 Stories and content and weird darkness can be disturbing for some listeners and is intended for mature audiences only. Parental discretion is strongly advised. Say you, Boss Simpson. He began suddenly as the last shower of sparks went up into the air. You don't smell nothing do you? Not particular I mean. The commonplace question Simpson realized veiled a dreadfully serious thought in his mind. A shiver ran down his back. Nothing but burning wood, he replied firmly, kicking again at the embers. The sound of his own foot made him start. An oldie evening he ain't smelt nothing. Persisted the guide, peering at him through the gloom. Nothing extraordinary and different to anything else he ever smelt before. No, no bad nothing at all, he replied aggressively, half angrily. Fago's face cleared. That's good. He claimed with evident relief. That's good to hear. Have you? asked Simpson sharply, and the same instant regretted the question. The Canadian came closer in the darkness. He shook his head. I guess not, he said, though without overwhelming conviction. It must have been just that song of mine that did it. It's a song they sing in lumber camps and God forsaken places like that, when they have scared the Wendigoes somewhere around, doing a bit of swift traveling. And what's the Wendigo pray? Simpson asked quickly, irritated because again he could not prevent that sudden shiver of the nerves. He knew that he was close upon the man's terror and the cause of it, yet a rushing, passionate curiosity overcame his better judgment and his fear. DeFago turned swiftly and looked at him as though he were suddenly about to freak. His eyes shone, but his mouth was wide open. Yet all he said or whispered, rather, for his voice sang very low was, It's nothing. Nothing but what those lousy fellers believe when they've been hitting the bottle too long. A sort of great animal that lives up yonder. He jerked his head northwards, quick as lightning in its tracks, bigger than anything else in the bush, and ain't supposed to be very good to look at. That's all. I'm Darren Marlar and this is Weird Darkness. Welcome, weirdos. This is Weird Darkness. Here you'll find stories of the paranormal, supernatural, legends, lore, crime, conspiracy, mysterious, macabre, unsolved and unexplained. Coming up in this episode of Weird Darkness, the Wendigo is a novella written by Algernon Blackwood. It was originally published in the 1910 collection The Lost Valley and Other Stories, which I've placed a link to in the show notes. The story involves a hunting party that gets separated in the Canadian wilderness in search for moose. One of the party members is abducted by the legendary Wendigo. Fellow author Robert Aikman once said of this story, It's one of the possibly six great masterpieces in the field. Here's hoping you agree with him. Before beginning this episode, I want to let you know that it was written in 1910, a time when certain words we now find offensive or commonplace and used regularly in everyday conversations. As opposed to editing these words out or changing them to be more politically correct, I've chosen to leave them exactly as the author wrote them. It's important not only to respect the intentions of the author, but also to point out how times have changed, how we've grown in our attitudes towards others, and to help us never forget the way things used to be so we don't slide back due to ignorance. No offense is intended by my making this decision, and I hope you'll understand my reasonings behind it. Now, bolt your doors, lock your windows, turn off your lights, and come with me into the weird darkness. Before we get into the story, let's take a brief look at the author. Algernon Henry Blackwood was born March 14, 1869 and lived the life of a bachelor until his death at the age of 82. He's considered one of the most prolific writers of ghost stories in the history of the genre. Throughout his adult life, he was an occasional essayist for various periodicals. In his late 30s, he moved back to England and started to write stories of the supernatural. He was very successful, writing at least ten original collections of short stories and eventually appearing on both radio and television to tell them. He also wrote fourteen novels, several children's books, and a number of plays, most of which were produced but not published. He was an avid lover of nature in the outdoors, and many of his stories reflect this, including the when to go. To satisfy his interest in the supernatural, he joined the Ghost Club. Jack Sullivan points out that Blackwood's life parallels his work more neatly than perhaps that of any other ghost story writer. Like his lonely but fundamentally optimistic protagonists, he was a combination of mystic and outdoorsman. When he wasn't steeping himself in occultism, including Rosicrucianism and Buddhism, he was likely to be skiing or mountain climbing. Blackwood would also often write stories for newspapers at short notice, with the result that he was unsure exactly how many short stories he had written, and there is no sure total. Talking about himself, Blackwood wrote, My fundamental interest, I suppose, is signs and proofs of other powers that lie hidden in us all. The extension, in other words, of human faculty. So many of my stories, therefore, deal with extension of consciousness. Speculative and imaginative treatment of possibilities outside our normal range of consciousness. Also, all that happens in our universe is natural, under law, but an extension of our so limited normal consciousness can reveal new, extraordinary powers, etc., and the word supernatural seems the best word for treating these in fiction. I believe it possible for our consciousness to change and grow, and that with this change we may become aware of a new universe. A change in consciousness, in its type, I mean, is something more than a mere extension of what we already possess and know. Blackwood died on December 10, 1951 after several strokes. He was cremated at Golders Green Crematorium, and his ashes were scattered over the mountains he drew inspiration from for over 40 years. And now, The Wendigo, as written in 1910 by Algernon Blackwood. A considerable number of hunting parties were out that year without finding so much as a fresh trail. For the moose were uncommonly shy, and the various dimrods returned to the bosoms of their respective families with the best excuses the facts of their imaginations could suggest. Dr. Cathcart, among others, came back without a trophy, but he brought instead the memory of an experience which he declares was worth all the bull moose that had ever been shot. But then, Cathcart of Aberdeen was interested in other things besides moose, amongst them the vagaries of the human mind. This particular story, however, found no mention in his book on collective hallucination for the simple reason, so he confided, once to a fellow colleague, that he himself played too intimate a part in it to form a competent judgment of the affair as a whole. Besides himself and his guide, Hegg Davis, there was young Simpson, his nephew, a divinity student destined for the Wee Kirk, then on his first visit to Canadian Backwoods, and the latter's guide, DeFego. Joseph DeFego was a French kenic who had strayed from his native province of Quebec years before and had got caught in rat portage when the Canadian Pacific Railway was a building. A man who, in addition to his unparalleled knowledge of woodcraft and bush lore, could also sing the old Voyager songs and tell a capital hunting yarn into the bargain. He was deeply susceptible, moreover, to that singular spell which the wilderness lays upon certain lonely natures, and he loved the wild solitudes with a kind of romantic passion that amounted almost to an obsession. The life of the Backwoods fascinated him, when stoutless his surpassing efficiency in dealing with their mysteries. On this particular expedition, he was Hegg's choice. Hegg knew him and swore by him. He also swore at him, just as a pal might, and since he had a vocabulary of picturesque, if utterly meaningless oaths, the conversation between the two stalwart and hardy woodsmen was often of a rather lively description. This river of expletives, however, Hegg agreed to dam a little out of respect for his old hunting boss, Dr. Cathcart, whom, of course, he addressed after the fashion of the country as duck, and also because he understood that young Simpson was already a bit of a person. He had, however, one objection to DeFego, and one only, which was that the French-Canadian sometimes exhibited what Hank described as the output of a cursed and dismal mind, meaning apparently that he sometimes was true to type, Latin type, and suffered fits of a kind of silent morose-ness when nothing could induce him to utter speech. DeFego, that is to say, was imaginative and melancholy, and as a rule it was too long a spell of civilisation that induced the attacks for a few days of the wilderness and variably cured them. This then was the party of four that found themselves in camp the last week in October of that shy moose year, way up in the wilderness north of Ratportage, a forsaken and desolate country. There was also Punk, an Indian who had accompanied Dr. Cathcart and Hank on their hunting trips in previous years, and who acted as a cook. His duty was merely to stay in camp, catch fish, and prepare venison steaks and coffee at a few minutes' notice. He dressed in worn-out clothes, bequeathed to him by former patrons, and, except for his coarse black hair and dark skin, he looked in these city garments no more like a real red skin than a stage negro looks like a real African. For all of that, however, Punk had in him still the instincts of his dying race. His taciturn silence and his endurance survived. Also his superstition. The party around the blazing fire that night were despondent, for a week had passed without a single sign of recent moose discovering itself. DeFego had sung his song and plunged into a story, but Hank, in bad humour, hated him so often that he kept messing up the facts so that it was most all nothing but a petered-out lie that the Frenchman had finally subsided into a sulky silence which nothing seemed likely to break. Dr. Cathcart and his nephew were fairly done after an exhausting day. Punk was washing up the dishes, grunting to himself under the lean-to of branches, where he later also slept. No one troubled to stir the slowly dying fire. Overhead the stars were brilliant in a sky quite wintry, and there was so little wind that ice was already forming stealthily along the shores of the still lake behind them. The silence of a vast listening forest stole forward and enveloped them. Hank broke in suddenly with his nasal voice, I'm a thaver breaking new ground tomorrow, duck. He observed with energy, looking across at his employer, what don't stand dead dango's chance around here. Agreed, said Cathcart, always a man of few words, think the idea is good. Sure, Poppy, it's good. Hank resumed with confidence, suppose now you and I strike west up Garden Lake way for a change. None of us ain't touched that quiet bit of land yet. On with you. And you, DeFago, take Mr. Simpson along in a small canoe, skip across the lake, portage over into 50 island water and take a good squit that they are at southern shore. The moose yarded there like hell last year and for all we know they may be doing it again this year just to spite us. DeFago, keeping his eyes on the fire, said nothing by way of reply. He was still offended possibly about his interrupted story. No one's been up that way this year, and I'll lay my bottom dollar on that, Hank added with emphasis, as though he had a reason for knowing. He looked over at his partner sharply, better take the little silk tent and stay away a couple nights, he concluded, as though the matter were definitely settled. For Hank was recognized as general organizer of the hunt and in charge of the party. He was obvious to anyone that DeFago did not jump at the plan, but his silence seemed to convey something more than ordinary disapproval, and across his sensitive dark face there passed a curious expression, like a flash of firelight, not so quickly however that the three men had not time to catch it. He funked for some reason I thought, Simpson said afterwards in the tent he shared with his uncle. Dr. Cathcart made no immediate reply, although the look had interested him enough at the time for him to make a mental note of it. The expression had caused him a passing uneasiness he could not quite account for at the moment. But Hank of course had been the first to notice it, and the odd thing was that instead of becoming explosive or angry over the other's reluctance, he at once began to humor him a bit. But there ain't no special reason why no one's been up there this year, he said, with a perceptible hush in his tone, not the reason you mean anyway. Last year it was the fires that kept folks out, and this year I guess… I guess it just happened, so that's all. This matter was clearly meant to be encouraging. Dr. Cathcart again noticed the expression in the guy's face and again he did not like it. But this time the nature of the look betrayed itself. In those eyes for an instant he caught the gleam of a man scared in his very soul. It disquieted him more than he cared to admit. Bad Indians up that way, he asked, with a laugh to ease matters a little, while Simpson, too sleepy to notice this subtle by-play, moved off to bed with a prodigious yawn. Or anything wrong with the country, he added when his nephew was out of hearing. Hank met his eye with something less than his usual frankness. He just scared. Here applied good humoredly, scared stiff about some old fairy tale. That's all. Ain't an old part. And he gave to Fago a friendly kick on the moccasin foot that lay nearest the fire. To Fago looked up quickly, as from an interrupted reverie, a reverie, however, that had not prevented his seeing all that went on about him. Scared nothing, he answered with a flash of defiance There's nothing in the bush that can scare Joseph to Fago. And don't you forget it. And the natural energy with which he spoke made it impossible to know whether he told the whole truth or only a part of it. Hank