V. You'll Be Beethoven

Driving in the car once again (at a steadier, less intense speed than post-therapy), Sam left her entire music library on shuffle. Now that, of course, was an enormous gamble; the roulette could land on anything from 60s bossa nova to 90s hip hop to modern indie and back again. Some people her age found her a little weird for it (isn't that for dusty old British barristers?), but Sam also genuinely enjoyed her share of classical composers. Her favored pick depended on the mood of the day.

For soft nights and gentle mornings, Debussy, easily; like playing piano with feathers for fingertips. For activating joie de vivre, Bizet; something about Carmen punched the color back into life (highlights tied between "Habanera" and "Toreador Song"). For study and research, Vivaldi; The Four Seasons particularly managed to always get Sam in the Zone™.

On shuffle, Bach rolled up to bat, "Suite No. 1 in G major" in particular. Sam skipped forward almost automatically, but it didn't matter. Seeing the name on her radio display was enough.

Courtesy of their shared traumatic event, one of Sam's takeaways formed around this specific piece; all of her friends now sported unique triggers, she was certain, but it was quite something to relive running around wearing nothing but a towel, chased around by her (disguised) crush as part of an elaborate Saw simulation, just from hearing the world's most calming cellos.

Now here was an interesting nugget of retrospection: Sam spent a fair amount of time meditating on Josh's possible motives and intentions for just about every move he made at the lodge (which, she acknowledged, could be unhealthy if pursued to the point of obsession), so one thing that struck her was a snippet of their conversation while lighting the boiler. Discussing Chris and Ashley, Josh insisted they needed (direct quote): "Some sort of traumatic event to send them into each other's arms." Twisted as it was, what Josh did that night (among MANY things) equated to a very unorthodox matchmaking attempt.

A dangerously reductive comparison, absolutely, but Sam understood Josh's mind at that time was truly fragmented. The boy she grew up with had to be in there still, fighting through the bedlam and fury. He'd always wanted to help nudge Chris in the right direction, push him just enough to take the plunge. Fucked up as it was, he actually succeeded. Sam would never go as far as to explicitly state as much, and CERTAINLY never to condone, but for someone in such a fractured mental state, Sam understood Josh truly believed it would come across like a harmless hoax.

So, so very inaccurate.

But then that, of course, left room for Sam to transpose that scenario on their own. Josh didn't plan their first basement visit in the same sense as the rest of the night, but Sam (at the time and in the present) noted how the Chris/Ashley split-off allowed them to explore as a duo. After the crack about helping her with the bath beforehand (granted, typical suggestive toeing-the-line Josh humor), Sam couldn't help but wonder if he was actually taking a shot. Or, at least, working up to it. Before Chris *monked* them, Sam relished that opportunity to get Josh alone in a more… private setting.

That was another intriguing thing about him: he spoke openly about porn and sex and the like; his attitudes towards the subject and its related tangents were no less than cavalier; and yet, despite all the gusto and goading and ambiguous flirting, Josh was practically celibate. Not that he lacked admirers—what could she say? Josh cut a uniquely handsome profile—but from knowing him so long (and his best friend AND his little sisters so intimately), Sam harbored much of the family tea. He'd been caught at parties kissing girls and getting (consensually) handsy with them, yes. But the rest of the bases on the diamond? Untouched.

Sam's impression (unverified but unshakeable) was that Josh, like her, was simply… picky. Which wasn't the best word for them at all, quite honestly, but it was the shortest one and the easiest to comprehend. For Sam, sex was something that only came into the picture when she was emotionally invested AND attracted, which depended on so many varied elements and attributes that finding a solid match was akin to navigating a laybrinth. That combo coming into her life was rare. So rare, in fact, that the only recipient she could think of presently was some dude she knew with the initials J.W.

But that was a whole tangent, too much to dive into.

What was most relevant to her train of thought circled back to Josh cultivating a Psycho persona. Now, in all the years she'd known Josh (and struggled tirelessly to overcome their never-ending will they won't they routine), Sam noticed Josh flourished in roles. His junior year the school musical was Little Shop of Horrors—Josh auditioned for Seymour and Scrivello, ultimately being cast as the sadistic dentist—and Sam remembered how passionate he was, channeling so much energy and focus on fine-tuning his performance. He liked the Steve Martin interpretation, but didn't want to just tactlessly copy the man's work. It was the first time Josh fully immersed himself in a school activity, something Sam secretly cheered with GREAT fervor. Sam actually helped Josh run lines more than a couple of times, and who else would she be but his Audrey? (Seymour too, for that matter.)

