Into the Darkness: Chapter Six - Previous Chapter
Chapter 7.
An unexplainable urge seizes Damien. His shadow tendrils, usually bound to his command, writhe on their own—curling upward like smoke made solid. Before he can resist, they coil around his body, tightening, pulling him inward. The world collapses into darkness.
He’s falling. No—moving. Flashes of scenery whip past in impossible succession: buildings, fields, the shimmer of water, and then—vastness—an expanse of ocean. Mountains surge up through clouds, and then, with a violent lurch, everything stops.
Cold air slams against his face. The shadows unravel, dissolving into the snow that surrounds him.
He’s standing ankle-deep in white, his breath visible, the air sharp and thin. The silence is complete, except for the faint hum of tires somewhere far off. When he turns, he sees it—a large, weathered wooden sign by the roadside, the words painted in bold white letters:
FERNIE.
He stares, disoriented. He’s never heard of such a place.
Beyond the sign, a two-lane highway cuts through the snow, stretching toward a cluster of lights in the distance. A smaller sign reads Highway 3. The name means nothing to him, yet some dim instinct urges him onward.
He begins to walk.
The road curves along the base of dark, pine-covered mountains. Snow clings to every branch, muting the landscape into shades of grey and silver. The deeper he goes, the more wrong everything feels—not outwardly wrong, not enough to see, but in the texture of the quiet itself. It’s too complete.
A few scattered houses appear—windows faintly aglow. The town seems to be sleeping, unaware of the strange man who’s walked out of nowhere into its heart. His shadow trails behind him, stretched long and thin across the snow, quivering faintly as if resisting the stillness.
When he finally reaches the outskirts proper, the sign on the next lamppost reads: Welcome to Fernie, British Columbia.
Snow falls in thick, relentless sheets, the early morning light turning the world to a blur of white and grey. Damien trudges through the streets of Fernie, his black suit collecting flakes that melt instantly against the fabric. He draws strange looks from the few people braving the cold—men and women bundled in heavy coats, boots crusted with snow, faces red from the biting air.
A man climbing into a pickup truck eyes him with disbelief.
“Wrong clothes for this kind of weather,” the man grunts, slamming the door before Damien can think of a reply.
He glances down at himself, immaculate as ever, out of place among the rugged mountain folk. The comment rolls off him. There are bigger questions to worry about—like where he is, and why he’s here at all.
The snow muffles sound, but a sudden flash of red and blue slices through the haze. A police cruiser speeds past, siren silent, lights flickering through the storm. The car’s tires hiss across the slush as it vanishes around the corner, leaving only a trail of exhaust and unsettled whispers in its wake.
“Horrible,” an older woman mutters nearby, clutching a grocery bag to her chest. Her voice trembles as she shakes her head. “Just horrible.”
Damien turns toward her, polite curiosity masking the strange stir of interest rising within him. “What happened?” he asks.
The woman’s eyes dart to him, uncertain whether to speak to a stranger dressed like a funeral director in a blizzard. But fear loosens her tongue.
“A murder,” she says softly. “They found him near the river, early this morning. They say he was…” She falters, lowering her voice to a near whisper. “Torn to pieces.”
Her words hang in the air like smoke, quickly swallowed by the wind. Damien watches her hurry away, boots crunching through the snow. He stands still for a moment, his pulse quickening—not from fear, but from recognition.
Something about the words torn to pieces echoes too deeply.
The snow falls harder, the world narrowing around him. Somewhere in the distance, a crow caws—a sound sharp enough to break through the hush.
Damien looks toward the direction the police car had gone, and begins to walk.
Snow whirls thick and wet as Damien follows the flicker of emergency lights down toward the river. The street is nearly deserted—only the murmur of radios and the crunch of boots on snow disturb the stillness. Police tape trembles in the wind, its bright yellow struggling against the pallid morning gloom.
Beyond it lies carnage.
The body sprawls across the frozen ground, what remains of it. Blood blackens the snow in wide, splattered arcs, already crusting over in the cold. The coroner kneels beside it, his breath fogging the air as he speaks low to the sheriff.
“The heart, kidneys, lungs—they weren’t removed,” the coroner says. “They were ripped out. Look at this—” he gestures with his forceps, voice faltering as he points to the torn cavity. “No precision. Just brute force. Like something digging inward.”
Damien steps closer, the stench of iron and rot hitting him through the cold. The chest has been torn open as if by claws, ribs splintered, the sternum split clean through. The organs are gone, the hollow interior a gory, frozen ruin. Strands of intestine loop across the snow like pale worms, stiffening where the blood has congealed.
The sheriff—broad, middle-aged, with a weathered face and the kind of fatigue born from too many bad winters—stares down at the body with disgust.
“Why take the others but not the intestines?” he mutters, half to himself. “Doesn’t make a damn bit of sense.”
Damien’s voice breaks the silence, low and unnervingly calm.
“There’s cancer in the intestines.”
The coroner looks up sharply. “What?”
He bends closer, pulling one of the strands toward the light. After a moment, he inhales sharply. “He’s right. Tumorous tissue, necrotic along the lining. Advanced.” He looks from the corpse to Damien, disbelief and unease flickering in his eyes. “How could you possibly know that?”
The sheriff’s gaze narrows. “FBI?”
Damien meets his stare, the faintest ghost of a smile curling his lips.
“Special Agent Damien Beckett,” he replies smoothly. “Just passing through.”
The sheriff grunts. The snow continues to fall, heavy and wet, melting into the blood around their boots. “Well, Agent Beckett, passing through or not—you’ve stepped into something bad here.”
Damien looks down at the ruin of the body. The snow is already beginning to bury it, hiding the torn flesh beneath a soft white sheet.
The coroner’s crew works silently, their breath fogging in the frigid air as they ready the mangled body for transport. Plastic rustles, zippers rasp, and the metallic scent of blood clings stubbornly despite the cold. The snow falls heavier now, swallowing the sound of the nearby river until it feels as though the whole town is holding its breath.
