claim to hold salvation but cause you to consume yourself until none of you is left and only the Wendigo remains. The spirit remains dormant in the winds, but rises every seven years, stronger and stronger each time. They move swiftly and silently through time and space to whatever feeble, foolish victim that appeals to their taste. Its voice is a sharp desperate howl that has the power to permeate into people’s souls, especially that of children’s. “
At that moment Grandfather’s sunken brown eyes darted to meet Sierra’s widened amber ones.
He continued, “They feed on any anger that is felt, even that of little girls who get mad with their grandparents for making them play inside on stormy days and go to bed at eight thirty in the evening. Wendigo is the devil himself and mustn’t be trifled with under any circumstance.”
Sierra feared, but of course didn’t want to show it.
She needed to assure her safety, though, so she asked, “Grandfather, how would one defeat a Wendigo if faced with one?”
Grandfather didn’t know how to answer, so he said the first thing that came to mind, which seemed like a good enough answer anyways, “Well, Sierra, you pray. Then God’s grace and tranquility with thrive in you and drive the Wendigo spirit out. That’s what you do, Sierra.”
This new knowledge made Sierra feel empowered. She went to bed at eight thirty, and when Grandmother prayed with her, she felt triumphant.
“Ha!” she thought, “The Wendigo can’t get me now!”
The next morning, Sierra woke up, ate breakfast with her grandparents and got herself ready to play outside.
“Where do you think you’re going, dear?” Grandmother cooed.
“I’m going out to play with the bird I befriended.” Sierra chirped.
“Not in this weather, dear.” Grandmother sighed, wishing it were bright and sunny so her granddaughter could frolic outside, as she so wanted.
Sierra broke down and sobbed.
“Oh dear me,” Grandmother began, “Grandfather come into the kitchen, Sierra needs you.”
Grandfather did just that.
“You told her she couldn’t go out due to the wind, didn’t you?”
Grandmother nodded.
Grandfather echoed the rumblings that came from outside, “Sierra I know you’ve made friends with that bird, and want to visit him again, but this weather is not one bit conducive. If you would like, we can check on the Raspberry bushes together after breakfast, but that will be it.”
Sierra was a trickster and agreed, knowing she could bamboozle him into getting her way. She needed to see her bird come hell or high water. He was the only creature in all the world that didn’t seem to mind her bright, nasal singing voice when they sang together.
Sierra donned her turquoise rain-jacket and took Grandfather’s old wrinkled hand. They stepped out the back door and followed the slope of the earth towards the raspberry patch. She held his hand until the moment was hers; she plucked just a few more raspberries from the thorny bush, let go of grandfather’s hand and then ran towards the wilderness beyond the sparse trees of the backyard.
Sierra ran into the wilderness. The frosty fog kissed her rounded face.
“Sierra, you mustn’t be foolish like this!” Grandfather cried as he hobbled after her.
Sierra felt liberated as the moisture from the cold dewy grass seeped into her sneakers. She kicked off her shoes, but she didn’t slow down. Sierra came to the clearing where the bird always resided. She looked around for her friend, but he was nowhere to be found.
She thought, “Maybe he’s staying inside, too… Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”
Then she saw him. His little frail body was contorted and lying upon a tree-stump. He sang in a voice, beautiful as always, but deteriorating.
“My death is a finale: a calm, yet tragic end. Don’t cry for me, my darling. Don’t weep for me, my friend. Life is but a dream, wherein you simply stay, though I cannot continue- this is my dying day. Leave or I’ll be doomed forever, as these mortal ties I must now sever.”
Sierra understood but didn’t listen. She grabbed some raspberries from her pocket.
“Here.” She said simply, “These will give you life.”
Sierra attempted to mush up the over-ripe berries and run their juices into the bird’s beak. He convulsed and coughed, and said in a whimpered voice, so different from his singing, “Please child. Leave me to die in peace.”
“No!” Sierra yelled with authority, lifting the bird’s skeletal frame. “I can’t let you die! You are my friend!”
“No, child.” The bird whispered. “No.”
Sierra heard the wind whisper through the trees. There was a sharpness to its tone that made her uneasy. The sound was a voice she could not understand.
Suddenly the bird began to move from its lethargic perch. He jolted to his feet in a cracked, angular way, and began to sing again, this time in an unnerving, drawn-out whisper.
“For the sun dies down each and every night, And in the morn it brings new light, As long as it’s kept far away from the crow, who cries out, “I am Wihtikow ””
Sierra heard the wind soar through the trees more violently. It became a deafening cry. The noise made her feel hollow inside and entirely alone. She looked up to see a blackbird swooping down towards her; it’s black talons stretching out at her eyes as it descended. Sierra cowered. The crow landed beside her, only to rush over and wrap its expansive wings around the trembling songbird. She saw the crow take hold of her friend’s chest and rip it directly off.
