5

Viverette Settlement

It sat in the darkness, listening to the blowing wind, and staring at the snow flying past the filthy window of the cabin. Its mind drifted back to a time when it had been someone different. His name had been Paul Condor….

_____________

Oslo, Maine, 1996

It was the January thaw, a brief period of unseasonable warmth which usually preceded the really cold weather of February and March. Paul Condor stood silently staring out the filthy window of the ramshackle hut where he lived with his father. His eyes followed his father, a solitary, drunken figure who held his collar closed around his neck as he staggered through the pouring rain. Paul watched with dismay as his father pulled a pint of gin from his pocket, took a deep swallow from it, and succeeded in returning it to its resting place in his pocket on the second try. His father’s feet slid in the mud that covered the road’s shoulder and the drunken man took several quick steps to try to right himself, but Wally Condor was unable to maintain his balance and he tumbled face-first into the mud. Paul watched his father lying in the mud and knew that the cold rain was soaking through his coat and shirt, plastering it to his back. He heard Wally curse and saw him spitting mud out of his mouth as he scooped a handful of snow from the snowbank that bordered the road and washed the mud from his face. He must have thought about the pint of whiskey he had put in his coat pocket and began patting his pockets, searching for it. He extracted the unbroken bottle of Seagram’s, unscrewed the cap, and took a drink. He wiped his mouth with the back of his muddy hand, spit out the debris that wiping his face had left in his mouth, staggered to his feet, and plodded toward the shack.

Paul knew his father’s brain was swimming in an Olympic-size pool of alcohol and he muttered in fear and frustration. He knew his father bemoaned his lot in life—cursing because everything was shit, as usual. It would only be a matter of seconds before the old man began to vent his anger on Paul. He would start by blaming Paul for the death of his mother and from there Paul would become the object of all that was wrong in Wally’s life. By the time Wally stepped through the door, the alcohol would have fueled his anger into a raging conflagration—one that would consume him until he doused it by beating his son unconscious.

Paul dropped the burlap bag they used as a curtain for the filthy window and crawled into his bed. He pulled the blanket over his head, hoping that by feigning sleep maybe the old man would leave him be. He listened, in stoic silence, to the sounds of his father staggering into the cabin’s main room. The old man was swearing at no one in particular and Paul heard the wet plop of a coat hitting the floor. That, Paul knew, was not a good sign. Wally’s level of sobriety could be measured by the length of the clothing trail he left on his way to the greasy mattress where he slept. Whenever he dropped his coat immediately upon opening the door, that meant he was really loaded. The door to the small room where Paul and Wally slept swung open so violently that it slammed into the wall and a loud bang echoed through the shanty. A jar fell to the floor in the section of the main room that served as kitchen and dining room and shattered. “Get out here you mother-killer,” Wally shouted.

Paul tightly shut his eyes and feigned sleep while bracing for the inevitable beating that always followed when Wally was drunk.

Wally Condor appeared in the door, teetering back and forth as he stared at the figure of the boy. The volume of Wally’s voice increased as he began to rant, “You ain’t foolin’ me you overgrown bastard! You ain’t asleep. Now git on your feet and take it like a man, not an oversized pussy!”

Paul lay still.

“Have it your way then….” Wally took two stumbling steps forward and with all the strength his anger could muster, he punched Paul in the face.

The boy’s head bounced from the recoil of the blow his father had delivered and white spots danced before his eyes, rendering him temporarily blind. He curled into a fetal ball, a futile attempt at self-preservation, but his maneuvering only served to further enrage his attacker. Wally continued to pummel and curse at the boy until Paul was a bloody, crying mess.

Wally landed one final punch and then, exhausted from his efforts, flopped onto the bed across the room. In moments, he began to snore in a deep, drunken sleep.

_____________

Paul slowly regained consciousness. He rolled over and began to sob, fighting to keep the sounds of his despair muffled. He did not want to risk awakening his father to resume his assault. He silently lamented his lot and began to beg for help from any quarter. He began to chant, a chant his maternal grandfather had taught him, one the old man had said would summon the gods in a time of great need.

The temperature in the room suddenly plummeted and Paul felt the presence of something, or someone, in the room. He ceased chanting and slowly opened his swollen, bruised eyelids. A heavy mist hovered in the far corner of the room. Paul stared into it, mesmerized. The mist began to swirl around with increasing speed. Paul’s eyes widened. There was something in the twisting fog but it was barely discernable. Of one thing he was certain: whatever it was appeared to be gigantic. The haze now filled the room to the rafters, and Paul felt that the inhabitant was looking down on him with a scowl of disgust.

Suddenly Paul was struck by the realization that he might be looking at a god! Possibly Kitchi-Manitou, the greatest of the gods! Paul slid from the filthy mattress and fell to his knees. He became aware of someone or something speaking to him and he opened his mind, allowing the unexpected message to enter. In his beaten and battered condition, Paul found the voice soothing. I am Wendigo, god of the Algonquin people. I have seen your plight and have sensed your pain. It need not be so, if you but accept me all can be made well again….

Paul slowly rocked back and forth as the words seemed to heal him, both physically and mentally. He slowly raised his head and wiped the blood that still trickled from his nose, flinching when his hand touched his battered and split lips. “H-how do I do that?” His smashed mouth made his words slurred.