The sheriff straightens with a groan, brushing snow from his jacket. “We’ll take it from here,” he says, glancing at Damien. “Station’s warm. You look like you could use the heat. Come on, I’ll give you a ride.”
Damien nods once, calm and unreadable. He turns toward the cruiser, hand on the door, when his gaze catches something—just a faint irregularity in the snow-dusted branches above the scene. He pauses.
“Part of the victim’s intestines are in the tree,” he says evenly.
The coroner blinks. “What?”
Damien points upward, to where a dark tangle dangles half-frozen from a low branch. The coroner rushes forward, cursing softly as he confirms it. Damien doesn’t stay to watch. He slides into the passenger seat of the cruiser and shuts the door.
The sheriff exhales a long, tired breath as he settles behind the wheel. The wipers smear away the snow, revealing the blurred outlines of Fernie beyond the windshield—muted houses, shuttered shops, the quiet decay of small-town winter.
“I need to figure out who it is,” the sheriff mutters, starting the engine.
Damien’s eyes remain on the passing lights. “Two questions,” he says. “First—have there been other incidents like this?”
The sheriff glances sideways at him, lips tightening. “You FBI types sure like to ask questions you already know the answers to.”
“Humour me.”
The sheriff drums his fingers on the wheel, then grunts. “Seven. Same sort of thing. Men, women, homeless folk. No clear pattern except the brutality. Always the same missing organs. Always here in the Kootenays.”
Damien nods slowly. His tone doesn’t change. “Second question: can you search the tattoo database for a Betty Boop tattoo—riding a missile?”
The sheriff frowns, eyes flicking toward him. “Tattoo database? Only if they’ve been booked before.” He pauses, studying Damien’s face. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
Damien doesn’t answer. Outside, the snow continues to fall in heavy silence, blanketing Fernie in white as the cruiser rolls slowly through the ghostly streets.
The warmth of the Fernie Police Department feels false after the killing ground by the river. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, washing everything in a flat, pallid glow. The place smells of stale coffee, paper, and damp wool—ordinary scents that sit uneasily atop the metallic tang of blood still clinging to Damien’s coat.
A half-dozen officers crowd around a long conference table littered with photographs. The air is tense, reverent in that way people get when confronted with something too awful to comprehend.
Two younger officers—a man and a woman—stand near the far end of the table, flipping through the crime scene photos. When the woman catches sight of one close-up, her face drains of colour. The man doesn’t even try to hide his reaction. They both lurch from the room, footsteps quick, the sound of retching echoing faintly down the corridor.
The sheriff sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “Happens every time,” he mutters.
He gestures for Damien to follow him farther in. Picking up a tablet from the end of the table, the sheriff scrolls through the tattoo database, thumb tapping idly. The screen’s blue light bleeds across his tired features. After a moment, he grunts.
“Nothing. No Betty Boop, no missile. Clean record—or no record.”
Damien doesn’t respond. He slides into a chair at the head of the table, gathering the crime scene photos into a neat line. Seven victims stare back at him from the glossy prints.
The scenes vary—alleys, woods, riverbanks—but the pattern doesn’t. Every body shows the same kind of mutilation: torsos torn open, ribs cracked and splayed, organs missing. The heart, lungs, kidneys—all ripped out with a violence that speaks not of frenzy, but purpose. Flesh shredded, not cut. Bone splintered, not broken. The devastation is grotesque, yet deliberate.
He drags one photo forward, studying it closely. “See this,” he says quietly. “The tearing—it’s consistent. Always from the left side, never the right. Something strong, but not mindless.”
The sheriff crosses his arms. “You saying this was deliberate? That someone planned this?”
Damien’s eyes stay on the photographs. “Not someone,” he says softly. “Something.”
The sheriff frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Damien leans back, his voice almost detached. “Whatever’s doing this—it’s not killing to eat. It’s killing to take.” He taps a photo where the chest cavity yawns open like a hollowed shell. “It only removes what’s healthy. What’s clean. It leaves behind the diseased, the infected… like the intestines from this morning’s victim.”
The coroner, standing near the doorway, swallows hard. “Selective?” he asks. “You’re saying it’s choosing?”
“Yes.” Damien’s tone is steady, clinical. “It hunts like a predator but feeds like a perfectionist. It understands the difference between corruption and purity. It’s not hunting for survival—it’s harvesting.”
The sheriff shakes his head, looking from Damien to the photos. “You talk like this thing’s got rules.”
“It does,” Damien says. “But they aren’t human.”
Silence stretches out. The only sound is the snow tapping against the windows and the soft buzz of the overhead lights. The sheriff studies Damien, something between suspicion and unease creeping into his gaze.
“You’ve done this before,” he says finally.
Damien doesn’t look up. “Many times.”
He arranges the last photograph, the latest victim, in the center of the table. The pattern is there now—clear to him, if to no one else. He stares at the gaping hollow where a heart once was, and the air seems to grow heavier around him.
Outside, the storm deepens. The mountains stand silent, their white slopes concealing something ancient, something that kills not out of hunger—but discernment.
And Damien knows, as sure as the snow keeps falling, that whatever it is hasn’t finished yet.
Damien stares at the photographs in silence. At first, they seem like any cluster of crime scene images — mutilated bodies, blood frozen into crusted arcs, the aftermath of senseless violence. But his gaze lingers on the ink.
Every single one of the victims has a tattoo.
He begins to rearrange the photos, pulling them from their chronological order, aligning them instead by what’s drawn into their skin.
“These tattoos…” he says, mostly to himself at first. “They all look new.”
The sheriff, still standing by the table, squints down at the images. “What, you mean recent work?”
Damien nods, eyes narrowing. “Fresh ink. The colours are sharp, the lines clean. No fading, no signs of healing. These were done within weeks of the murders — maybe even days.”
He points to the nearest photograph. “Here. Betty Boop riding a missile. Look at the ink density — the colour hasn’t even settled.” He moves to the next. “A cat. Realistic style, fine linework. The skin’s still raised. And here — roses and skulls. The blood under the surface hasn’t dispersed yet.”