turned towards the doctor. He was just going to add something when he stopped abruptly and looked around. A sound close behind them in the darkness made all three start. It was all the same. Hank turned around. A sound close behind them in the darkness made all three start. It was old punk who had moved up his lean to while they talked and now stood there just beyond the circle of fire light listening. Another time, Doc. Hank whispered with a wink, when the gallery ain't stepped down into the stalls. In springing to his feet, he slapped the Indian on the back and cried noisily. Come up to the fire and warm your dirty red skin a bit. He dragged him blaze and threw more wood on. That was about a good feed you'd give us an hour or two back. He continued heartily, as though to set the man's thoughts on another scent. And it ain't Christian to let you stand out there freezing your old soul to hell while we're getting all good and toasted. Punk moved in and warmed his feet, smiling darkly at the other's volubity, which he only half understood but saying nothing. Impressantly, Dr. Cathcart, seeing that further conversation was impossible, followed his nephew's example and moved off to the tent, leaving the three men smoking over the now-blazing fire. It is not easy to undress in a small tent without waking one's companion. And Cathcart, hardened and warm-blooded as he was in spite of his 50-odd years, did what Hank would have described as considerable of his twilight in the open. He noticed during the process that punk had meanwhile gone back to his lean to, and that Hank and DeFego were at it hammer and tongs, or rather hammer and anvil, the little French Canadian being the anvil. It was all very like the conventional stage picture of western melodrama, the fire lighting up their faces with patches of alternate red and black, DeFego in slouch hat and moccasins in the part of the Badlands villain, Hank open-faced and hatless with that reckless fling of his shoulders, the honest and deceived hero. An old punk eavesdropping in the background, supplying the atmosphere of mystery. The doctor smiled as he noticed the details, but at the same time something deep within him he hardly knew what, shrank a little, as though an almost imperceptible breath of warning had touched the surface of his soul and was gone again before he could seize it. Probably it was traceable to that scared expression he'd seen in the eyes of DeFego. Probably, for this hint of fugitive emotion otherwise escaped his usually so keen analysis. DeFego, he was vaguely aware, might cause trouble somehow. He was not as steady a guide as Hank, for instance. Further than that, he could not get. He watched the man a moment longer before diving into the stuffy tent where Simpson already slept soundly. Hank, he saw, was swearing like a mad African in a New York nigger saloon, but it was the swearing of affection. The ridiculous oaths flew freely now that the cause of their obstruction was asleep. Presently, he put his arm almost tenderly upon his comrade's shoulder, and they moved off together into the shadows where their tent stood, faintly glimmering. Punk, too, a moment later followed their example and disappeared between his odorous blankets in the opposite direction. Dr. Cathcart, then likewise tuned in, weariness and sleep still fighting in his mind with an obscure curiosity to know what it was that had scared DeFego about the country up 50 Island waterway, wondering, too, why Punk's presence had prevented the completion of what Hank had to say. Then sleep overtook him. He would know tomorrow. Hank would tell him the story while they trudged after the elusive moose. Deep silence fell about the little camp, planted there so audaciously in the jaws of the wilderness. The lake gleamed like a sheet of black glass beneath the stars. The cold air pricked. In the drafts of night that poured their silent tide from the depths of the forest, with messages from distant ridges and from lakes just beginning to freeze, there lay already the faint bleak odors of coming winter. White men with their dull scent might never have divined them. The fragrance of the wood fire would have concealed them from these almost electrical hints of moss and bark and hardening swamp a hundred miles away. Even Hank and DeFego, subtly in league with the soul of the woods as they were, would probably have spread their delicate nostrils in vain. But an hour later, when all slept like the dead, old Punk crept from his blankets and went down to the shore of the lake like a shadow. Silently, as only Indian blood can move. He raised his head and looked about him. Darkness rendered sight of a small veil, but, like the animals, he possessed other senses that darkness could not mute. He listened, then sniffed the air, motionless as a hemlock stem he stood there. After five minutes again, he lifted his head and sniffed, and yet, once again, tingling of the wonderful nerves that betrayed itself by no outer sign ran through him as he tasted the keen air. Then, merging his figure into the surrounding blackness in a way that only wild men and animals understand, he turned, still moving like a shadow, and went stealthily back to his lean-to and his bed. And soon, after he slept, the change of wind he had divined stirred gently the reflection of the stars within the lake. Rising among the far ridges of the country behind 50 island water, it came from the direction in which he had stared, and it passed over the sleeping camp with a faint and sighing murmur through the tops of the big trees that was almost too delicate to be audible. With it, down the desert paths of night, though too faint, too high even for the Indians' hair-like nerves, there passed a curious, thin odor, strangely disquieting, in order of something that seemed unfamiliar, utterly unknown. The French Canadian and the man of Indian blood each stirred uneasily in his sleep just about this time, though neither of them woke, then the ghost of that unforgettable strange odor passed away and was lost among the leagues of tenetless forest beyond. The first letter seemed harmless enough, possibly even just the result of a mistaken delivery. The second one drew concern and paired with the unexplained visions of something darkly unsettling, Sam Morris finally caves. The every man's safe world he lives in is about to take a drastic and dark turn. He quickly falls into a world of insanity, the morbid and the macabre. He's drawn into a darkness that is just as deadly as it is mysterious, a darkness that dwells in a house that could only be conjured up by a mad brain. It is a house that calls you, a house that haunts you with its ghosts. They'll scratch and claw through your fragile hide, bringing madness bubbling to the surface. Come see the ghosts for yourself, if you dare. Weird Darkness Publishing presents of A Mad Brain by Scott Donnelly, now available on paperback, e-book and audiobook versions through Amazon and WeirdDarkness.com. In the morning the camp was a stir before the sun. There had been a light fall of snow during the night and the air was sharp. Punk had done his duty but times for the odors of coffee and fried bacon reached every tent. All were in good spirits. Wins shifted, cried Hank vigorously watching Simpson and his guide already loading the small canoe. It's crossed the lake, dead rat for you fellers, and the snow make bully trails. If there's any moose messing up around there, they'll not get so much as a tail and sine of you with the wind as it is. Good luck, ma'am, sure to Fago, he added, facetiously giving the name its French pronunciation for once, ball of chance. To Fago returned, the good wishes. Apparently in the best of spirits the silent mood gone. Before eight o'clock old punk had the camp to himself. Kathcart and Hank were far along the trail that led westwards while the canoe that carried to Fago and Simpson with silk tent and grub for two days was already a dark speck bobbing on the bosom of the lake going due east. The wintery sharpness of the air was tempered now by a sun that topped the wooded ridges and blazed with a luxurious warmth upon the world of lake and forest below. Loons flew skimming through the sparkling spray that the wind lifted. Divers shook their dripping heads to the sun and popped smartly out of sight again. And as far as I could reach rose the leagues of endless, crowding bush desolate in its lonely sweep and grandeur, untrodden by foot of man and stretching its mighty and unbroken carpet right up to the frozen shores of Hudson Bay. Simpson, who saw it all for the first time as he paddled hard in the bowels of the dancing canoe, was enchanted by its austere beauty. His heart drank in the sense of freedom and great spaces, just as his lungs drank in the cool and perfumed wind. Behind him in the stern seat, singing fragments of his native chanties, DeFego steered the craft of birch bark like a thing of life, answering cheerfully all his companions' questions. Both were gay and lighthearted. On such occasions men lose the superficial worldly distinctions. They become human beings working together for a common end. Simpson, the employer, and DeFego, the employed, among these primitive forces, were simply two men, the guider and the guided. Superior knowledge, of course, assumed control, and the younger man fell without a second thought into the quasi-subordinate position. He never dreamed of objecting when DeFego dropped the mister and addressed him as, say, Simpson, or Simpson boss, which was invariably the case before they reached the war after a stiff paddle of 12 miles against a headwind. He only laughed and liked it, then ceased to notice it at all. For this divinity student was a young man of parts and character, though as yet, of course, untraveled, and on this trip, the first time he had seen any country but his own, and little Switzerland, the huge scale of things somewhat bewildered him. It was one thing he realized to hear about primeval forests, but quite another to see them. While to dwell in them and seek acquaintance with their wildlife was again an initiation that no intelligent man could undergo without a certain shifting of personal values hitherto held for permanent and sacred. Simpson knew the first faint indication of this emotion when he held the new 303 rifle in his hands and looked along its pair of faultless gleaming barrels. The three days journey to their headquarters by lake and portage carried the process a stage farther and now that he was about to plunge beyond even the fringe of wilderness where they were camped into the virgin heart of uninhabited regions as vast as Europe itself, the true nature of the situation stole upon him with an effect of delight and awe that his imagination was fully capable of appreciating. He was himself and defego against a multitude at least against a titan. The bleak splendors of these remote and lonely forests rather overwhelmed him with the sense of his own littleness. At stern quality of the tangled backwoods which can only be described as merciless and terrible rose out of these far blue woods swimming upon the horizon and revealed itself. He understood the silent warning he realized his own utter helplessness. Only defego as a symbol of a distant civilization where man was master stood between him and a pitiless death by exhaustion and starvation. It was thrilling to him therefore to watch defego turn over the canoe upon the shore packed the paddles carefully underneath and then proceed to blaze the spruce stems from some distance on either side of an almost invisible trail with the careless remark thrown in say, Simpson, if anything happens to me you'll find the canoe all correct by these marks then strike due west into the sun to hit the home camp again, see? It was the most natural thing in the world to say and he said it without any noticeable inflection of the voice only it happened to express the youth's emotion at the moment with an utterance that was symbolic of the situation and his own helplessness as a factor in it. He was alone with defego in a primitive world that was all. The canoe another symbol of man's ascendancy was now to be left behind. Those small yellow patches made on the trees by the axe were the only indications of its hiding place. Meanwhile, shouldering the packs between them, each man carrying his own rifle, they followed the slender trail over rocks and fallen trunks and across half frozen swamps skirting numerous lakes that fairly jammed the forest, their borders fringed with mist and towards five o'clock found themselves suddenly on the edge of the woods looking out across a large sheet of water in front of them, dotted with pine clad islands of all describable shapes and sizes. Fifty Island Water announced defego warily and the sun just going to dip his bald old head into it. He added with unconscious poetry and immediately they set about pitching camp for the night. In a very few minutes under those skillful hands that never made a movement too much or a movement too little, the silk tent stood taut and cozy the beds of balsam boughs ready laid and a brisk cooking fire burned with the minimum of smoke. While the young scotchmen cleaned the fish they had caught trolling behind the canoe, defego guessed he would just as soon take a turn through the bush for indications of moose. They come across a trunk where they'd been and rubbed horns, he said as he moved off or feeding on the last of the maple leaves. And he was gone. His small figure melted away like a shadow in the dusk, while Simpson noted with a kind of admiration how easily the forest absorbed him into herself. A few steps seemed and he was no longer visible. Yet there was little underbrush hereabouts. The trees stood somewhat apart, well spaced and in the clearings grew silver birch and maple, spear-like and slender against the immense stems of spruce and hemlock. But for occasional prostrate monsters and the boulders of grey rock that thrust uncouthed shoulders here and there out of the ground, it might well have been a bit of park in the old country. Almost one might have seen it in The Hand of Man. A little to the right, however, began the great burnt section, miles in extent, proclaiming its real character. Roulet, as it's