There were times there, during those late study nights spent rehearsing, when Sam swore she noticed Josh locking onto her with a strange look in his eyes, his hands lingering, his stimulation… well, showing. Granted, that hadn't been the only time where their magnets almost (finally) drove them to go buck-wild. And Orin Scrivello, DDS was by no means a model for any kind of relationship, of course; pre-breakdown Josh would be quick to tell anybody the role was his most sinister. But was that a seed? Did that experience inform a particular fantasy in his head? Playing the heel and pretending they were together?

In other words: was Josh singling her out for that basement chase equitable to a severely fucked Valentine's Day card (more or less)? By some divine grace, Sam managed to make all the right moves and dodge him in that elevator shaft; what would he have done, if he caught her? He decked Ashley for stabbing him with scissors, after all. Would…

Would he actually hurt her? Smack her, like they learned to fake together three years before? (Was that how long ago it was? Sophomore year… yeah. How strange. That was like… a different person's life, now.) In his Psycho get-up, he chased her with a needle. Would Josh actually drug her? Sedate her?

It… the very thought of it tore through her insides, mincing her stomach and her heart each apiece. Sure, he didn't, but he tried.And how could she reconcile that truth, that bitter pill, with the distinct yet mutual truth that she still loved him?

Or maybe that was too strong a word; love. (Maybe the strongest of them all.) Was infatuation more accurate?

…No.

No, infatuation didn't make someone so restless, so lonely, so fucking determined to get their person back no matter the cost. Sam wondered what therapy would be like if she actually opened the floodgates for Kroeger about all these thoughts, these convictions. Beyond likely inspiring some super-involved case study and an immediate recommendation for inpatient, Sam entertained how a therapist might diagnose such a dire case of the star-crossed lovers disease. Romeo-and-Julietitis, maybe. Or maybe hopeless dipshit syndrome (HDS).

Lovers. As if they'd ever done more than hold hands and kiss beneath a bridge one warm summer night nearly a decade ago. (Children, sweet children. If only Josh hadn't left for camp two days later…) Even so, here Sam was, pulling into Chris's driveway, trying to muster the troops for another scouting expedition. What else could that be but love?

Hopefully, not fixation.

"Oooh I'm cuttin' into uh, date night, eh?" was her line when the door swung open. The couple greeted her together; each one gave the other an askew glance that said more than Sam ever needed to know. "My bad, I know this is outta the blue—"

"Sam, don't sweat it, okay?" interrupted Chris. "I mean that. It's definitely a weird uh… anniversary, I guess you'd call it?"

Ashley snorted. "We forgot to get flowers."

Chris feigned smacking his head. "Oy vey, and no card!"

In spite of herself, Sam let a genuine smile crack through. "Don't worry, I just brought some major baggage aaaaaand some vegan cookies that I KNOW Chris just LOVES to EAT—" Chris was already running from the door towards his kitchen, "—WAIT come BACK, LEMME COOK UP SOME TOFU—"

Nearly doubled over with laughter, Ashley broke through her giggling to usher Sam in. "Youuu GOTTA get in here, the neighbors'll call the cops!"

"Oops." Sam feigned blithe ignorance. "I guess I'll just tell them I'm like, a Jehovah's Witness but for veganism? I'm sure they'll get it."

"Sure, sure," said Ashley, shaking her head in good humor. "But we're not associated, cool?"

"Oh fer sure, I'm a lone ranger," affirmed Sam. Chris was still gone, apparently scared off by the mere mention of vegan cookies; Sam imagined he was likely up to something, but with Ashley here, what did it really matter? She came to see them both, after all. "How you been doin', pardner?"

Catching the deliberate cowgirl patois, Ashley joined the fun as they made their way into the Hartley family room: "Seen greener pastures in m'days, surely, but toughin' out the trail ain't too turrible when there's two'a yuz. How bout you pardner?"

Deflection Mode: Activated. "Oh, yaknow. Spent today talkin' to some people, trying to like… I dunno, try and gather us all back together, right? Something like a reunion. To like… work through everything we, uh… we experienced."

"You didn't wanna text me, though?" Ashley asked, a bit sheepish and possibly a little hurt.

Sam shook her head profusely. "Oh God no, not like that, Ash. I just know like… he's not exactly your favorite person to talk about these days, I didn't wanna like, trigger anything, you know? Plus like, I didn't hit up Matt or Jess, just because it's… I dunno, law of conservation of energy at this point, I guess? You hit up one half of a couple and the other one hears it eventually."