“Sierra-“ The birds whispered in an anguished unison, “You- did- thisss-“
“No!” she cried, pulling her hands towards her own chest.
Sierra heaved, unable to cope with seeing her beloved bird destroyed. She gasped, barely catching her breath and decided to try to be as brave as she pretended to be.
“Who are you to think you have the right to break him like that?” her voice was weaker than it had ever been, and tears welled up in her clenched eyelids.
The crow smiled, revealing blazing white teeth, and, for the first time, opened its fiery blue eyes.
“I- am- Wihtikow-“ it whispered deafeningly.
The sky grew darker, just as the songbird had foretold.
The voice slithered through Sierra’s ears and rang against the walls of her skull. She felt the voice driving her mad. She felt desperate and furious. She pounced at the crow without thinking.
Sierra could hear a depraved winded laugh surround her as she felt herself consumed. Her convulsing ribs felt heavy, and her heart, stifled and cold. Her fingers itched and burned and scratched away at the icy whisper that burrowed into her brain and in her chest. Sierra felt worse than she had ever ever felt before. She felt sick and hungry, weak and cold. A sharp desperate howl cried plaintively from the depths of her. It was then when she realized she knew how to stop it.
She began singing in the off-key voice of her soul, as loudly as she could muster, “When through the woods, and forest glades I wander, and hear the birds sing sweetly in the trees. When I look down, from lofty mountain grandeur and see the brook, and feel the gentle breeze, then sings my soul, My Savior God, to Thee, How great Thou art, how great Thou art.”
It was the only prayer she could think of at the time. Her eyes burned. Her heart beat like a frightened animal.
The moment she felt the spirit free her, she ran faster than she had ever run before. Her bare feet burned against the frosty ground. She snuck swiftly and silently in through the back door, and slipped under the cozy covers of her bed. Nothing before had ever been able to get at her through Grandmother’s homemade quilt, and most likely, nothing ever could. She closed her painful eyes only to see the image of her friend’s limp body mangled more and more by the wrath of the hellish demon. She saw the songbird’s disintegrating body hover over her, innards falling from his chest.
Sierra screamed louder than ever before. Grandmother came running in.
“Sierra, what’s wrong?” Grandmother asked, stifling her urge to scold Sierra for running off.
Sierra couldn’t speak. Despite her blindness, Grandmother could see a small brown smudge at the foot of the bed. She lifted up the carcass of the songbird and brought it close to her eyes to inspect.
“Oh, dear me!” she cried, upon realization of what the smudge was. She ran to the sink to clean her hands.
“Oh, Sierra, I’m sorry. It’s just that old tabby cat of ours. He tends to leave us “presents” and as gruesome as it may be, he means no harm by it. I’m sorry it disturbed your nap, dear.”
Sierra peaked from beneath the covers, and opened her eyes.
“Dear me!” said Grandmother, “Sierra, let me look at you!”
Grandmother approached Sierra’s face to inspect her.
“Oh, dear me!” Grandmother gasped, shocked by what her dim eyes had seen. “Sierra, look!” Grandmother scooped Sierra from her bed and brought her to the bathroom mirror.
Sierra screamed upon seeing her own reflection. Her chest and face were all scratched up, and her once amber eyes now burned as blue as Wihtikow’s.
“Grandfather!” cried Grandmother. “You must come see what happened to Sierra.”
Grandfather hobbled to meet them. He looked up and saw Sierra’s eyes.
He took a solemn deep breath, and said all-knowingly, “You are a very foolish child.”
His deep voice resonated in Sierra’s chest. It made her heart feel warm again, though the guilt she felt from disappointing grandfather was nearly unbearable.
“You must never disobey me again.” Grandfather said authoritatively.
“I know,” wept Sierra.
After a somber pause, Sierra brought her Grandparents back to her room.
“This bird was the one you befriended, wasn’t it?” Grandfather questioned grimly.
Sierra nodded.
Grandmother took her handkerchief and carefully picked the bird up.
“We can bury it in the back yard”, said Grandfather, offering out his hand.
Sierra took it and felt her hand clutched tighter than Grandfather’s arthritic hands had ever clutched before. They buried him beneath the raspberry bushes and prayed over the grave. They returned to the cabin.
Sierra, still uneasy, asked Grandfather to tell her another story. He responded with a stern look.
“Not a scary story!” She added, “A sweet one about a little brown bird with the voice of an angel.”
Grandfather told her that story.
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