called, where the fires of the previous year had raged for weeks and the blackened stumps now rose gaunt and ugly, bereft of branches like gigantic match heads stuck into the ground, savage and desolate beyond words. The perfume of charcoal and rain-soaked ashes still hung faintly about it. The dusk rapidly deepened, the glades grew dark, the crackling of the fire and the wash of little waves along the rocky lake shore where the only sounds audible. The wind had dropped with the sun and in all that vast world of branches, nothing stirred. Any moment it seemed, the woodland gods who are to be worshiped in silence and loneliness might stretch their mighty and terrific outlines among the trees. In front, through doorways pillared by huge straight stems, lay the stretch of 50-island water, a crescent-shaped lake some 15 miles from tip to tip, and perhaps five miles across where they were camped. The sky of rose and saffron more clear than any atmosphere Simpson had ever known still dropped its pale streaming fires across the waves, where the islands, 100 surely rather than 50, floated like the fairy barks of some enchanted fleet. Fringed with pines whose crests fingered most delicately the sky, they almost seemed to move upwards as the light faded, about to way anchor and navigate the pathways of the heavens instead of the currents of their native and desolate lake. And strips of colored cloud, like haunting penons, signaled their departure to the stars. The beauty of the scene was strangely uplifting. Simpson smoked the fish and burnt his fingers into the bargain in his efforts to enjoy it, and at the same time, tend the frying pan and the fire. Yet, even at the back of his thoughts lay that other aspect of the wilderness, the indifference to human life, the merciless spirit of desolation which took no note of man, the sense of utter loneliness, now that even DeFego had gone, came close as he looked about him and listened for the sound of his companion's returning footsteps. There was pleasure in the sensation, yet with it a perfectly comprehensible alarm. And instinctively, the thought stirred in him, what should I, could I do if anything happened and he did not come back. They enjoyed their well-earned supper, eating untold quantities of fish, and drinking unmilked tea strong enough to kill men who had not covered 30 miles of hard-going, eating little on the way. And when it was over, they smoked and told stories around the blazing fire, laughing, stretching weary limbs and discussing plans for the morrow. DeFego was in excellent spirits, though disappointed at having no signs of moose to report. But it was dark and he had not gone far. The berlet, too, was bad. His clothes and hands were smeared with charcoal. Simpson, watching him, realized with renewed vividness their position, alone together in the wilderness. DeFego, he said presently, these woods, you know, are a bit too big to feel quite at home in, to feel comfortable in, I mean, eh? He merely gave expression to the mood at the moment. He was hardly prepared for the earnestness, the solemnity, even, with which the guide took him up. You've hit it right, Simpson boss, right, fixing his searching brown eyes on his face, and that's the truth, sure. There's no end to him, no end at all. Then he added in a lowered tone as if to himself, there's lots found out that, and gone plummed to pieces. But the man's gravity of manner was not quite to the other's liking. It was a little too suggestive for this scenery and setting. He was sorry he'd broach the subject. He remembered suddenly how his uncle told him that men were sometimes stricken with a strange fever of the wilderness when the seduction of the uninhabited wastes caught them so fiercely that they went forth, half fascinated, half deluded to their death. And he had a shrewd idea that his companion held something in sympathy with that queer type. It led the conversation on to other topics, on to Hank and the doctor, for instance, and the natural rivalry as to who should get the first sight of Moose. If they went due west, observed Fuego carelessly, there's 60 miles between us now, with ol' punk at halfway house, eating himself fulled busting with fish and coffee. They laughed together over the picture, but the casual mention of those 60 miles again made Simpson realize the prodigious scale of this land where they hunted. 60 miles was a mere step, 200 little more than a step. Stories of lost hunters rose persistently before his memory. The passion and mystery of homelessness and wandering men seduced by the beauty of great forests swept his soul in a way too vivid to be quite pleasant. He wondered vaguely whether it was the mood of his companion that invited the unwelcome suggestion with such persistence. See us a dog to Fuego if you're not too tired, he asked. What are those old boyager dogs you sag the other night? He handed his tobacco pouch to the guide and then filled his own pipe while the Canadian, nothing loth sent his light voice across the lake in one of those plaintive almost melancholy chanties with which lumbermen and trappers lessen the burden of their labor. There was an appealing and romantic flavor about it, something that recalled the atmosphere of the old pioneer days when Indians and wildernesses were leagueed together, battle frequent and the old country farther off today. The sound traveled pleasantly over the water, but the forest at their backs seemed to swallow it down with a single gulp that permitted neither echo nor resonance. It was in the middle of the third verse that Simpson noticed something unusual. Something that brought his thoughts back with a rush from far away scenes. A curious change had come into the man's voice. Even before he knew what it was, uneasiness caught him and looking up quickly while the defego, though still singing, was peering about him into the bush as though he heard or saw something. His voice grew fainter, dropped to a hush then ceased altogether. The same instant with a movement amazingly alert, he started to his feet and stood upright, sniffing the air. Like a dog, sent in game, he drew the air into his nostrils in short, sharp breaths, turning quickly as he did so in all directions and finally sitting down the lakeshore eastwards. It was a performance unpleasantly suggestive and at the same time singularly dramatic. Simpson's heart fluttered disagreeably as he watched it. Lord man, how you made me jump! He exclaimed on his feet beside him in the same instant and peering over his shoulder into the sea of darkness. What's up? Are you frightened? Even before the question was out of his mouth he knew it was foolish. For any man of eyes in his head could see that the Canadian had turned white down to his very gills not even sunburn and the glare of the fire could hide that. The student felt himself trembling a little, weakish in the knees. What's up? He repeated quickly. Do you smell booze or anything queer? Anything wrong? He lowered his voice instinctively. The forest pressed around them with its encircling wall. The nearer tree stems gleamed like bronze in the firelight. Beyond that blackness and so far as he could tell a silence of death. Just behind them a passing puff of wind lifted a single leaf looked at it then laid it softly down again without disturbing the rest of the covey. It seemed as if a million invisible causes had combined just to produce that single visible effect. Other life pulsed about them and was gone. The phago turned abruptly. The livid hue of his face had turned to a dirty gray. I never said I heard or smelled nothing. He said slowly and emphatically in an oddly altered voice that conveyed somehow a touch of defiance. I was only taking a look around, so to speak. It's always a mistake to be too previous with your questions. Then he added suddenly with obvious effort in his more natural voice, have you got to match his boss Simpson? And proceeded to light the pipe he had half filled just before he began to sing. Without speaking another word, they sat down again by the fire. The phago changing his side so that they could face the direction the wind came from. For even a tender foot could tell that. The phago changed his position in order to hear and smell all that was to be heard and smelled. And since he now faced the lake with his back to the trees it was evidently nothing in the forest that had sent so strange and sudden a warning to his marvelously trained nerves. Yes, now I don't feel like singing any. He explained presently of his own accord. That song kind of brings back memories that's troublesome to me. An ever order of begun it. It sets beyond imagining things, see? Clearly the man was still fighting with some profoundly moving emotion. He wished to excuse himself in the eyes of the other. But the explanation in that was only a part of the truth was a lie, and he knew perfectly well that Simpson was not deceived by it. For nothing could explain away the livid terror that had dropped over his face while he stood there sniffing the air. And nothing, no amount of blazing fire or chatting on ordinary subjects could make that camp exactly as it had been before. The shadow of an unknown horror, naked if unguessed that had flashed for an instant and the face and gestures of the man had only communicated itself vaguely and therefore more puttantly to his companion. The guide's visible efforts to disassemble the truth only made things worse. Moreover, to add to the younger man's uneasiness was the difficulty, nay, the impossibility he felt of asking questions, and also his complete ignorance as to the cause. Indians, wild animals, forest fires, all these he knew were wholly out of the question. His imagination searched vigorously but in vain. Yet, somehow or other, after another long spell of smoking, talking and roasting themselves before the great fire, the shadow that had so suddenly invaded their peaceful camp began to shirk. Perhaps DeFego's efforts or the return of his quiet and normal attitude accomplished this, perhaps Simpson himself had exaggerated the affair out of all proportion to the truth, or possibly the vigorous air of the wilderness brought its own powers of healing. Whatever the cause, the feeling of immediate horror seemed to have passed away as mysteriously as it had come, for nothing occurred to feed it. Simpson began to feel that he had permitted himself the unreasoning terror of a child. He put it down partly to a certain subconscious excitement at this wild and immense scenery generated in his blood, partly to the spell of solitude and partly to over-fatigue. That pallor in the guide's face was of course uncommonly hard to explain, yet it might have been due in some way to an effect of firelight or his own imagination. He gave it to the benefit of the doubt. He was a Scotch. When a somewhat unordinary emotion has disappeared the mind always finds a dozen ways of explaining away its causes. Simpson lit a last pipe and tried to laugh to himself. On getting home to Scotland it would make quite a good story. He did not realize that this laughter was a sign that terror still lurked in the recesses of his soul, that in fact it was merely one of the conventional signs by which a man, seriously alarmed, tries to persuade himself that he is not so. DeFego however heard that low laughter and looked up with surprise on his face. The two men stood side by side kicking the embers out before going to bed. It was ten o'clock, a late hour for hunters to be still awake. What's tickling you? He asked in his ordinary tone yet gravelly. I was thinking of our little toy woods at home, just that moment stammered Simpson, coming back to what really dominated his mind and startled by the question and compared them to all this and he swept his arm around to indicate the bush. A pause followed in which neither of them said anything. All the same, I wouldn't laugh about it if I was you, DeFego added looking over Simpson's shoulder into the shadows. There's places in there nobody won't never see into. Nobody knows what lives in there either. Too big? Too far off? The suggestion in the guide's manner was immense and horrible. DeFego nodded. The expression on his face was dark. He too felt uneasy. The younger man understood that in a hinterland of this size there might well be depths of wood that would never in the life of the world be known or trodden. The thought was not exactly the sword he welcomed. In a loud voice cheerfully he suggested that it was time for bed. But the guide lingered tinkering with the fire, arranging the stones needlessly, doing a dozen things that did not really need doing. Evidently, there was something he wanted to say yet found it difficult to get at. Say you, boss Simpson. He began suddenly as the last shower of sparks went up into the air. You don't smell nothing, do you? Not particular, I mean. The commonplace question, Simpson realized, veiled a dreadfully serious thought in his mind. A shiver ran down his back. Nothing but birded wood, he replied firmly, kicking again at the numbers. The sound of his own foot made him start. And all the evening he ain't smelt nothing. Persisted the guide, peering at him through the gloom. Nothing extraordinary and different to anything else you ever smelt before. No, no bad nothing at all. He replied aggressively, half angrily. DeFago's face cleared. That's good. He claimed with evident relief. That's good to hear. Have you asked Simpson sharply in the same instant regretted the question. The Canadian came closer in the darkness. He shook his head. I guess not, he said, though without overwhelming conviction. It must have been just that song of mine that did it. It's a song they sing in lumber camps and God forsaken places like that when they have scared the Wendigoes somewhere around, doing a bit of swift traveling. And what's the Wendigo, pray? Simpson asked quickly, irritated because again he could not prevent sudden shiver of the nerves. He knew that he was close upon the man's terror and the cause of it, yet a rushing passionate curiosity overcame his better judgment and his fear. DeFago turned swiftly and looked at him as though he were suddenly about to shriek. His eyes shone, but his mouth was wide open. Yet all he said, or whispered rather, for his voice