The sheriff crosses his arms. “You’re telling me these people all got tattoos right before they died?”
“I’m saying,” Damien replies, “it’s the one thing they have in common.”
The sheriff mutters something under his breath and drags a hand over his jaw. “We’ve got ID work in progress — prints, dental, DNA — but so far nothing. No records, no priors. You might be onto something with the tattoos, though. Not many parlours around here. Three, maybe four.”
Damien gathers the tattoo photos into a neat stack and stands, slipping them under his arm. His eyes drift to the frost-veiled window, the storm beyond it thick and soundless.
“Take me to them,” he says.
The sheriff glances up. “To the tattoo shops?”
“Yes.”
The word is calm, final, and carries a quiet authority that leaves little room for question.
“If the tattoos are that recent,” Damien continues, “someone’s seen them alive. Someone’s drawn these on their skin.” He glances at the images again — Betty Boop’s cartoon grin, the cat’s careful whiskers, the roses curling around skulls. “These aren’t symbols. They’re personal. Chosen for a reason. The artist might know why.”
The sheriff hesitates, then reaches for his coat. “You really think ink’s gonna lead us to whoever—or whatever—did this?”
Damien looks at him, expression unreadable. “Everything leaves a mark,” he says softly. “Some marks just take longer to understand.”
He strides toward the door. The sheriff sighs, grabs his keys, and follows.
Outside, the snow has thickened, swirling in white waves under the orange glow of the streetlights. The cruiser’s headlights cut a narrow path through the storm as they drive.
In the back seat, the photographs rest on Damien’s lap — Betty Boop, a cat, roses, skulls — each piece of art bright and defiant against the pallor of death. Together, they form a gallery of the doomed.
And Damien can’t shake the feeling that something old and ravenous is choosing its victims for reasons far beyond beauty.
The storm outside had only worsened by the time they reached the third shop. Snow clung to the cruiser’s windshield like static, the wipers struggling to keep up. The sheriff grumbled under his breath about small-town murder investigations in tourist country while Damien watched the gray-white streets roll by, his fingers absently tapping against the stack of photographs on his lap.
The bell above the tattoo parlour door chimed as they entered. Inside, the world changed—warm, humming, and sharply clean. The air carried the tang of antiseptic and metal, the rhythmic bzzzt-bzzzt of tattoo needles filling the silence like an insect’s whisper.
The woman who approached them had the unmistakable poise of someone who lived in ink. Long black hair framed her pale face, her skin an intricate garden of tattoos. Flowers and vines coiled up her arms, wrapping around thorns, blooming into colours that seemed to pulse beneath the fluorescent lights. Across her throat was a single large skull, vines and roses twisting out from its empty eye sockets.
Damien’s gaze lingered there for a moment—part study, part respect. He nodded. “Nice ink,” he said simply.
A small smile curved her lips. “Thanks,” she replied, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You looking for something… or someone?”
The sheriff flipped open a folder, laying out the photographs of the tattoos. “We’re investigating a series of murders,” he said. “You recognise any of these pieces?”
Her eyes moved over the pictures—Betty Boop riding a missile, the cat’s careful linework, roses winding through skulls. The smile faded from her face, replaced by something taut and wary.
After a long moment, she looked toward the back of the shop. “Andrew did all of these.”
Damien followed her gaze.
In the far corner, a man was bent over a client, a tattoo machine buzzing softly in his hand. He looked ordinary enough—mid-thirties, lean, with the sleepless eyes of someone who’d spent too long chasing perfection in ink. But when he turned and noticed who stood by the counter—the sheriff in his heavy coat, the stranger beside him in a pressed black suit—his expression changed.
Recognition flickered there, then terror.
The needle slipped from his hand, clattering to the floor. The client yelped as ink splattered across their arm.
“Andrew?” the sheriff called, stepping forward.
Andrew didn’t answer. His gaze was fixed squarely on Damien. Whatever he saw there, it wasn’t authority—it was something older, something he knew instinctively to fear.
Then he bolted.
He spun on his heel and tore through the back of the shop, shoving open a door that slammed hard against the wall. The buzzing of the tattoo machine fell silent in the wake of his escape.
The sheriff cursed and drew his radio. “Dammit—”
Damien was already moving. He didn’t run, not exactly; he moved with a kind of unnatural grace, slipping through the narrow hallway like the shadows themselves parted to make room.
The woman stood frozen behind the counter, the hum of the shop suddenly deafening in the absence of words.
Her voice trembled when she finally spoke. “Why would he run from you?”
The sheriff didn’t answer. He just followed the sound of Damien’s footsteps disappearing into the snowstorm beyond the door.
Snow whipped through the alleyway behind the shop, stinging the skin, blurring the edges of everything in white. Andrew’s boots pounded against the ice-slick pavement, his breath coming out in ragged gasps that plumed in the air like smoke.
He stumbled once, twice, then fell hard to his knees in the drifted snow. His palms scraped against the frozen ground, blood smearing crimson against the white. Behind him came the crunch of pursuing footsteps — measured, relentless — Damien’s dark figure moving like a shadow that had simply detached itself from the night.
The sheriff was close behind, breath loud, boots crunching. “Andrew! Stop! Hands where I can see them!” he barked, raising his sidearm, trying to steady both his breath and his aim.
Andrew twisted around, eyes wide, wild. His face was gaunt, pale, his pupils blown wide with terror.
“Stay away!” he screamed, his voice cracking, desperate. “I didn’t want to! It wasn’t me!”
Then, as if some invisible thread inside him snapped, the scream broke into something else — a sound no human throat should ever make. It started low, a guttural rasp, then climbed into a deafening, bone-splitting roar.
The sheriff froze. “Jesus Christ—”
Andrew convulsed violently, arching backward. Bones cracked like dry branches underfoot. His skin began to crawl — not metaphorically, but literally, rippling and shifting as if something beneath it fought to escape.
His arms elongated, fingers stretching until the nails split and curved into claws. His skin blanched into a sickly, gray-white hue, pulling tight against a body that was suddenly far too tall, far too lean. His face distorted — jaw widening, teeth lengthening into jagged points, lips tearing until they hung in bloody ribbons.