"Well, that's… actually pretty fair, all things considered." (Ashley was pretty sure the law of conservation was about energy never being created or destroyed, just changing forms, but that was an aside for later; she caught the gist.) "I think… I'm okay to talk about it, more, these days? Not, y'know, ALL the time. But I can handle it. Still, thank you for being considerate."

"Dude, of course. It's like, common courtesy, y'know?" As the girls entered the pages of a Raymour & Flanagan interior design catalog, Sam finally spotted Chris; on the coffee table lay an assortment of chips and dips, personally curated by none other than their host. "Heyyy, I see you got some vegan-friendly options! Thanks bud."

"Sure man, how else are ya gonna indoctrinate me?" Chris joked, plopping down in a corner seat and fiddling with the remote. "Make yourself at home though Sam, for real. What did you wanna put on Ash?"

Taking a seat by her boyfriend's side, Ashley looked skyward and bit her lip, searching for an answer. "Hmm… maybe Mythbusters or something in that vein. Like, harmless stuff, you know? Or Animal Planet even, something so sugary-sweet we can get diabetes."

With the three of them sitting on these comfy, calm, cushy couches, it was hard to tell they were all survivors of a blood-chilling real life Twilight Zone episode. That cold fact would never leave them, of course, but they could forget about it for a little while, at least, and enjoy each other's company. Sam snacked on some spicy Doritos and slank back into the cushion, preparing to fixate absent-mindedly on Jamie's walrus mustache. Whoever last used the tv was on a channel broadcasting an infomercial for a classical music CD-set.

What else would be playing but Bach?

Before any flashbacks could occur, Sam decided to derail that train from the get-go. Chris was quick to change channels, but still—Sam dug back into the depths of their shared history for a different Bach-related recollection. "Ugh, god. You remember Josh loved that corny joke in like, fourth, fifth grade?" Sam tried out her best Arnold Schwarzenegger: "You'll be Beethoven, I'll be Bach."

Ashley stifled a laugh while Chris grinned wide. "YEAH, hehe yeah he did!" Chris confirmed. "He thought that shit was so funny. Remember that one day when he got so bad with it Mrs. Wilson sent him out in the hallway? And instead of just sitting there he went to each door shouting his best Kindergarten Cop through those thin lattice windows?"

Sam started giggling. "Fuck, YES, yes, and all the teachers were old ladies so they set the janitor on him to get him to stop, that uh-uh Mr… Mr. Szalinski! And he was literally tryna tackle Josh, but that kid, that KID was so fuckin' WIGGLY and wormy, he ran circles around him hehe… oh my GOD, didn't the principal get in on it?"

Chris practically choked, he was laughing so hard. "Y E S, Mr. Macmillan was fuckin', tryna wrangle him like an unleashed velociraptor. I swore he slathered himself in butter, Josh was like, TOO quick that day. But, then again, I feel like I'd be hype as shit too if the whole elementary school was cheering me on; kid was probably wired with adrenaline. And he'd do anything, anything for a good laugh."

Sam nodded eagerly. "That's what I'm saying man. Josh was fun. He was our friend. I will never, EVER say the 'prank' he pulled on us was cool or anything like that, that's… if we get him back, he'll get the hot seat for that shit eventually, I know that." Chris noted to himself how optimistic that last statement was for Sam; Ashley caught traces of yearning in her clouded gaze. "But that's just it guys, we need to get him back to even properly confront that shit, you know? Like, I'm sorry, maybe it's legitimately just me? But I just…" Sam was something of an unstoppable force amongst their friend group, Chris and Ashley had no problem admitting that to themselves. Thus why it was so unnerving to see a spirit like Sam Giddings almost caving in, her light coming off dimmer and weaker. "...I can't keep carrying this. Not knowing. It was bad enough with Beth and Hannah, but with all the shit we saw…"

"Oh, that's… that is what this is about," Ashley remarked in an ambiguous tone, fiddling with her fingers. Chris's hand gripped her thigh in reassurance. "Chris said you wanted to… go back to the mountain for him? Sam it's… that's like, asking to be eaten, you get that right?"

"Yeah, man. I'm definitely not going to get eaten… but I get that it's an invitation for that distinct possibility. Trust me, I understand how absolutely fucking bonkers I look. I'm of sound mind doing this shit. And I can't keep trying to bury my agony under hours of pointless talking instead of actually going OUT there and putting an end to all this misery, you know?" Then, softer: "It sounds less scary if I have my friends by my side, too."