Open your mind and soul to me! Let me enter your body and all will be over!

The Wendigo stared down at Paul. Open to me, Paul—Now!!!

Paul raised his face. He stared out the dirt-encrusted window of the shack and saw the clouds suddenly part. The moon illuminated the room like a celestial laser beam. He turned his head back to face the mist, which had morphed into a dark cloud. Before Paul was able to stop it, the revolving storm descended around him. At the last minute, Paul felt the evil of the Wendigo and began to fight back. It was too late; the spirit permeated his body, soul, and mind. Paul Condor, with a cry of utter despair, ceased to be.

The body convulsed as the Wendigo assaulted and killed what was left of Paul Condor. The boy collapsed in a heap and clouds obscured the moon. The night was split by the drumming crescendo of another unseasonable storm.

_____________

Thunder boomed as a monstrous storm settled over Oslo with a display of power and force that rattled windows throughout the tiny village, shattering several. The Condor shack vibrated with the force of the thunder and the windows blew out of their frames. Wally was shocked awake and, although still drunk, leapt to his feet. He stood still in a state of vertigo for a moment and then saw Paul curled in a ball on the floor. “Git up you chicken-shit coward. It’s only a fuckin’ storm….” He launched a kick at the boy’s side.

A powerful hand reached out, grabbed Condor’s foot, and flipped him across the room. Wally bounced off the wall and looked at his son. Instead of a cowering boy, he found himself looking at a malevolent face. Its eyes were as large as an owl’s and seemed to be swimming in pools of blood. He inadvertently turned his eyes away from the hate-filled orbs.

Paul reached down and grabbed his leg and lifted him. Wally shouted, “Leggo my leg, you simple bastard—or you’ll live to regret it!”

Rather than cower, as he usually did, Paul lifted him with a single hand and Wally found himself suspended by one leg and staring at the floor like a deer that had been hung out to bleed before butchering. Without saying a word, Paul spun him around and smashed him into the wall. He dropped his stunned and bleeding father to the floor and left the room. Standing in the kitchen, Paul watched Wally stagger to his knees and before he could regain his feet, Paul returned to further punish him.

On hands and knees, Wally scrambled across the floor. He reached under his cot, found what he sought, and turned to defend himself. Lightning lit up the room and sparkled on the blade of Wally’s most prized possession, a bowie knife he’d bought at the pawnshop in Caribou. Paul reached down, grabbed Wally by the throat, and held him there.

Wally drove the knife into his son’s midsection and was astonished when the boy did not even flinch as the large blade penetrated him. Wally drove the knife home two more times, yet no matter how viciously he attacked, Paul’s unbelievable strength imprisoned him. He opened his mouth to scream but his shout was quickly stifled. Paul grabbed his lower jaw and with a horrendous twist, ripped it from its socket. Wally howled in pain, his jaw hanging loose and flapping like a storefront sign in a strong wind.

Wally’s eyes bulged with horror when his captor pulled him from the wall and carried him into the kitchen. Paul slammed him onto the table. Oxygen depletion sapped Wally’s strength and he dropped the knife and grabbed Paul’s hand with both of his in a vain attempt to stop the strangulation. Suddenly the huge hand released his throat and Wally gasped as he sought the air he needed to survive. Before Wally was able to fill his lungs, Paul forced Wally’s head to the left exposing his neck. With his teeth he ripped through the flesh and severed the artery. He sounded like a nursing infant as he sucked blood from his father’s carotid.

Wally screamed as his son tore his chest open and grasped his heart and with a final mighty pull, yanked it out of his chest. Before death finally ended the brutal attack, Wally saw Paul raise the heart, blood pulsing out of it, and smile at his victim as he bit into it.

The Wendigo, now in control of Paul, went into a feeding frenzy. He tore, ripped, and gorged himself on the body, cramming chunks of raw meat into his mouth until he was stuffed. In a final act of depravity, he ripped the head off the body and paused in the quiet, staring at the waves of steam rising from the body as it gave up its heat in the cabin’s cooling interior air. Wendigo heard the rhythmic sound of the blood slowly draining from the head suspended in his right hand by the hair. The soft impacts of the blood hitting the floor sounded like cymbals to the sated beast.

Plop.

The Wendigo felt his new stomach heave under the weight of all the meat it contained.

Plop. Plop.

His stomach lurched.

Plop. Plop. Plop.

The Wendigo threw Wally’s carcass across the room and bent forward, vomiting a gushing torrent of raw meat and tepid blood. When the heaving ceased, the Wendigo wiped the excess vomit from his face with the back of his hand. He admonished himself. It had been so long since he had eaten that he had overlooked entirely the fact that his new body would have to be trained. It would require a period of time before it would be ready for its new diet.

The Wendigo grabbed the legs he had butchered from Wally’s body and carried them with him as he stepped out of the dark cabin and into the sudden light of the lightning storm.

_____________

Viverette Settlement

The room seemed as hot as a furnace. He opened the window over the sink and retrieved the meat he’d stored there. It was frozen but his hunger was so great that he ripped into it and gulped it down. He realized that he was still hungry. It was time for another hunt. This time he’d go further south, there was usually heavy snowmobile traffic around Rocky Mountain.