The sheriff stumbled backward, revolted. “What the hell is that!?”
By the time Andrew — no, the thing that had been Andrew — straightened, it loomed nearly eight feet tall. Its eyes were sunken pits of amber light, and its ribs jutted from beneath its skin like the bars of a cage. Steam poured from its mouth in heavy clouds as it turned toward them, a low growl rumbling from deep within its chest.
The sheriff’s instincts took over. He raised his gun, hands trembling.
Damien was suddenly beside him. Too sudden. His gloved hand shot out and pressed the barrel down toward the snow.
“Don’t,” Damien said, his voice level, unflinching.
The sheriff’s head snapped toward him, disbelief and panic written across his face. “Are you out of your damn mind?!”
“That’s a Wendigo,” Damien said quietly, his eyes fixed on the creature. “Your bullets won’t have any effect.”
The sheriff’s hand faltered. “A—what?”
The Wendigo let out another roar — a sound that seemed to rattle the air, primal and full of hunger — before lurching forward, its long limbs cutting through the snow like scythes.
Damien didn’t flinch.
The thing that had been Andrew loomed in the snow—an emaciated, skeletal figure with skin stretched so tightly over its bones it looked half-mummified. Every rib was visible, each movement accompanied by the faint creak of tendons straining against bone. Its eyes had sunk deep into their sockets, glowing faintly like dying embers, and its lips were shredded, flayed into bloody tatters that revealed far too many teeth.
Steam poured from its mouth in ragged bursts as it hissed, claws curling and uncurling with a sound like knives scraping on stone.
The sheriff stood frozen. His hand shook around the gun’s grip, but he couldn’t pull the trigger.
Then, with a guttural roar that split the quiet of the storm, the creature lunged.
The snow exploded beneath its feet—white plumes rising around it like smoke—and the sheriff shouted, stumbling backward.
But Damien didn’t move.
At least, not in any human sense.
His shadow stretched outward across the snow, spreading too far, too fast. The dim streetlight behind him flickered, and the darkness that should have lain flat began to rise—thick tendrils unfurling from it like smoke turning solid.
The Wendigo noticed.
It faltered mid-lunge, its stride breaking as the shadow surged toward it. One tendril coiled across the ground like a living whip, another slithered around its leg. The creature shrieked, tried to pull back—too late. Its clawed foot slipped against the ice, sending it crashing forward into the snow with a howl.
Damien moved with fluid precision, stepping into the motion. He pivoted on one foot and drove his fist hard into the creature’s jaw. The impact cracked like thunder.
The Wendigo reeled, stumbling back several paces, its long arms flailing for balance. For the briefest second, its amber eyes locked with Damien’s—and whatever it saw there made it hesitate.
Then it turned and fled, disappearing into the blizzard with inhuman speed, vanishing into the pale nothing beyond the trees.
The sheriff cursed, raising his gun. “Goddammit! It’s getting away—!”
“Don’t,” Damien snapped, his voice sharp as breaking ice.
The sheriff swung toward him, furious. “Don’t? Are you kidding me? What the hell even was that thing—”
“You’ll need silver bullets,” Damien interrupted. “And sniffer dogs. It’s fast, but it’s hurt.”
The sheriff stared at him, chest heaving. “Silver bullets? What are you—”
Damien turned his hand palm-up.
It was slick with dark, almost black blood, steaming faintly in the cold.
He looked down at it, then back to the sheriff. “This,” he said quietly, “is all the proof you’ll need.”
The sheriff’s words caught in his throat as he saw it — the blood bubbling slightly, almost alive, before freezing solid in a sheen of frost across Damien’s skin.
The blizzard howled around them. Somewhere in the forest beyond, the Wendigo’s scream tore through the night, echoing off the mountains.
The sheriff stood motionless for a long moment, the cold burning in his lungs as he stared into the wall of white where the creature had vanished. Then, shaking himself, he yanked his radio from his shoulder and thumbed the transmit button.
“This is Sheriff Halvorsen,” he barked, breath ragged. “We need backup at Third Street behind Black Peak Ink—send the hounds. And I want silver bullets issued immediately.”
A crackle, then a confused voice came back through the static. “...Did you say silver bullets, Sheriff?”
Halvorsen ignored it. His eyes stayed fixed on the treeline, where faint movement stirred just beyond visibility. The forest looked suddenly wrong—shadows too deep, silence too heavy.
Beside him, Damien stood perfectly still, his gloved hand still stained with the creature’s black blood.
“A Wendigo,” the sheriff muttered, half to himself. “How? How in God’s name does something like that happen?”
Damien exhaled softly, his breath fogging the air. “Andrew must’ve eaten flesh,” he said, voice low. “Human flesh. Maybe he was starving, maybe it was desperation. It doesn’t matter. Once he did, the Wendigo spirit found him—possessed him. And that hunger…it never ends.”
The sheriff turned sharply. “Possessed? You mean he wasn’t born that thing?”
“No,” Damien said. “He became it.” He looked back into the woods, eyes dark. “The more he ate, the less of him remained. His bones stretched, his body warped to contain the hunger. Judging by his size—eight feet, maybe more—he’s been feeding for nearly a year.”
Halvorsen’s jaw clenched. “Christ almighty,” he whispered. “That means there’s more bodies out there.”
Damien nodded grimly. “There are. And not all will be found.”
For a long moment, neither spoke. The snow fell heavier now, thick and silent, swallowing the world around them.
Finally, flashing red and blue lights began to shimmer faintly through the haze. Backup arrived—two cruisers, an SUV, and a pair of handlers with their dogs straining at the leash. The men moved with confusion and fear, weapons drawn, their breaths coming in sharp bursts of steam.
A deputy approached with two rifles, each wrapped in a gray wool cloth. “Sheriff, these are from the evidence locker. Old hunting rounds, silver-tipped. Best we could find on short notice.”