sank very low was, it's nothing. Nothing but what those lousy fellers believe when they've been hitting the bottle too long, a sort of great animal that lives up yonder. He jerked his head northwards, quick as lightning in its tracks, bigger than anything else in the bush, and ain't supposed to be very good to look at. That's all. A backwards superstition began Simpson, moving hastily toward the tent in order to shake off the hand of the guy that clutched his arm. Come, come, hurry up for guys' sake and get the lantern going. It's time we weren't heading to sleep if we were going to be up with the Sugg tomorrow. The guide was close on his heels. I'm coming. He answered out of the darkness. I'm coming. After a slight delay, he appeared with the lantern and hung it from a nail in the front pole of the tent. The shadows of a hundred trees shifted their places quickly as he did so, and when he stumbled over the rope, diving swiftly inside, the whole tent trembled as though a gust of wind struck it. The two men lay down without undressing, upon their beds of soft, balsam boughs cuttingly arranged. Inside, all was warm and cozy, but outside, the world was crowding trees, pressed close about them, marshalling their million shadows and smothering the little tent that stood there like a wee white shell facing the ocean of tremendous forest. Between the two lonely figures within, however, they're pressed another shadow that was not a shadow from the night. It was the shadow cast by the strange fear, never wholly exercised, that had leaped suddenly upon Defego in the middle of his singing. And Simpson, as he lay there, watching the darkness through the open flap of the tent, ready to plunge into the fragrant abyss of sleep, new first-hand unique and profound stillness of a primeval forest when no wind stirs and when the night has weight and substance that enters into the soul to bind a veil of light, then sleep took in. That's weirddarkness.com slash creepycrate. That's weirddarkness.com slash creepycrate. Beyond the tent door still beat time with his lessening pulses when he realized that he was lying with his eyes open and that another sound had recently introduced itself with cunning softness between the splash and murmur of the little waves. And long before he understood what this sound was, it had stirred at him the centers of pity and alarm. He listened intently, though at first in vain for the running blood beat all its drums too noisily in his ears. Did it come he wondered from the lake or from the woods? Then suddenly with a rush and a flutter of the heart, he knew that it was close beside him in the tent and when he turned over for a better hearing it focused itself unmistakably not two feet away. It was a sound of weeping. DeFego upon his bed of branches was sobbing in the darkness as though his heart would break the blankets evidently stuffed against his mouth to stifle it. And his first feeling before he could think or reflect was the rush of a poignant and searching tenderness. This intimate human sound heard amid the desolation about them woke pity. It was so incongruous, so pitifully incongruous and so vain. Tears in this vast and cruel wilderness of what avail? He thought of a little child crying in mid-Atlantic. Then of course with fuller realization the memory of what had gone before came the descent of the terror upon him and his blood ran cold. DeFego he whispered quickly. What's the matter? He tried to make his voice gentle. Are you in pain, unhappy? There was no reply but the sounds ceased abruptly. He stretched his hand out and touched him. The body did not stir. Are you awake? The man was crying in his sleep. Are you cold? He noticed that his feet which were uncovered projected beyond the mouth of the tent. He spread an extra fold of his own blankets over them. The guide had slipped down in his bed and the branches seemed to have been dragged with him. He was afraid to pull the body back again for fear of waking him. One or two tentative questions he ventured softly but though he waited for several minutes there came no reply nor any sign of movement. Presently he heard his regular and quiet breathing and put his hand again gently on the breast felt the steady rise and fall beneath. Let me know if anything is wrong he whispered or if I could do anything wake me at once if you feel queer. He hardly knew what to say. He lay down again thinking and wondering what it all meant. DeFego of course had been crying in his sleep. Some dream or other had afflicted him. Yet never in his life would he forget that pitiful sound of sobbing and the feeling that the whole awful wilderness of woods listened. His own mind busied itself for a long time with the recent events of which this took its mysterious place as one and there was reason successfully argued away all unwelcome suggestions a sensation of uneasiness remained resisting ejection very deep seated peculiar beyond ordinary. But sleep in the long run proves greater than all emotions his thoughts soon wandered again he lay there warm as toast exceedingly weary the night soothed and comforted blunting the edges of memory and alarm half an hour later he was oblivious of everything in the outer world about him. Yet sleep in this case was his great enemy concealing all approaches smothering the warning of his nerves. As sometimes in a nightmare events crowd upon each other's heels with a conviction of dreadful reality yet some inconsistent detail accuses the whole display of incompleteness and disguise so the events that now followed though they actually happened persuaded the mind somehow that the detail which could explain them had been overlooked in the confusion and that therefore they were but partly true the rest delusion at the back of the sleeper's mind something remains awake ready to let slip the judgment all this is not quite real when you wake up you'll understand and thus in a way it was with simpson the events not wholly inexplicable or incredible in themselves yet remain for the man who saw and heard them as a sequence of separate facts of cold horror because a little piece that might have made the puzzle clear like concealed or overlooked so far as he can recall it was a violent movement running downwards through the tent towards the door that first woke him and made him aware that his companion was sitting bolt upright beside him quivering hours must have passed for it was the pale gleam of the dawn that revealed his outline against the canvas this time the man was not crying he was quaking like a leaf the trembling he felt plainly through the blankets down the entire length of his own body defego had huddled down against him for protection shrinking away from something that apparently concealed itself near the door flaps of the little tent simpson there upon called out in a loud voice some question or other in the first bewilderment of waking he does not remember exactly what and the man made no reply the atmosphere and feeling of true nightmare lay horribly about him making movement and speech both difficult at first indeed he was not sure where he was whether in one of the earlier camps or at home in his bed at Aberdeen the sense of confusion was very troubling and next almost simultaneously with his waking it seemed the profound stillness of the dawn outside was shattered by a most uncommon sound it came without warning or audible approach and it was unspeakably dreadful it was a voice simpson declares possibly a human voice a horse yet plaintive a soft roaring voice close outside the tent overheard rather than upon the ground of immense volume while in some strange way most penetratingly and seductively sweet it rang out too in three separate and distinct notes or cries that bore in some odd fashion a resemblance far fetched yet recognizable to the name of the guide the go the student admits he's unable to describe it quite intelligently or it was unlike any sound he had ever heard in his life and combined a blending of such contrary qualities a sort of windy crying voice he calls it as of something lonely and untamed wild and of abominable power and even before it ceased dropping back into the great gulfs of silence the guide beside him had sprung to his feet with an answering though an intelligible cry he blundered against the tent pole with violence shaking the whole structure spreading his arms out frantically for more room and kicking his legs impetuously free of the clinging blankets for a second perhaps too he stood upright by the door his outline dark against the pallor of the dawn then with a furious rushing speed before his companion could move a hand to stop him with a plunge through the flaps of canvas and was gone and as he went so astonishingly fast that the voice could actually be heard dying in the distance he called aloud in tones of anguished terror that at the same time held something strangely like the frenzied exultation of delight oh oh my feet of fire my burning feet of fire oh oh this heightened fiery speed and then the distance quickly buried it and the deep silence of very early morning descendant upon the forest as before it had all come about with such rapidity that but for the evidence of the empty bed beside him Simpson could almost believed it to have been the memory of a nightmare carried over from sleep he still felt the warm pressure of that vanished body against his side there lay the twisted blankets in a heap the very tent yet trembled with the vehemence of the impetuous departure the strange words rang in his ears as though he still heard them in the distance wild language of a sudden stricken mind moreover it was not only the senses of sight and hearing that reported uncommon things to his brain for even while the man cried and ran he had become aware that a strange perfume faint yet pungent pervaded the interior of the tent and it was at this point it seems brought to himself by the consciousness that his nostrils were taking this distressing odor down into his throat that he found his courage spraying quickly to his feet and went out the grey light of dawn that dropped cold and glimmering between the trees revealed the scene tolerably well there stood the tent behind him soaked with dew the dark ashes of the fire still warm the lake white beneath the coating of mist the islands rising darkly out of it like objects packed in wool snow beyond among the clearer spaces of the bush everything cold still waiting for the sun but nowhere a sign of the vanished guide still doubtless flying at frantic speed through the frozen woods there was not even the sound of disappearing footsteps nor the echoes of the dying voice he had gone utterly there was nothing nothing but the sense of his recent presence so strongly left behind about the camp and this penetrating all-pervading odor and even this was now rapidly disappearing in its turn in spite of his exceeding mental perturbation Simpson struggled hard to detect its nature and define it but the ascertaining of an elusive scent not recognized subconsciously and at once is a very subtle operation of the mind and he failed it was gone before he could properly seize it approximate description even seems to have been difficult for it was unlike any smell he knew accurate rather not unlike the odor of a lion he thinks yet softer and not wholly unpleasing with something almost sweet in it that reminded him of the scent of decaying garden leaves earth and the myriad nameless perfumes that make up the odor of a big forest yet the odor of lions is the phrase with which he usually sums it all up then it was wholly gone and he found himself standing by the ashes of the fire in a state of amazement and stupid terror that left him the helpless prey of anything that chose to happen had a muskrat poked its pointed muzzle over a rock or a squirrel scuttled in that instant down the bark of a tree he most likely would have collapsed without more ado and fainted for he felt about the whole affair the touch somewhere of a great outer horror and his scattered powers had not as yet had time to collect themselves into a definite attitude of fighting self-control nothing did happen however a great kiss of wind ran softly through the awakening forest and a few maple leaves here and there rustled trembling to earth the sky seemed to grow suddenly much lighter Simpson felt the cool air upon his cheek and uncovered head realized that he was shivering with the cold and making a great effort realized next that he was alone in the bush and that he was called upon to take immediate steps to find and secure his vanished companion make an effort accordingly he did though it ill calculated and futile one with that wilderness of trees about him the sheet of water cutting him off behind and the horror of that wild cry in his blood he did what any other inexperienced man would have done in a similar bewilderment he ran about without any sense of direction like a frantic child and called loudly without ceasing the name of the guide d'fago d'fago d'fago he yelled and the trees gave him back the name as often as he shouted only a little softened d'fago d'fago d'fago he followed the trail that lay a short distance across the patches of snow and then lost it again where the trees grew too thickly for snow to lie he shouted till he was hoarse until the sound of his own voice and all that unanswering and listening would begin to frighten him his confusion increased in direct ratio to the violence of his efforts his distress became formidable acute till at length his exertions defeated their own object and from sheer exhaustion he headed back to the camp again it remains a wonder that he ever found his way it was with great difficulty and only after numberless false clues that he at last saw the white tent between the trees and so reached safety exhaustion then applied its own remedy and he grew calmer he made the fire and breakfasted hot coffee and bacon put a little sense and judgment into him again and he realized that he'd been behaving like a boy he now made another and more successful attempt to face the situation collectively and a nature naturally plucky coming to his assistance decided that he must first make as thorough a search as possible failing success in which he must find his way into