Chris and Ashley shared a look, an end-to-end encrypted telepathic link that Sam was distinctly not invited to. Chris started off: "Sam… speaking for myself alone right now, I think you are… tryna cope your best? Just like we all are? So, no matter what you end up doing, I understand it. I discourage going back for him… but I get it. And I wanna help you as best as I can."

Ashley, nodding, carried on the torch. "Yeah, and the prospect of coming back to revisit our worst night as a circle of friends, like… I wanna support you, Sam? You being as crazy brave as you were in the lodge let us all escape, like, you are one reason I'm still sitting here even talking, and I'm never going to forget that. So I want to support you and be there for you… but going back? …It's a tough call."

Sam sighed. "Sure is. We've all had to make tough calls. I mean even you Ash… you had to face down Emily after Mike almost, yakno—"

"—Oh, you mean when I got slapped? Yeah, not fun. You try staring down Medusa and telling her she's going on Maury with Poseidon and Athena."

Sam replied (struggling like Atlas), "That's just it man, I feel you. I gotta look Medusa in the eyes and tell her to give us our boy back. And I might be crafty and hardcore, but I'm no Perseus, okay? I need my friends, because I know we can do it." She said 'our' and 'we' to make the feeling more inclusive, but Sam admitted to herself (somewhat selfishly) that in her heart, it was her boy they were getting back. Maybe that was… something she'd never SHARE with her friends, sure, but that suited her fine. That wasn't the point.

The point was Josh.

The reason was Josh; solution, too.

Mythbusters played (unheeded and unwatched) in the background throughout the entire exchange, little more than ambient noise. Sam glanced over at the screen from time to time, an attempt to break up the severity of this suddenly grave conversation.

Chris noticed.

"Are you—are you fuckin' simultaneously watching tv right now? Ohhh you little ADHD gremlin. I've been there so I can't shit on you too hard but yeoooooo," Chris chortled. That helped ease the tension (thank God), Ashley joining in with Chris's chuckling.

Sam smiled too, that tired half-grimace. "It's heavy shit man, you know? I don't like making you guys like, get down and dirty talkin' bout this shit with me. I know it's no fun. But I sincerely believe this is the only way."

Another Chris and Ashley glance. If Sam ever got really drunk sometime (which she didn't and wouldn't), she could imagine herself ragging on them for it, comedy roast-style. But for these two? That was just too harsh, too soon. No, Sam would give them a decent year of being lightly insufferable before all bets were off. And that was exactly the point: she WANTED them to continue seeing each other successfully for a year, beyond that even. She'd make sure they survived to see it, too. With Sam at the helm, everybody went home.

Everybody.

"I feel like… it's something we should discuss as a group? If you're open to that idea," Ashley offered. "Like you were saying earlier even, you wanted to get people together and ask them; we'll do it democratic style, a proper Greek forum, right? You'll get your allotted speech time and everything."

Sam munched on a chip and imagined their friends lounging about in togas with laurel chaplets, sipping wine and arguing over whether a plucked chicken could fulfill the (broad) definition of a human being. Between that amusing image and a Caesarean Ides of March plot easily playing out amongst the Mike-Emily-Jessica death triangle, she was impressed how well they translated into antiquity. "Hmm… sounds like a plan to me. You guys'll help me wrangle too, right? It's one thing to have me buzzing like a bee and checking in, but if they have three bees buzzing around, they'll pay the fuck attention."

Chris scratched the back of his head. "I mean, I'll definitely try. Just make sure you have like, boxing gloves and a medic on-hand in case it turns into Smackdown, y'know? We're asking for some feathers to be ruffled."

"True," conceded Sam, "but you also know people respond well when I'm an arbiter so like, I dunno, maybe it's better the claws DO proverbially come out. Finally get some healing for real, instead of just holding onto bullshit."

Ashley actually responded to this positively. "Yakno I'd… kinda love the chance to have a platform to say some things I've been sitting with. Kinda sounds like a Breakfast Club-lite group therapy session in my head, and I think that's actually a really good thing? Anyway, sign me up for that, for sure."

Sam had ONE hooked, and if Ashley was showing up, Chris was sure to follow. It began with three, then. One, then three, then maybe five, maybe even seven! And what a lucky number that was. Powerful. Granted it verged into superstition thinking a number could be inherently magical in some respect, Sam was also vividly aware much stranger things were alive and real (and biting and lurking) in Alberta; was it so silly to think it could be a kind of enchantment, a ward?