Halvorsen nodded and handed one to Damien. He took it without a word, checking the chamber, the motion smooth and practiced. Another deputy hurried over, pressing a fresh reel clip into the sheriff’s gloved hand for his sidearm.
The handlers brought the dogs forward—lean, strong beasts, restless under the leash.
Damien crouched, his coat brushing the snow. He held out his still-bloodied hand, letting the scent waft toward them. The animals froze, nostrils flaring, their eyes flicking toward the dark forest ahead. Then they began to pull, low growls rumbling in their throats.
Damien stood. “Let them lead.”
The sheriff nodded once, motioning to the handlers. The dogs surged forward, dragging their keepers through the drifts and into the treeline. The others followed, boots crunching in unison, rifles raised.
Damien glanced back once toward the bloodstained snow where Andrew had fallen. His shadow stretched long behind him, distorted by the pulsing red of the cruiser lights.
The forest swallowed them whole.
The deeper they went, the quieter it became—no wind, no birds, only the crunch of boots and the low panting of the dogs leading the way. Their noses were to the ground, pulling their handlers forward with frantic energy, every so often stopping to bark or whine at something unseen.
The snow grew deeper beneath the trees, and the air colder, thicker, as if the forest itself disapproved of their presence.
“Easy, boys,” one of the handlers muttered, tugging lightly on a leash. But the dogs didn’t calm; their bodies trembled, hackles raised, the whites of their eyes flashing in the half-light.
Then came the smell.
It hit them all at once—something sweet and rotting, seeping through the crisp mountain air.
“Jesus,” one of the deputies gagged, raising his scarf over his nose.
They found the first body half-buried beneath a snowbank. A woman, what was left of her, the flesh stripped away from her bones in long, uneven gouges. Her face was frozen mid-scream.
“Over here!” another deputy called, kneeling by a second corpse—then a third. All the same. Mangled, devoured, half-consumed and left to freeze.
Damien crouched by the nearest, brushing snow from its chest. “These are months old,” he murmured. “He’s been feeding here.”
The sheriff swallowed hard. “Son of a bitch…”
Before he could finish, one of the dogs whimpered—a sharp, high sound that made everyone freeze. Its ears went flat. Then, without warning, both animals began to howl, straining backward, snapping at the air.
“Something’s wrong,” Damien said quietly, rising to his feet.
The words had barely left his mouth when the forest erupted.
The Wendigo dropped from the trees like a collapsing nightmare—eight feet of clawed, skeletal horror crashing down into the snow among them. The handlers were the first to go, flung aside like rag dolls, one slamming into a tree trunk with a sickening crack. The dogs bolted, yelping as they vanished into the dark.
“Open fire!” the sheriff shouted, raising his rifle—
The shot went wide, tearing through branches as the creature blurred forward. Its clawed hand whipped out, striking him across the chest and sending him flying. He hit the base of a tree with a crunch, his breath bursting out in a cloud of steam.
Damien didn’t bother with the rifle. He dropped it, the creature too close for a clean shot, and shifted his stance. “Come on, then,” he said softly, almost mockingly.
The Wendigo shrieked—a raw, piercing sound that rattled the bones—and lunged.
Damien moved with impossible speed, ducking beneath the first swipe, twisting aside from the second. Snow sprayed as the claws tore trenches through the ground. He pivoted, brought his right hand around, and drove it hard into the creature’s face. The impact made it stagger, roaring in pain.
But the victory was brief.
Damien’s foot caught on a root buried beneath the snow. He slipped, the world tilting, and hit the ground hard. The Wendigo seized the opening, leaping forward with a predator’s speed. It crashed into him, pinning him down beneath its immense weight, claws digging into the snow beside his head. Its breath was rancid—meat and decay and hunger unending.
“Agent Beckett!” the sheriff wheezed from the tree line, fumbling with his holster. He yanked out his sidearm and hurled it.
The pistol spun through the air—
—and never hit the ground.
A tendril of shadow lashed out from Damien’s side, catching it mid-flight. The darkness coiled around the weapon, pulling it toward his waiting hand.
In one smooth motion, Damien pressed the muzzle beneath the Wendigo’s chin.
“Bon appétit,” he murmured.
He pulled the trigger.
The blast tore through the silence, echoing like thunder in the frozen woods. The Wendigo’s head erupted in a spray of black-red blood and gray matter, painting the snow, the trees—and Damien himself.
The creature’s body convulsed once, then slumped, collapsing heavily beside him. Steam rose from the open skull, the smell of iron thick in the air.
For a moment, all was still.
The sheriff staggered forward, clutching his ribs, staring at the ruin of the thing that had been Andrew. “Is it… dead?”
Damien wiped a streak of gore from his cheek with the back of his hand, then glanced down at the corpse. The shadows at his feet twisted faintly, restless.
“For now,” he said.
Chapter 7.
An unexplainable urge seizes Damien. His shadow tendrils, usually bound to his command, writhe on their own—curling upward like smoke made solid. Before he can resist, they coil around his body, tightening, pulling him inward. The world collapses into darkness.
He’s falling. No—moving. Flashes of scenery whip past in impossible succession: buildings, fields, the shimmer of water, and then—vastness—an expanse of ocean. Mountains surge up through clouds, and then, with a violent lurch, everything stops.
Cold air slams against his face. The shadows unravel, dissolving into the snow that surrounds him.
He’s standing ankle-deep in white, his breath visible, the air sharp and thin. The silence is complete, except for the faint hum of tires somewhere far off. When he turns, he sees it—a large, weathered wooden sign by the roadside, the words painted in bold white letters:
FERNIE.
He stares, disoriented. He’s never heard of such a place.
Beyond the sign, a two-lane highway cuts through the snow, stretching toward a cluster of lights in the distance. A smaller sign reads Highway 3. The name means nothing to him, yet some dim instinct urges him onward.
He begins to walk.
The road curves along the base of dark, pine-covered mountains. Snow clings to every branch, muting the landscape into shades of grey and silver. The deeper he goes, the more wrong everything feels—not outwardly wrong, not enough to see, but in the texture of the quiet itself. It’s too complete.