the home camp as best he could and bring help and this was what he did taking food matches and rifle with him into small acts to blaze the trees against his return journey he set forth it was eight o'clock when he started the sun shining over the tops of the trees and a sky without clouds pinned to a stake by the fire he left a note in case DeFego returned while he was away this time according to a careful plan he took a new direction intending to make a wide sweep that must sooner or later cut into indications of the guide's trail and before he had gone a quarter of a mile he came across the tracks of a large animal in the snow and beside it the light and smaller tracks of what were beyond question human feet the feet of DeFego once experienced was natural though brief for at first sight he saw in these tracks a simple explanation of the whole matter these big marks had surely been left by a bull moose that wind against it had blundered upon the camp and uttered its singular cry of warning and alarmed the moment its mistake was apparent DeFego in whom the hunting instinct was developed to the point of uncanny perfection had scented the brute coming down the wind hours before his excitement and disappearance were due of course to to his and the impossible explanation at which he grasped fated as common sense showed him mercilessly that none of this was true no guide much less a guide like DeFego could have acted in so irrational a way going off even without his rifle the whole affair demanded a far more complicated elucidation when he remembered the details of it all the cry of terror, the amazing language the gray face of horror when his nostrils first caught the new odor that muffled sobbing in the darkness and for this too now came back to him dimly the man's original aversion for this particular bit of country besides now that he examined them closer these were not the tracks of a bull moose at all Hank had explained to him the outline of a bull's hoofs or a cow's or a calf's too for that matter he had drawn them clearly on a strip of bark and these were wholly different they were big round, ample and with no pointed outline as of sharp hoofs he wondered for a moment whether bear tracks were like that there was no other animal he could think of for caribou to not come so far south this season and even if they did would leave hoof marks they were ominous signs these mysterious writings left in the snow by the unknown creature that had lured a human away from safety and when he coupled them in his imagination with that haunting sound that broke the stillness of the dawn a momentary dizziness shook his mind, distressing him again beyond belief he felt the threatening aspect of it all and stooping down to examine the marks more closely he caught a faint whiff of that sweet yet pungent odor that made him instantly straightened up again fighting a sensation almost of nausea then his memory played him another evil trick he suddenly recalled those uncovered feet projecting beyond the edge of the tent and the body's appearance of having been dragged towards the opening the man's shrinking from something by the door when he woke later the details now beat against his trembling mind with concerted attack they seemed to gather in those deep spaces of the silent forest about him where the host of trees stood waiting listening watching to see what he would do the woods were closing around him with the persistence of true pluck however Simpson went forward following the tracks as best he could smothering these ugly emotions that sought to weaken his will he blazed innumerable trees as he went ever fearful of being unable to find the way back and calling aloud at intervals of a few seconds the name of the guide the dull tapping of the axe upon the massive trunks and the unnatural accents of his own voice became at length sounds that he even dreaded to make dreaded to hear but they drew attention without ceasing to his presence and exact whereabouts and if it were really the case that something was hunting himself down in the same way that he was hunting down another with a strong effort he crushed the thought out the instant it rose it was the beginning he realized of a bewilderment utterly diabolical in kind and he immediately destroyed him although the snow was not continuous lying merely in shallow flurries over the more open spaces he found no difficulty in following the tracks for the first few miles they went straight as a ruled line whenever the trees permitted the strides soon began to increase in length till it finally assumed proportions that seemed absolutely impossible for any ordinary animal to have made like huge flying leaps they became one of these he measured and thought he knew that stretch of 18 feet must be somehow wrong he was at a complete loss to understand why he found no signs on the snow between the extreme points but what perplexed him even more making him feel his vision had gone utterly awry was that defego's stride increased in the same manner and finally covered the same incredible distances it looked as if the great beast had lifted him with it and carried him across these astonishing intervals Simpson who was much longer in the limb found that he could not compass even half the stretch by taking a running jump and the sight of these huge tracks running side by side silent evidence of a dreadful journey in which terror or madness had urged to impossible results was profoundly moving it shocked him in the secret depths of his soul it was the most horrible thing his eyes had ever looked upon he began to follow the mechanically absentmindedly almost after peering over his shoulder to see if he too were being followed by something with a gigantic tread and soon it came about that he no longer quite realized what it was they signified these impressions left upon the snow by something nameless and untamed always accompanied by the foot marks of the little French Canadian his guide his comrade the man who shared his tent a few hours before chatting laughing even singing by his side I'm a man of habits okay truth be told my bride says I'm boring I like the same stuff and that's what I stick with and that includes what I eat even for breakfast I used to opt for a leftover pizza hot dogs hamburgers dimension pizza anyway now that I'm trying to lose weight and cut back on the carbs I've had to make changes for breakfast now instead of a big heavy breakfast I just grab one of my built bars the best tasting protein bar on the planet built bars satisfy my hunger with up to 19 grams of protein and also satisfy my sugar craving despite being less than 3 grams of sugar and did only about 150 calories per bar if I'm really hungry in the morning I can grab two of them and still feel good about it try replacing your dessert or even a meal like breakfast with a built bar you won't even know it's not really a candy bar visit weirddarkness.com slash built and build a box of your own use the promo code weirddarkness at checkout and get 10% off your entire purchase that's weirddarkness.com slash built promo code weird darkness for a man of his years and inexperience only a canny scott perhaps grounded in common sense and established in logic could have preserved even that measure of balance that this youth somehow or other did manage to preserve through the whole adventure otherwise two things he presently noticed while forging pluckily ahead must have sent him headlong back to the comparative safety of his tent instead of only making his hands close more tightly upon the rifle stock while his heart trained for the wee Kirk sent a wordless prayer winging its way to heaven both tracks he saw had undergone a change and this change so far as it concerned the footsteps of the man was in some undecipherable manner appalling it was in the bigger tracks he first noticed this and for a long time he could not quite believe his eyes was it the blown leaves that produced odd effects of light and shade or that the dry snow drifting like finally ground rice about the edges cast shadows and highlights or was it actually the fact that the great marks had become faintly colored for round about the deep plunging holes of the animal there now appeared a mysterious reddish tinge that was more like an effect of light than of anything that died the substance of the snow itself every mark had it and had it increasingly this indistinct fiery tinge that painted a new touch of gasliness into the picture but when wholly unable to explain or to credit it he turned his attention to the other tracks to discover if they too bore similar witness he noticed that these had meanwhile undergone a change that was infinitely worse and charged with far more horrible suggestion for in the last hundred yards or so he saw that they had grown gradually into the semblance of the parent's tread imperceptibly the change had come about yet unmistakably it was hard to see where the change first began the result however was beyond question smaller neater more cleanly modeled they formed now an exact and careful duplicate of the larger tracks beside them the feet that had produced them had therefore also changed and something in his mind weird up with loathing and with terror as he saw it Simpson but the first time hesitated then ashamed of his alarm and the decision took a few hurried steps ahead the next instant stopped dead in his tracks immediately in front of him all signs of the trail ceased both tracks came to an abrupt end on all sides for a hundred yards or more he searched in vain for the least indication of their continuance there was nothing the trees were very thick just there big trees all of them spruce cedar hemlock there was no underbrush he stood looking about him all distraught bereft of any power of judgment then he said to work to search again and again and yet again but always with the same result nothing the feet that printed the surface of the snow thus far had now apparently left the ground and it was in that moment of distress and confusion that the whip of terror laid its most nicely calculated lash about his heart it dropped with deadly effect upon the sourest spot of all completely unnerving him he had been secretly dreading all the time that it would come and come it did far overhead muted by the great height and distance strangely thinned and wailing he heard the crying voice of defego the guide the sound dropped upon him out of that still wintery sky with an effect of dismay and terror unsurpassed the rifle fell to his feet he stood motionless an instant listening as it were with his whole body then staggered back against the nearest tree for support disorganized hopelessly in mind and spirit to him in that moment it seemed the most shattering and dislocating experience he had ever known so that his heart emptied itself of all feeling whatsoever as by a sudden draft ah his fiery height oh my feet of fire my burning feet of fire ran in far beseeching accents of indescribable appeal this voice of anguish down the sky once it called then silence through all the listening wilderness of trees and simpson scarcely knowing what he did presently found himself running wildly to and fro searching calling tripping over roots and boulders and flinging himself in a frenzy of undirected pursuit after the caller behind the screen of memory into motion with which experience fails events he plunged distracted and half deranged picking up false lights like a ship at sea terror in his eyes and heart and soul for the panic of the wilderness had called him in that far voice the power of untamed distance the enticement of the desolation that destroys he knew in that moment all the pains of someone hopelessly and irretrievably lost suffering the lust and travail of a soul in the final loneliness a vision of defego eternally hunted driven and pursued across the sky vastness of those ancient forests fled like a flame across the dark ruin of his thoughts it seemed ages before he could find anything in the chaos of his disorganized sensations to which he could anchor himself steady for a moment and think the cry was not repeated his own horse calling brought no response the inscrutable forces of the wild had summoned their victim beyond recall and held him fast yet he searched and called it seems for hours afterwards for it was late in the afternoon when at length he decided to abandon a useless pursuit and return to his camp on the shores of 50 island water even then he went with reluctance that crying voice is still echoing in his ears with difficulty he found his rifle and the homework trail the concentration necessary to follow the badly blazed trees and biting hunger that gnawed helped to keep his mind steady otherwise he admits the temporary aberration he had suffered might have been prolonged to the point of positive disaster gradually the ballast shifted back again and he regained something that approached his normal equilibrium but for all that the journey through the gathering dusk was miserably haunted he heard innumerable following footsteps voices that laughed and whispered and saw figures crouching behind trees and boulders making signs to one another for a concerted attack the moment he had passed the creeping murmur of the wind made him start and listen he went stealthily trying to hide where possible and making as little sound as he could the shadow of the woods hitherto protective or covering had now become medicine challenging and the pageantry in his frightened mind masked a host of possibilities that were all the more ominous for being obscure the presentiment of a nameless doom lurked ill-concealed behind every detail of what had happened it was really admirable how he emerged victor in the end men of riper powers and experience might have come through the ordeal with less success he had himself tolerably well in his hand, all things considered and his plan of action proves it sleep being absolutely out of the question and traveling an unknown trail in the darkness equally impracticable he set up the hole of that night rifle in hand before a fire he never for a single moment allowed to die down the severity of the haunted vigil marked his soul for life but it was successfully accomplished and with the very first signs of dawn he set