This was a good start. Sam needed to get more pieces into place on the chessboard, through, before executing her gambit. And before any of that, she needed to practice some honest to God self-care. The fact that she felt so ready to jet on the turn of a dime told her the trauma flashback's adrenaline surge was still kicking around in her nervous system.

So she rose to her feet, and explained that she needed to go home, and hugged her friends goodbye (a new requisite for every hangout, edict co-signed by the Queen). On her way towards the door she tossed out: "We'll definitely meet up again sometime soon. And whenever we get everyone together, bring the Stranger's journal with you too Ash, please. I think we'll need his guidance."

Ashley thought of the dead man's book, her shameful confession, the force of that blow… Ashley sighed. The coming weeks would prove… interesting, at the very least. "Only for you, Sam."

\/\/\/

Sam's parents were out on their own date night this particular Saturday, so when she parked her black Kia Forte in their driveway, she knew for certain the house was hers and hers alone. All the better, considering the day's developments. Sam needed time to be in isolation, to decompress, FULLY relax, and dissect.

Time for a fuckin' primo homespun spa bath, that's what that meant.

Before heading upstairs to the main bathroom, Sam established a perimeter to ensure every point of entry was locked, secured, and even barricaded. Once fully confident that there could be no possibility of home intrusion, Sam ventured into her room to grab her shower supplies. Her childhood bedroom, at least, still felt like a respite; but how would that translate when she inevitably moved out on her own? Commuting for the semester was a decent solution to an unforeseeable problem, but it wouldn't last.

Nothing could.

Walking into the bathroom, Sam suddenly realized Chris was more than likely enjoying some quality time with Ashley, now she was gone. She loved seeing her friends but… more and more often, it felt like third-wheeling these days. And that got tiresome, even for a girl who preferred single living.

Sam jiggled the doorknob thrice to check the lock, double-checked the windows were shut fast, peeked behind the shower curtain before undressing, and toweled the space between the door and the floor for some… illicit activities. She didn't hotbox her bathroom that often, especially not since getting out of high school, but today… had been an emotional sojourn. And a hero's return meant lavishing with wine and grapes (or, in this case, weed).

She blazed through the bowl relatively quickly; Sam didn't smoke a lot or too often, just a meager amount packed in her glass pipe did the trick. She couldn't say what strain this was exactly, but it was supposed to be an indica (intended to mellow her the fuck out). It hit strong; glad no one else could claim witness, she spat in the sink from coughing so hard.

Once that was thoroughly roasted, Sam kicked the bowl in the toilet, lit candles she'd arranged around the bathroom—a premium low-cost spa atmosphere boost!—ran the hot water, and scrolled through her Spotify playlists (NO Bach, thank ya kindly) in search of a vibe.

Mellow Seventies would be the perfect incense to accompany this self-care routine. She tossed on the first track, clicked shuffle, and turned around just in time to catch the faucet before the tub filled TOO high. Some nights she threw in bath bombs, but tonight she just… needed regular water. The earth's water. That purifying pool, the element that whispered to every human being's primal memories of living in utero. Wasn't that what it was, after all? Soaking in a hot bath and holding her head under the water, unleashing the sentient mind in favor of sensation and the welcoming warmth of return?

First track popped on—"Muskrat Love" by America—scoring Sam's descent into the waiting waters. In a few minutes, she'd add some bubbles; for now, Sam just needed an actual bath, to wash that man right outta her hair (South Pacific, freshman year; Josh was ensemble but won a dance solo) and shed the monkeys from her back. In the background, America's soft rock laid down the framework. A couple of lyrics punched into Sam's ears, fragments.

And Sammy's so skinny

And they whirled and they twirled and they tangoed

Singing and jinging the jango

Floating like the heavens above

Looks like muskrat loooove

(Mental note: figure out what the hell muskrat love meant. Like, actual muskrats?)

After a decent ten minute span of nothing more than floating and savoring the peace of the playlist, Sam's brain kicked back into overdrive. But this gear was… different. The car was driving in a more interesting direction. After so much agitation, it almost made too much sense. Sam spread her legs open. The water was welcoming and warm, the bathroom filled with steam and smoke. Candles, flickering in the low glow. She leaned her head back on her makeshift towel-pillow and let her hand drift down (down, down) like a falling leaf between her thighs.

Here came the fucked-up part. Here came the guilty gratification, the puzzling pleasure.