A few scattered houses appear—windows faintly aglow. The town seems to be sleeping, unaware of the strange man who’s walked out of nowhere into its heart. His shadow trails behind him, stretched long and thin across the snow, quivering faintly as if resisting the stillness.
When he finally reaches the outskirts proper, the sign on the next lamppost reads: Welcome to Fernie, British Columbia.
Snow falls in thick, relentless sheets, the early morning light turning the world to a blur of white and grey. Damien trudges through the streets of Fernie, his black suit collecting flakes that melt instantly against the fabric. He draws strange looks from the few people braving the cold—men and women bundled in heavy coats, boots crusted with snow, faces red from the biting air.
A man climbing into a pickup truck eyes him with disbelief.
“Wrong clothes for this kind of weather,” the man grunts, slamming the door before Damien can think of a reply.
He glances down at himself, immaculate as ever, out of place among the rugged mountain folk. The comment rolls off him. There are bigger questions to worry about—like where he is, and why he’s here at all.
The snow muffles sound, but a sudden flash of red and blue slices through the haze. A police cruiser speeds past, siren silent, lights flickering through the storm. The car’s tires hiss across the slush as it vanishes around the corner, leaving only a trail of exhaust and unsettled whispers in its wake.
“Horrible,” an older woman mutters nearby, clutching a grocery bag to her chest. Her voice trembles as she shakes her head. “Just horrible.”
Damien turns toward her, polite curiosity masking the strange stir of interest rising within him. “What happened?” he asks.
The woman’s eyes dart to him, uncertain whether to speak to a stranger dressed like a funeral director in a blizzard. But fear loosens her tongue.
“A murder,” she says softly. “They found him near the river, early this morning. They say he was…” She falters, lowering her voice to a near whisper. “Torn to pieces.”
Her words hang in the air like smoke, quickly swallowed by the wind. Damien watches her hurry away, boots crunching through the snow. He stands still for a moment, his pulse quickening—not from fear, but from recognition.
Something about the words torn to pieces echoes too deeply.
The snow falls harder, the world narrowing around him. Somewhere in the distance, a crow caws—a sound sharp enough to break through the hush.
Damien looks toward the direction the police car had gone, and begins to walk.
Snow whirls thick and wet as Damien follows the flicker of emergency lights down toward the river. The street is nearly deserted—only the murmur of radios and the crunch of boots on snow disturb the stillness. Police tape trembles in the wind, its bright yellow struggling against the pallid morning gloom.
Beyond it lies carnage.
The body sprawls across the frozen ground, what remains of it. Blood blackens the snow in wide, splattered arcs, already crusting over in the cold. The coroner kneels beside it, his breath fogging the air as he speaks low to the sheriff.
“The heart, kidneys, lungs—they weren’t removed,” the coroner says. “They were ripped out. Look at this—” he gestures with his forceps, voice faltering as he points to the torn cavity. “No precision. Just brute force. Like something digging inward.”
Damien steps closer, the stench of iron and rot hitting him through the cold. The chest has been torn open as if by claws, ribs splintered, the sternum split clean through. The organs are gone, the hollow interior a gory, frozen ruin. Strands of intestine loop across the snow like pale worms, stiffening where the blood has congealed.
The sheriff—broad, middle-aged, with a weathered face and the kind of fatigue born from too many bad winters—stares down at the body with disgust.
“Why take the others but not the intestines?” he mutters, half to himself. “Doesn’t make a damn bit of sense.”
Damien’s voice breaks the silence, low and unnervingly calm.
“There’s cancer in the intestines.”
The coroner looks up sharply. “What?”
He bends closer, pulling one of the strands toward the light. After a moment, he inhales sharply. “He’s right. Tumorous tissue, necrotic along the lining. Advanced.” He looks from the corpse to Damien, disbelief and unease flickering in his eyes. “How could you possibly know that?”
The sheriff’s gaze narrows. “FBI?”
Damien meets his stare, the faintest ghost of a smile curling his lips.
“Special Agent Damien Beckett,” he replies smoothly. “Just passing through.”
The sheriff grunts. The snow continues to fall, heavy and wet, melting into the blood around their boots. “Well, Agent Beckett, passing through or not—you’ve stepped into something bad here.”
Damien looks down at the ruin of the body. The snow is already beginning to bury it, hiding the torn flesh beneath a soft white sheet.
The coroner’s crew works silently, their breath fogging in the frigid air as they ready the mangled body for transport. Plastic rustles, zippers rasp, and the metallic scent of blood clings stubbornly despite the cold. The snow falls heavier now, swallowing the sound of the nearby river until it feels as though the whole town is holding its breath.
The sheriff straightens with a groan, brushing snow from his jacket. “We’ll take it from here,” he says, glancing at Damien. “Station’s warm. You look like you could use the heat. Come on, I’ll give you a ride.”
Damien nods once, calm and unreadable. He turns toward the cruiser, hand on the door, when his gaze catches something—just a faint irregularity in the snow-dusted branches above the scene. He pauses.
“Part of the victim’s intestines are in the tree,” he says evenly.
The coroner blinks. “What?”
Damien points upward, to where a dark tangle dangles half-frozen from a low branch. The coroner rushes forward, cursing softly as he confirms it. Damien doesn’t stay to watch. He slides into the passenger seat of the cruiser and shuts the door.
The sheriff exhales a long, tired breath as he settles behind the wheel. The wipers smear away the snow, revealing the blurred outlines of Fernie beyond the windshield—muted houses, shuttered shops, the quiet decay of small-town winter.
“I need to figure out who it is,” the sheriff mutters, starting the engine.
Damien’s eyes remain on the passing lights. “Two questions,” he says. “First—have there been other incidents like this?”
The sheriff glances sideways at him, lips tightening. “You FBI types sure like to ask questions you already know the answers to.”
“Humour me.”
The sheriff drums his fingers on the wheel, then grunts. “Seven. Same sort of thing. Men, women, homeless folk. No clear pattern except the brutality. Always the same missing organs. Always here in the Kootenays.”