forth upon the long return journey to the home camp to get help as before he left a written note to explain his absence and to indicate where he had left a plentiful cache of food and matches, though he had no expectation that any human hands would find them Hal Simpson found his way alone by the lake and forest might well make a story in itself for to hear him tell it is to know the passionate loneliness of soul that a man can feel when the wilderness holds him in the hollow of its illimitable hand and laughs it is also to admire his a dominable pluck he claims no skill declaring that he followed the almost invisible trail mechanically and without thinking and this doubtless is the truth he relied upon the guiding of the unconscious mind which is instinct perhaps to some sense of orientation known to animals and primitive men may have helped as well for through all that tangled region he succeeded in reaching the exact spot where defego had hidden the canoe nearly three days before with the remark strike do west across the lake into the sun to find the camp it was not much sun left to guide him but he used his compass to the best of his ability embarking in the frail craft for the last 12 miles of his journey with a sensation of immense relief that the forest was at last behind him and fortunately the water was calm he took his line across the center of the lake instead of coasting round the shores for another 20 miles fortunately to the other hunters were back the light of their fires furnished a steering point without which he might have searched all night long for the actual position of the camp it was close upon midnight all the same when his canoe graded on the sandy cove and Hank punk and his uncle disturbed in their sleep by his cries ran quickly down and helped a very exhausted and broken specimen of scotch humanity over the rocks toward a dying fire the sudden entrance of his prosaic uncle into this world of wizardry and horror that had haunted him without interruption now for two days and two nights had the immediate effect of giving to the affair an entirely new aspect the sound of that crisp hello my boy and what's up now and the grasp of that dry and vigorous hand introduced another standard of judgment a revulsion of feeling washed through him he realized that he had let himself go rather badly he even felt vaguely ashamed of himself the native hard-headedness of his race reclaimed him and this doubtless explains why he found it so hard to tell that group around the fire everything he told enough however for the immediate decision to be arrived at that a relief party must start at the earliest possible moment and that Simpson in order to guide it capably must first have food and above all sleep dr. Cathcart observing the lad's condition more shrewdly than his patient knew gave him a very slight injection of morphine for six hours he slept like the dead from the description carefully written out afterwards by this student of divinity it appears that the account he gave to the astonished group omitted sundry vital and important details he declares that with his uncle's wholesome matter-of-fact countenance staring him in the face he simply had not the courage to mention them thus all the search party gathered it was seen was that defego had suffered in the night an acute and inexplicable attack of mania had imagined himself called by someone or something and had plunged into the bush after it without food or rifle where he must die a horrible and lingering death by cold and starvation unless he could be found and rescued in time in time moreover meant at once in the course of the following day however they were off by seven leaving punk in charge with instructions to have food and fire always ready simpson found it possible to tell his uncle a good deal more of the story's true inwardness without defining that it was drawn out of him as a matter of fact by a very subtle form of cross-examination by the time they reached the beginning of the trail where the canoe was laid up against the return journey he had mentioned how defego spoke vaguely of something he called a when to go how he cried in his sleep how he imagined an unusual scent about the camp and had betrayed other symptoms of mental excitement he also admitted the bewildering effect of that extraordinary odor upon himself pungent and accurate like the odor of lions and by the time they were within an easy hour of fifty island water he had let slip the further fact a foolish avowal of his own hysterical condition as he felt afterwards that he had heard the vanished guide call for help he admitted these singular phrases used for he simply could not bring himself to repeat the preposterous language also while describing how the man's footsteps in the snow had gradually assumed an exact miniature likeness of the animals plunging tracks you left out the fact that they measured a wholly incredible distance it seemed a question nicely balanced between individual pride and honesty what he should reveal and what suppress he mentioned the fiery tinge in the snow for instance yet shrank from telling that body in bed had been partly dragged out of the tent with the net result that dr. kathcart a droid psychologist that he fancied himself to be had assured him clearly enough exactly where his mind influenced by loneliness bewilderment and terror had yielded to the brain and invited delusion while praising his conduct he managed at the same time to point out where when and how his mind had gone astray he made his nephew think himself finer than he was by judicious praise yet more foolish than he was by minimizing the value of the evidence like many other materialist that is he lied cleverly on the basis of insufficient knowledge because the knowledge supplied seemed to his own particular intelligence inadmissible the spell of these terrible solitudes he said cannot leave any mind untouched any mind that is possessed of the higher imaginative qualities it has worked upon yours exactly as it worked upon my own when I was your age the animal that haunted your little camp was undoubtedly a moose for the bellying of a moose may have sometimes a very peculiar quality of sound the colored appearance of the big tracks was obviously a defect of vision in your own eyes produced by excitement the size and stretch of the tracks we shall prove when we come to them but the hallucination of an audible voice of course is one of the commonest forms of delusion due to mental excitement an excitement my dear boy perfectly excusable and let me add wonderfully controlled by you under the circumstances for the rest I am bound to say you have acted with a splendid courage but the terror of feeling oneself lost in the wilderness nothing short of awful and had I been in your place I don't for a moment believe I could have behaved with one quarter of your wisdom and decision the only thing I find it uncommonly difficult to explain is that damned odor maybe feel sick I assure you declared his nephew positively dizzy his uncle's attitude of calm omniscience merely because he knew more psychological formulae made him slightly defiant it was so easy to be wise in the explanation of an experience one has not personally witnessed a guide of desolated terrible odors the only way I could describe it he concluded glancing at the features of the quiet unemotional man beside him I can only marvel was the reply that under the circumstances it did not seem to you even worse the dry words Simpson knew hovered between the truth and his uncle's interpretation of the truth and so at last they came to the little camp and found the tent still standing the remains of the fire and the piece of paper pinned to a stake beside it untouched the cash poorly contrived by inexperienced hands however had been discovered and opened by muskrats mink and squirrel the matches lay scattered about the opening but the food had been taken to the last crone well families he ain't here exclaimed hank loudly after his fashion and that's a certain as the coal supplied down below the worries got too bad his time is about as uncertain as the trade and crowns to other place the presence of divinity student was no barrier to his language at such a time though for the reader's sake it may be severely edited I propose he added we start out at once and hunt for him like hell the gloom of defego's probable fate oppressed the whole party with a sense of dreadful gravity the moment they saw the familiar signs of recent occupancy especially the tent with the bed of balsam branches still smoothed and flattened by the pressure of his body seemed to bring his presence near to them Simpson feeling vaguely as if his world were somehow at stake went about explaining particulars in a hushed tone he was much calmer now though overwearyed with the strain of his many journeys his uncle's method of explaining away rather the details still fresh in his haunted memory helped too to put ice upon his emotions and that's the direction he ran off in he said to his two companions pointing in the direction where the guide had vanished that morning in the grey dawn straight down there he ran like a deer in between the birch and the hemlock Hank and Dr. Cathcart exchanged glances and it was about two miles down there in a straight line continued the other speaking with something of the former terror in his voice that had followed his trail to the place where it stopped, dead and where you heard him calling and caught the stench and all the rest of the wicked entertainment cried Hank with a volubility that betrayed his keen stress and where your excitement overcame you to the point of producing illusions added Dr. Cathcart under his breath yet not so low that his nephew did not hear it it was early in the afternoon for they had traveled quickly and there were still a good two hours of daylight left Dr. Cathcart and Hank lost no time in beginning the search but Simpson was too exhausted to accompany them they'd followed the blazed marks on the trees and where possible his footsteps meanwhile the best thing he could do was to keep a good fire going and rest but after something like three hours search the darkness already down the two men returned to camp with nothing to report fresh snow had covered all signs and though they had followed the blazed trees to the spot where Simpson had turned back they had not discovered the smallest indication of a human being or for that matter of an animal there were no fresh tracks of any kind the snow lay undisturbed it was difficult to know what was best to do though in reality there was nothing more they could do they might stay and search for weeks without much chance of success the fresh snow destroyed their only hope they gathered around the fire for supper a gloomy and despondent party the facts indeed were sad enough for DeFego had a wife at Rat Portage and his earnings were the family's sole means of support now that the whole truth in all its ugliness was out it seemed useless to deal in further disguise or pretence they talked openly of the facts and probabilities it was not the first time even in the experience of Dr. Cathcart then a man had yielded to the singular seduction of the solitudes and gone out of his mind DeFego moreover was predisposed to something of the sort for he already had a touch of melancholia in his blood and his fiber was weakened by bouts of drinking that often lasted for weeks at a time something on this trip one might never know precisely what had sufficed to push him over the line that was all and he had gone gone off into the great wilderness of trees and lakes to die by starvation and exhaustion the chances against his finding camp again were overwhelming the delirium that was upon him would also doubtless have increased and it was quite likely he might do violence to himself and so hasten his cruel fate even while they talked, indeed the end had probably come on the suggestion of Hank as old pal however they proposed to wait a little longer and devote the whole of the following day from dawn to darkness to the most systematic search they could devise they would divide the territory between them they discussed their plan in great detail all that men could do, they would do and meanwhile they talked about the particular form in which the singular panic of the wilderness had made its attack upon the mind of the unfortunate guide Hank though familiar with the legend and its general outline obviously did not welcome the turn the conversation had taken he contributed little though that little was illuminating for he admitted that a story ran over all this section of country to the effects that several Indians had seen the when to go along the shores of 50 island water in the fall of last year and that this was the true reason of DeFego's disinclination to hunt there Hank doubtless felt that he had in a sense helped his old pal to death by over persuading him when an Indian goes crazy he explained talking to himself more than to the others it seemed it's always put that he's seen the when to go and poor old DeFego was superstitious down to your very heels and then Simpson feeling the atmosphere more sympathetic told over again the full story of his astonishing tale he left out no details this time he mentioned his own sensations and gripping fears he only admitted the strange language used but DeFego surely had already told you all these details of the when to go legend my dear fellow insisted the doctor I mean he had talked about it and thus put into your mind the ideas which your own excitement afterwards developed whereupon Simpson again repeated the facts DeFego he declared had barely mentioned the beast he Simpson knew nothing of the story and so far as he remembered he'd never even read about it even the word was unfamiliar of course he was telling the truth Dr. Cathcart was reluctantly compelled to admit the singular character of the whole affair he did not do this in words so much as in manner however he kept his back against a good stout tree he poked the fire into a blaze the moment it showed signs of dying down he was quicker than any of them to notice the least sound in the night about them a fish jumping in the lake a twig snapping in the bush the dropping of occasional