When Sam slid her fingers inside, she imagined Josh's tongue in their place. His lips. She thought about him sucking on her clit, dipping his tongue inside her like he was digging for honey. She wanted to see those green eyes peering up at her, pupils full, and listen to him moaning, eating her out. She needed to watch him pull away, a link of his spit chaining them together, and hear him purr (in that lilting, teasing, boy-next-door voice only he could pull off): "Sammy, your pussy tastes like heaven."

Her legs were shaking. She'd grab him by his (tousle-begging, rich hickory) hair and shove his head back down, make him really apologize for putting her through hell. That meant eating her out until she came, until her hips writhed and shook, and making him lick up every last drop.

This wasn't an oddity, some one-time occurrence. No, Sam's fantasies almost always involved Josh. Was that sick? Was that wrong? Was that what got her so riled up about it? This was one thing (of many) Sam simply would never share with Dr. Kroeger; it was too close, too personal, too raw.

And it felt too fucking good.

So, fuck it. Fuck everyone else. And most importantly… fuck him. Leaving her with all this unresolved electric tension and no proper outlet. When she went to bed, it was alone; when she came, it was achingly alone.

And she came hard. The surge of dopamine burst through her body, a cresting wave of pleasure and relief and release.

Release. That was the key, wasn't it? Getting out all the stirred-up shit circling around inside her, agitated and activated just thinking about Josh.

Sam understood the realities of the situation, the disturbing details that would make other people question her very sanity for even indulging in such lurid daydreams. But this wasn't choice, nor stubborn bull-headed fixation. (Right?) Sam was never the type to date just to date and break up the solitude. It didn't fit her lifestyle or her vibe; she'd only go for someone she was legitimately interested in. And for some stupid reason, between the chemicals in her brain and the truth in her heart, her body desired no one but one Josh Washington (last seen 2/2/2015, any info on whereabouts please call Sam Giddings).

It was enough to drive her wild.

Enough to reel her back into a place where she'd already escaped death once. Could she Houdini that again?

…She had to.

/\/\/\

A whiff.

The Wendigo turned his nose to the air and sniffed deeply. What was that, trailing on the breeze? Not blood. Not a fresh kill, no food or prey.

No, no this was an animal smell. It had to be. It was… musky. A woodland creature in heat, perhaps an elk in estrus. The beast pondered its source. It had to be nearby, upwind. He (as all Wendigos) moved primarily in short, quick bursts; as a half-turned monster, the Wendigo could push his stamina more than his brethren, but conversely lost some of their raw speed. Not that it changed much about this case. Eventually, the beast tracked down the scent's origin.

Two black bears bumping uglies were the culprits behind the Wendigo's fixation. The male, the boar, bit his partner's neck and vibrated against her hips; the female, the sow, arched her neck back and swayed with her mate. It was dirty business, nasty business. The universal business. Right? Wasn't that all it came down to? Two animals, bleating and bluffing and beating about the bush until one mounted the other and made the beast with two backs? That, and the fucked-up losers who couldn't find a mate withered away and died, no claim to their name. The rejects, the loners, the freaks.

Josh fought back a torrent of tormenting memories, a hurricane of harmful thoughts. He let his humanity slip willingly. Easier to let the beast ride out these dark pits.

The boar, noticing the Wendigo, rose up on its back legs to click its tongue and grunt angrily at the perceived threat. The sow huffed and bared her teeth. Makkapitew did not laugh, but if it could, it would, right here and now. With Josh's vessel, the Wendigo sliced the couple into ribbons. He removed their intact heads first, kicking them aside for later inspection; the shrapnel of their bodies would serve as this week's sustenance for the beast. Though truth be told, the Wendigo preferred elk, above all else.

That wasn't true. Perhaps the vessel did, but not the spirit.

The Wendigo preferred Homo sapiens above all. That awfully advanced ape, that most dangerous game. With late spring in full swing and summer incumbent, skiers would swap out for hikers, many of whom traveled alone. The monster's cavernous gut panged for the savory taste of fresh meat. Let them come by the hordes, if they would. A proper banquet.

Lately, the mountain was acting strange. Even for the ancient spirit Makkapitew, little blips and events it did not recognize or understand were disturbing the natural order (of misery and desperation, according to its wishes) in Blackwood Pines. The Wendigo would know if a human were around, for instance, but there were words drifting in on unfamiliar zephyrs.

Right by his ear, the beast heard a trickling whisper: "Josh."

Snarling and raving, the Wendigo spun around in wild circles in search of the voice. No one. Nothing. Nothing. The Wendigo curled back its lips and croaked out human speech (an ability he wasn't even certain he could still conjure), telling the void:

BE… BACK…