Damien nods slowly. His tone doesn’t change. “Second question: can you search the tattoo database for a Betty Boop tattoo—riding a missile?”
The sheriff frowns, eyes flicking toward him. “Tattoo database? Only if they’ve been booked before.” He pauses, studying Damien’s face. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
Damien doesn’t answer. Outside, the snow continues to fall in heavy silence, blanketing Fernie in white as the cruiser rolls slowly through the ghostly streets.
The warmth of the Fernie Police Department feels false after the killing ground by the river. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, washing everything in a flat, pallid glow. The place smells of stale coffee, paper, and damp wool—ordinary scents that sit uneasily atop the metallic tang of blood still clinging to Damien’s coat.
A half-dozen officers crowd around a long conference table littered with photographs. The air is tense, reverent in that way people get when confronted with something too awful to comprehend.
Two younger officers—a man and a woman—stand near the far end of the table, flipping through the crime scene photos. When the woman catches sight of one close-up, her face drains of colour. The man doesn’t even try to hide his reaction. They both lurch from the room, footsteps quick, the sound of retching echoing faintly down the corridor.
The sheriff sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “Happens every time,” he mutters.
He gestures for Damien to follow him farther in. Picking up a tablet from the end of the table, the sheriff scrolls through the tattoo database, thumb tapping idly. The screen’s blue light bleeds across his tired features. After a moment, he grunts.
“Nothing. No Betty Boop, no missile. Clean record—or no record.”
Damien doesn’t respond. He slides into a chair at the head of the table, gathering the crime scene photos into a neat line. Seven victims stare back at him from the glossy prints.
The scenes vary—alleys, woods, riverbanks—but the pattern doesn’t. Every body shows the same kind of mutilation: torsos torn open, ribs cracked and splayed, organs missing. The heart, lungs, kidneys—all ripped out with a violence that speaks not of frenzy, but purpose. Flesh shredded, not cut. Bone splintered, not broken. The devastation is grotesque, yet deliberate.
He drags one photo forward, studying it closely. “See this,” he says quietly. “The tearing—it’s consistent. Always from the left side, never the right. Something strong, but not mindless.”
The sheriff crosses his arms. “You saying this was deliberate? That someone planned this?”
Damien’s eyes stay on the photographs. “Not someone,” he says softly. “Something.”
The sheriff frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Damien leans back, his voice almost detached. “Whatever’s doing this—it’s not killing to eat. It’s killing to take.” He taps a photo where the chest cavity yawns open like a hollowed shell. “It only removes what’s healthy. What’s clean. It leaves behind the diseased, the infected… like the intestines from this morning’s victim.”
The coroner, standing near the doorway, swallows hard. “Selective?” he asks. “You’re saying it’s choosing?”
“Yes.” Damien’s tone is steady, clinical. “It hunts like a predator but feeds like a perfectionist. It understands the difference between corruption and purity. It’s not hunting for survival—it’s harvesting.”
The sheriff shakes his head, looking from Damien to the photos. “You talk like this thing’s got rules.”
“It does,” Damien says. “But they aren’t human.”
Silence stretches out. The only sound is the snow tapping against the windows and the soft buzz of the overhead lights. The sheriff studies Damien, something between suspicion and unease creeping into his gaze.
“You’ve done this before,” he says finally.
Damien doesn’t look up. “Many times.”
He arranges the last photograph, the latest victim, in the center of the table. The pattern is there now—clear to him, if to no one else. He stares at the gaping hollow where a heart once was, and the air seems to grow heavier around him.
Outside, the storm deepens. The mountains stand silent, their white slopes concealing something ancient, something that kills not out of hunger—but discernment.
And Damien knows, as sure as the snow keeps falling, that whatever it is hasn’t finished yet.
Damien stares at the photographs in silence. At first, they seem like any cluster of crime scene images — mutilated bodies, blood frozen into crusted arcs, the aftermath of senseless violence. But his gaze lingers on the ink.
Every single one of the victims has a tattoo.
He begins to rearrange the photos, pulling them from their chronological order, aligning them instead by what’s drawn into their skin.
“These tattoos…” he says, mostly to himself at first. “They all look new.”
The sheriff, still standing by the table, squints down at the images. “What, you mean recent work?”
Damien nods, eyes narrowing. “Fresh ink. The colours are sharp, the lines clean. No fading, no signs of healing. These were done within weeks of the murders — maybe even days.”
He points to the nearest photograph. “Here. Betty Boop riding a missile. Look at the ink density — the colour hasn’t even settled.” He moves to the next. “A cat. Realistic style, fine linework. The skin’s still raised. And here — roses and skulls. The blood under the surface hasn’t dispersed yet.”
The sheriff crosses his arms. “You’re telling me these people all got tattoos right before they died?”
“I’m saying,” Damien replies, “it’s the one thing they have in common.”
The sheriff mutters something under his breath and drags a hand over his jaw. “We’ve got ID work in progress — prints, dental, DNA — but so far nothing. No records, no priors. You might be onto something with the tattoos, though. Not many parlours around here. Three, maybe four.”
Damien gathers the tattoo photos into a neat stack and stands, slipping them under his arm. His eyes drift to the frost-veiled window, the storm beyond it thick and soundless.
“Take me to them,” he says.
The sheriff glances up. “To the tattoo shops?”
“Yes.”
The word is calm, final, and carries a quiet authority that leaves little room for question.
“If the tattoos are that recent,” Damien continues, “someone’s seen them alive. Someone’s drawn these on their skin.” He glances at the images again — Betty Boop’s cartoon grin, the cat’s careful whiskers, the roses curling around skulls. “These aren’t symbols. They’re personal. Chosen for a reason. The artist might know why.”
The sheriff hesitates, then reaches for his coat. “You really think ink’s gonna lead us to whoever—or whatever—did this?”
Damien looks at him, expression unreadable. “Everything leaves a mark,” he says softly. “Some marks just take longer to understand.”
He strides toward the door. The sheriff sighs, grabs his keys, and follows.
Outside, the snow has thickened, swirling in white waves under the orange glow of the streetlights. The cruiser’s headlights cut a narrow path through the storm as they drive.