fragments of frozen snow from the branches overhead where the heat loosened them his voice too changed a little in quality becoming a shade less confident lower also in tone fear to put it plainly hovered close about that little camp and though all three would have been glad to speak of other matters the only thing they seemed able to discuss was this the source of their fear they tried other subjects in vain there was nothing to say about them Hank was the most honest at the group he said next to nothing he never once however turned his back to darkness his face was always to the forest and when food was needed he didn't go farther than was necessary to get it when Salem Roanoke took a job near his family's new home as a hired hand in the Texas Hill Country he anticipated learning the ranchers trade but a series of strange events shocking murders and unholy revelations divert him down another path this terrifying trajectory puts him directly into the middle of a struggle between monsters magic and men armed and backed by a militia of ranchers Salem attempts to combat the creeping tide of evil that threatens to engulf his new home and destroy the people most important to him will Salem manage to save his home or have his actions condemn everyone he hopes to save the witch trials a summer of wolves and season of the witch by SR Roanoke available in paperback, Kindle and audio book versions look for the witch trials by SR Roanoke on Amazon or find it on the audiobooks page at WeirdDarkness.com that's WeirdDarkness.com slash audiobooks a wall of silence wrapped the men for the snow, though not thick was sufficient to deaden any noise and the frost held things pretty tight besides no sound but their voices and the soft roar of the flames made itself heard only from time to time something soft as the flutter of a pine moth's wings went past them through the air no one seemed anxious to go to bed the hours slipped towards midnight the legend is picturesque enough observe the doctor after one of the longer pauses speaking to break it rather than because he had anything to say for the windigo is simply the call of the wild personified which some nature is here to their own destruction that's about it Hank said presently and there's no misunderstanding when you hear it he calls you by name right enough another pause followed then Dr. Cathcart came back to the forbidden subject with a rush that made the others jump the allegory is significant he remarked looking about him into the darkness for the voice they say resembles all the minor sounds of the bush wind, falling water cries of the animals and so forth and once the victim hears that he's off for good of course his most vulnerable points moreover are said to be the feet in the eyes the feet you see for the lust of wandering and the eyes for the lust of beauty the poor beggar goes at such a dreadful speed that he bleeds beneath the eyes and his feet burn Dr. Cathcart as he spoke continued to peer uneasily into the surrounding gloom his voice sank to a hushed tone the windigo he added is said to burn his feet owing to the friction apparently caused by its tremendous velocity till they drop off and new ones form exactly like its own Simpson listened and horrified amazement but it was the pallor on Hank's face that fascinated him most he would willingly have stopped his ears and closed his eyes had he dared don't always keep to the ground neither came in Hank's slow heavy drawl for it goes so high that he thinks the stars have set him all afire and it'll take great thumping jumps sometimes and run along tops of the trees carrying its partner with it and then dropping him just as a fish hawk will drop a pickerel to kill it before eating and its food while mucking a whole bush is moss and he laughed a short unnatural laugh it's a moss eater is the windigo he added looking up excitedly into the faces of his companions he repeated with a string of the most outlandish oaths he could invent but Simpson now understood the true purpose of all this talk what these two men each strong and experienced in his own way dreaded more than anything else was silence they were talking against time they were also talking against darkness against the invasion of panic against the admission reflection might bring that they were in an enemy's country against anything in fact rather than allow their inmost thoughts to assume control he himself already initiated by the awful vigil with terror was beyond both of them in this respect he had reached the stage where he was immune but these two the scoffing analytical doctor and the honest dogged back woodsman each sat trembling in the depths of his being thus the hours passed and thus with lowered voices and the kind of taught inner resistance of spirit this little group of humanity sat in the jaws of the wilderness and talked foolishly of the terrible and haunting legend it was an unequal contest all things considered for the wilderness and already the advantage of first attack and of a hostage the fate of their comrade hung over them with a steadily increasing weight of oppression that finally became insupportable it was Hank after a pause longer than the preceding ones that no one seemed able to break who first let loose all this pent up emotion in very unexpected fashion by springing suddenly to his feet and letting out the most ear-shattering yell imaginable into the night he could not contain himself any longer it seemed to make it carry even beyond an ordinary cry he interrupted its rhythm by shaking the palm of his hand before his mouth that's for the thing oh he said looking down at the other two with a queer defiant laugh for his my belief the sandwiched oaths may be admitted that my old partner is not far from us at this very minute there was a vehemence and recklessness about his performance that made Simpson too start to his feet in amazement and betrayed even the doctor into letting the pipe slip from between his lips Hank's face was ghastly but Cathcart's showed a sudden weakness a loosening of all his faculties as it were then a momentary anger blazed into his eyes and he too though with deliberation born of habitual self-control got upon his feet and faced the excited guide for this was unpermissible foolish dangerous and he meant to stop it in the bud what might have happened in the next minute or two one may speculate about yet never definitely know for in the instant of profound silence that followed Hank's roaring voice and as though in answer to it something went past through the darkness of the sky overhead a terrific speed something of necessity very large for it displayed much air while down between the trees there fell a faint and windy cry of a human voice calling in tones of indescribable anguish and appeal oh oh this fiery height oh oh my feet of fire my burning feet of fire white to the very edge of his shirt stupidly about him like a child Dr. Cathcart uttered some kind of unintelligible cry turned as he did with so instinctive movement of blind terror towards the protection of the tent then halting in the act as though frozen Simpson alone of the three retained his presence of mind a little his own horror was too deep to allow of any immediate reaction he had heard that cry before turning to a stricken companions he said almost calmly that's exactly the cry I heard the very words he used then lifting his face to the sky he cried aloud defego defego come down here to us come down and before there was time for anybody to take definite action one way or another there came the sound of something dropping heavily between the trees striking the branches on the way down and landing with a dreadful thud upon the frozen earth below the crash and thunder of it was really terrific that seems to help me the good God came from Hank in a whispering cry half choked his hand going automatically toward the hunting knife in his belt and he's coming he's coming he added with an irrational laugh of horror as the sounds of heavy footsteps crunching over the snow became distinctly audible approaching through the blackness toward the circle of light and while the steps with their stumbling motion just nearer and nearer upon them the three men stood round that fire motionless and dumb Dr. Cathcart had the appearance of a man suddenly withered even his eyes did not move Hank suffering shockingly seemed on the verge again of violent action yet did nothing he too was a hewn of stone like stricken children they seemed the picture was hideous and meanwhile their owner still invisible the footsteps came closer crunching the frozen snow it was endless too prolonged to be quite real this measured and pitiless approach it was a cursed then at length the darkness having thus laboriously conceived brought forth a figure it drew forward into the zone of uncertain light where fire and shadow mingled not ten feet away and halted staring at them fixedly the same instant it started forward again with the spasmodic motion of a thing moved by wires and coming up closer to them full into the glare of the fire they perceived then that it was a man and apparently that this man was defego something like a skin of horror almost perceptibly drew down in that moment over every face and three pairs of eyes shown through it as though they saw across the frontiers of normal vision into the unknown defego advanced his tread faltering and uncertain he made his way straight up to them as a group first then turned sharply and peered close into the face of simpson the sound of a voice issued from his lips here I am boss simpson I heard someone calling me it was a faint dried up voice made wheezy and breathless as by immense exertion I'm having a regular hellfire kind of a trip I am and he laughed thrusting his head forward into the other's face but that laugh started the machinery of the group of waxwork figures with the wax white skins Hank immediately sprang forward with a stream of oaths so far fetched that simpson did not recognize them as English at all but thought he had lapsed into indian or some other lingo he only realized that Hank's presence thrust thus between them was welcome uncommonly welcome Dr. Cathcart no more calmly and leisurely advanced behind him heavily stumbling simpson seems hazy as to what was actually said and done in those next few seconds for the eyes of that detestable and blasted visage peering at such close quarters into his own utterly bewildered his senses at first he merely stood still he said nothing he had not the trained will of the older men that forced them into action in defiance of all emotional stress he watched them moving as behind a glass that half destroy their reality it was dreamlike perverted yet through the torrent of Hank's meaningless phrases he remembers hearing his uncle's tone of authority hard and forced saying several things about food and warmth blankets whiskey and the rest and further that whiffs of that penetrating unaccustomed odor vile yet sweetly bewildering assailed his nostrils during all that followed it was no less a person than himself however less experienced and adroit than the others though he was who gave instinct utterance to the sentence that brought a measure of relief into the ghastly situation by expressing its doubt and thought in each one's heart is you isn't it defego he answered under his breath horror breaking his speech and at once kathgard burst out with the loud answer before the other had time to move his lips of course it is of course it is only can't you see he's nearly dead with exhaustion cold and terror isn't that enough to change a man beyond all recognition it was said in order to convince himself as much as to convince the others beyond for emphasis alone proved that and continually while he spoke enacted he held a handkerchief to his nose that odor pervaded the whole camp for the defego who had huddled by the big fire wrapped in blankets drinking hot whiskey and holding food in wasted hands was no more like the guide they had last seen alive than the picture of a man of 60 is like a daguerreotype of his early youth in the costume of another generation nothing really can describe that ghastly caricature that parody masquerading there in the firelight as a defego from the ruins of the dark and awful memories he still retains Simpson declares that the face was more animal than human the feature is drawn about into wrong proportions the skin loose and hanging as though he'd been subjected to extraordinary pressures and tensions it made him think vaguely of those bladder faces blown up by the hawkers on Ludgate Hill that changed their expressions as they swell and as they collapse him into faint and wailing imitation of a voice both face and voice suggested some such abominable resemblance but Cathcart long afterwards seeking to describe the indescribable asserts that thus might have looked a face and body that had been in air so rarified that the weight of atmosphere being removed the entire structure threatened to fly asunder and become incoherent it was Hank though all distraught and shaking with a tearing volume of emotion he could neither handle nor understand who brought things to a head without much ado he went off to a little distance from the fire apparently so that the light should not dazzle him too much and shading his eyes for a moment with both hands shouted in a loud voice that held anger and affection dreadfully mingled you ain't defago you ain't defago at all I don't give a damn but that ain't you my old pal of 20 years he glared upon the huddled figure as though he would destroy him with his eyes and if it is I'll swab the floor of hell with a wad of cotton wool on a toothpick so help me to good God he answered with a violent flaying of horror and disgust it was impossible to silence him he stood there shouting like one possessed horrible to see horrible to hear because it was the truth he repeated himself in 50 different ways each more outlandish than the last the woods rang with echoes at one time it looked as if he meant to fling himself upon the intruder for his hand continually jerked towards the long hunting knife at his belt but in the end he did nothing and the whole tempest completed itself very shortly with tears Hank's voice suddenly broke he collapsed on the ground and Cathcart somehow or other persuaded him at last to go into the tent and lie quiet the remainder of the affair indeed was witnessed by him from behind the canvas his white and terrified face peeping through the crack of the tent door flap then Dr. Cathcart closely followed by his nephew who so far had kept his courage better than all of them went up with a determined air and stood opposite to the figure of DeFego huddled over the fire he looked him squarely in the face and spoke to him at first his voice was firm DeFego tell us what happened just a little so that we can know how best to help you he asked in a tone of authority almost of command and at that point it was command at once afterwards however it changed in quality for the figure turned up to him a face so piteous so terrible and so little like humanity that the doctor shrank back from him as from something spiritually unclean Simpson watching close behind him says he got the impression of a mask that was on the verge of dropping off and that underneath they would discover something black and diabolical revealed in utter nakedness out with it man out with it Cathcart cried terror running neck and neck with entreaty none of us can stand this much longer it was the cry of instinct over reason and then DeFego smiling whitely answered in that thin and fading voice that already seemed passing over into a sound of quite another character a scene that great when to go thing whispered sniffing the air about him exactly like an animal I've been with it too whether the poor devil would have said more or whether doctor cathcart would have continued the impossible cross examination cannot be known for at that moment the voice of Hank was heard yelling at the top of his voice from behind the canvas that concealed all but his terrified eyes such a howling was never heard his feet oh God his feet look at this great changed feet DeFego shuffling where he sat had moved in such a way that for the first time his legs were in full light and his feet were visible yet Simpson had no time himself to see properly what Hank had seen and Hank has never seen fit to tell at same instant with a leap like that of a frightened tiger cathcart was upon him bundling the folds of blanket about his legs with such speed that the young student caught little more than a passing glimpse of something dark and oddly dressed where moccasin feet ought to have been and saw even that but with uncertain vision then before the doctor had time to do more or Simpson time to even think a question much less ask it DeFego was standing upright in front of them balancing with pain and difficulty and upon his shapeless and twisted visage an expression so dark and so malicious that it was in the true sense monstrous now you seen it too he wheezed you seen my fiery burning feet now that is unless you can save me and prevent it's about time for his piteous and beseeching voice was interrupted by a sound that was like the roar of wind coming across the lake the trees overhead shook their tangled branches the blazing fire bent its flames as before a blast and something swept with a terrific rushing noise about the little camp and seemed to surround it entirely in a single moment of time DeFego shook the clinging blankets from his body turned towards the woods behind and with the same stumbling motion that had brought him was gone gone before anyone could move muscle to prevent him gone with an amazing blundering swiftness that left no time to act the darkness positively swallowed him and less than a dozen seconds later above the roar of the swaying trees and the shout of the sudden wind three men watching and listening with stricken hearts heard a cry that seemed to drop down upon them from a great height of sky and distance oh oh this fiery height oh oh my feet of fire my burning feet of fire then died away into untold space in silence Dr. Cathcart suddenly master of himself and therefore of the others was just able to seize Hank violently by the arm as he tried to dash along into the bush but I want to know you shrieked the guide I want to see that ain't him at all but some devil that shunted into his place somehow or other he admits he never quite knew how he accomplished it he managed to keep him in the tent and pacify him the doctor apparently had reached the stage where reaction had set in and allowed his own innate force to conquer certainly he managed Hank it was his nephew however hitherto so wonderfully controlled who gave him most cause for anxiety for the cumulative strain had now produced a condition of lacrimose hysteria which made it necessary to isolate him upon a bed of bows and blankets as far removed from Hank as was possible under the circumstances and there he lay as the watches of that haunted knight passed over the lonely camp crying startled sentences of fragments of sentences into the folds blanket the quantity of gibberish about speed and height and fire mingled oddly with biblical memories of the classroom people with broken faces all on fire are coming at a most awful awful piece towards the camp he would moan one minute and the next would sit up and stare into the woods intently listening and whisper how terrible in the wilderness are are the feet of them that until his uncle came across the change the direction of his thoughts and comfort him the hysteria fortunately proved but temporary sleep cured him just as it cured Hank till the first signs of daylight came soon after five o'clock Dr. Cathcart kept his vigil his face was the color of chalk and there were strange flushes beneath the eyes an appalling terror of the soul battled with his will all through those silent hours these were some of the outer signs at dawn he lit the fire himself made a breakfast and woke the others and by seven they were well on their way back to the home camp three perplexed and afflicted men but each in his own way having reduced his inner turmoil to a condition of more or less systemized order again remember staying up late on a Friday or Saturday night either at home or at a friend's house and watching your local TV stations presenting a terrible B movie with aliens, monsters ghosts, alien monster ghosts, vampires werewolves and all other kinds of crazy creepy characters those were fun nights, weren't they well that's what the Weirdo Watch Party page at WeirdDarkness.com has to offer all day every day thanks to our friends at the Monster Channel you can visit WeirdDarkness.com slash Watch Party right after listening to this episode immediately be entertained by a horror host and horrible movie or should I say horror a bull movie and not only can you watch the B movies and horror hosts streaming there 24 7 but once a month we all gather together to watch a movie and talk about it in the chat room on that same page get your frights and funnies on the Weirdo Watch Party page at WeirdDarkness.com they talked little and then only of the most wholesome and common things for their minds were changed with painful thoughts that clamored for explanation though no one dared refer to them Hank being nearest to primitive conditions was the first to find himself or he was also less complex and Dr. Cathcart civilization championed his forces against an attack singular enough to this day perhaps he's not quite sure of certain things anyhow he took longer to find himself Simpson the student of Divinity it was he who arranged his conclusions probably with the best though not most scientific appearance of order out there in the heart of unreclaimed wilderness they had surely witnessed something crudely and essentially primitive something that had survived somehow the advance of humanity something that had survived somehow the advance of humanity had emerged terrifically betraying a scale of life still monstrous and immature he envisaged it rather as a glimpse into prehistoric ages when superstitions gigantic and uncouth still oppressed the hearts of men when the forces of nature were still untamed the powers that may have haunted a prime evil universe not yet withdrawn to this day he thinks of what he termed years later in a sermon savage and formidable potencies lurking behind the souls of men not evil perhaps in themselves that instinctively hostile to humanity as it exists with his uncle he never discussed the matter in detail for the barrier between the two types of mind made it difficult only once years later something led them to the frontier of the subject of a single detail of the subject rather can't you even tell me what they were like he asked and the reply though conceived in wisdom was not encouraging it is far better you should not try to know or to find out that odor persisted the nephew what do you make of that Dr. Cathcart looked at him and raised his eyebrows odors he replied are not so easy as sounds and sights of telepathic communication I make as much or as little probably as you do yourself it was not quite so glib as usual with his explanations that was all at the fall of day cold exhausted famished the party came to the end of a long portage and dragged themselves into a camp that at first glimpse seemed empty fire there was none and no punk came forward to welcome them the emotional capacity of all three was too overspent to recognize either surprise or annoyance but the cry of spontaneous affection that burst from the lips of Hank as he rushed ahead of them towards the fireplace came probably as a warning that the end of the amazing affair was not quite in both cathcart and his nephew confessed afterwards that when they saw him kneel down in his excitement and embrace something that reclined gently moving beside the extinguished ashes they felt in their very bones that this something would prove to be that defego the true defego returned and so indeed it was it is soon told exhausted to the point of emaciation the french alien what was left of him that is fumbled among the ashes trying to make a fire his body crouched there the weak fingers obeying feebly the instinctive habit of a lifetime with twigs and matches but there was no longer any mind to direct the simple operation the mind had fled beyond recall and with it too had fled memory not only recent events but all previous life was a blank this time it was the real man though incredibly and horribly shrunken on his face was no expression of any kind whatsoever fear welcome or recognition he did not seem to know who it was that embraced him or who it was that fed warmed and spoke to him the words of comfort and relief forlorn and broken beyond all reach of human aid the little man did meekly as he was bitten the something that had constituted him individual had vanished forever in some ways it was more terribly moving than anything they had yet seen that idiot smile as he drew wads of coarse moss from his swollen cheeks and told them that he was a damned moss eater the continued vomiting of even the simplest food and worst of all the piteous and childish voice of complaint in which he told them that his feet burned like fire which was natural enough when Dr. Cathgard examined them and found that both were dreadfully frozen beneath the eyes there were faint indications of recent bleeding the details of how he survived the prolonged exposure of where he had been or how he covered the great distance from one camp to the other including an immense detour of the lake on foot since he had no canoe all of this remains unknown his memory had vanished completely and before the end of the winter whose beginning witnessed this strange occurrence DeFego, bereft of mind memory and soul had gone with it he lingered only a few weeks and what punk was able to contribute to the story throws no further light upon it he was cleaning fish by the lake shore about five o'clock in the evening an hour that is before the search party returned when he saw this shadow of the guide picking its way weekly into camp in advance of him he declares came the faint whiff of a certain singular odor that same instant old punk started for home he covered the entire journey of three days as only Indian blood could have covered it the terror of a whole race drove him he knew what it all meant DeFego had seen the when to go if you like the podcast please tell your friends and family about it however you can and get them to become weirdos too and I'd greatly appreciate it if you can give me a five star review in the podcast app you listen from that helps the podcast get noticed and if you'd like a transcript of this episode you can find it in the episode's blog post at WeirdDarkness.com just scroll down on that page do you have a dark tale to tell of your own click on tell your story at WeirdDarkness.com and I might use it in a future episode also on the website you can find paranormal and horror audio books I've narrated the Weird Darkness store plus you can visit the Hope in the Darkness page if you're struggling with depression anxiety or thoughts of suicide the when to go was written by Algernon Blackwood Weird Darkness theme by Alibi Music and now that we're coming out of the dark I'll leave you with a little light mark 1027 Jesus looked at them and said with man this is impossible but not with God all things are possible with God and a final thought from Marilyn Monroe imperfection is beauty madness is genius and it's better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring I'm Darren Marlar thanks for joining me in the Weird Darkness that a man can feel when the wilderness holds him in the hollow of its when the wilderness holds him in the hollow of its illim... illimitable hand and its hollow of its when the wilderness holds him in the hollow of its illimitable hand and laughs that's him that's him shout me to good God came from Hank that's him shout me to good God came from Hank in a whispering cry that's him shout me to good God that's him shout me to good God hey weirdos be sure to click the like button and subscribe to this channel and click the notification bell so you don't miss future videos I post videos 7 days a week and while you're at it spread the darkness by sharing this video with someone you know who loves all things strange and macabre if you want to listen to the podcast you can find it at WeirdDarkness.com slash listen