In the back seat, the photographs rest on Damien’s lap — Betty Boop, a cat, roses, skulls — each piece of art bright and defiant against the pallor of death. Together, they form a gallery of the doomed.
And Damien can’t shake the feeling that something old and ravenous is choosing its victims for reasons far beyond beauty.
The storm outside had only worsened by the time they reached the third shop. Snow clung to the cruiser’s windshield like static, the wipers struggling to keep up. The sheriff grumbled under his breath about small-town murder investigations in tourist country while Damien watched the gray-white streets roll by, his fingers absently tapping against the stack of photographs on his lap.
The bell above the tattoo parlour door chimed as they entered. Inside, the world changed—warm, humming, and sharply clean. The air carried the tang of antiseptic and metal, the rhythmic bzzzt-bzzzt of tattoo needles filling the silence like an insect’s whisper.
The woman who approached them had the unmistakable poise of someone who lived in ink. Long black hair framed her pale face, her skin an intricate garden of tattoos. Flowers and vines coiled up her arms, wrapping around thorns, blooming into colours that seemed to pulse beneath the fluorescent lights. Across her throat was a single large skull, vines and roses twisting out from its empty eye sockets.
Damien’s gaze lingered there for a moment—part study, part respect. He nodded. “Nice ink,” he said simply.
A small smile curved her lips. “Thanks,” she replied, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You looking for something… or someone?”
The sheriff flipped open a folder, laying out the photographs of the tattoos. “We’re investigating a series of murders,” he said. “You recognise any of these pieces?”
Her eyes moved over the pictures—Betty Boop riding a missile, the cat’s careful linework, roses winding through skulls. The smile faded from her face, replaced by something taut and wary.
After a long moment, she looked toward the back of the shop. “Andrew did all of these.”
Damien followed her gaze.
In the far corner, a man was bent over a client, a tattoo machine buzzing softly in his hand. He looked ordinary enough—mid-thirties, lean, with the sleepless eyes of someone who’d spent too long chasing perfection in ink. But when he turned and noticed who stood by the counter—the sheriff in his heavy coat, the stranger beside him in a pressed black suit—his expression changed.
Recognition flickered there, then terror.
The needle slipped from his hand, clattering to the floor. The client yelped as ink splattered across their arm.
“Andrew?” the sheriff called, stepping forward.
Andrew didn’t answer. His gaze was fixed squarely on Damien. Whatever he saw there, it wasn’t authority—it was something older, something he knew instinctively to fear.
Then he bolted.
He spun on his heel and tore through the back of the shop, shoving open a door that slammed hard against the wall. The buzzing of the tattoo machine fell silent in the wake of his escape.
The sheriff cursed and drew his radio. “Dammit—”
Damien was already moving. He didn’t run, not exactly; he moved with a kind of unnatural grace, slipping through the narrow hallway like the shadows themselves parted to make room.
The woman stood frozen behind the counter, the hum of the shop suddenly deafening in the absence of words.
Her voice trembled when she finally spoke. “Why would he run from you?”
The sheriff didn’t answer. He just followed the sound of Damien’s footsteps disappearing into the snowstorm beyond the door.
Snow whipped through the alleyway behind the shop, stinging the skin, blurring the edges of everything in white. Andrew’s boots pounded against the ice-slick pavement, his breath coming out in ragged gasps that plumed in the air like smoke.
He stumbled once, twice, then fell hard to his knees in the drifted snow. His palms scraped against the frozen ground, blood smearing crimson against the white. Behind him came the crunch of pursuing footsteps — measured, relentless — Damien’s dark figure moving like a shadow that had simply detached itself from the night.
The sheriff was close behind, breath loud, boots crunching. “Andrew! Stop! Hands where I can see them!” he barked, raising his sidearm, trying to steady both his breath and his aim.
Andrew twisted around, eyes wide, wild. His face was gaunt, pale, his pupils blown wide with terror.
“Stay away!” he screamed, his voice cracking, desperate. “I didn’t want to! It wasn’t me!”
Then, as if some invisible thread inside him snapped, the scream broke into something else — a sound no human throat should ever make. It started low, a guttural rasp, then climbed into a deafening, bone-splitting roar.
The sheriff froze. “Jesus Christ—”
Andrew convulsed violently, arching backward. Bones cracked like dry branches underfoot. His skin began to crawl — not metaphorically, but literally, rippling and shifting as if something beneath it fought to escape.
His arms elongated, fingers stretching until the nails split and curved into claws. His skin blanched into a sickly, gray-white hue, pulling tight against a body that was suddenly far too tall, far too lean. His face distorted — jaw widening, teeth lengthening into jagged points, lips tearing until they hung in bloody ribbons.
The sheriff stumbled backward, revolted. “What the hell is that!?”
By the time Andrew — no, the thing that had been Andrew — straightened, it loomed nearly eight feet tall. Its eyes were sunken pits of amber light, and its ribs jutted from beneath its skin like the bars of a cage. Steam poured from its mouth in heavy clouds as it turned toward them, a low growl rumbling from deep within its chest.
The sheriff’s instincts took over. He raised his gun, hands trembling.
Damien was suddenly beside him. Too sudden. His gloved hand shot out and pressed the barrel down toward the snow.
“Don’t,” Damien said, his voice level, unflinching.
The sheriff’s head snapped toward him, disbelief and panic written across his face. “Are you out of your damn mind?!”
“That’s a Wendigo,” Damien said quietly, his eyes fixed on the creature. “Your bullets won’t have any effect.”
The sheriff’s hand faltered. “A—what?”
The Wendigo let out another roar — a sound that seemed to rattle the air, primal and full of hunger — before lurching forward, its long limbs cutting through the snow like scythes.
Damien didn’t flinch.
The thing that had been Andrew loomed in the snow—an emaciated, skeletal figure with skin stretched so tightly over its bones it looked half-mummified. Every rib was visible, each movement accompanied by the faint creak of tendons straining against bone. Its eyes had sunk deep into their sockets, glowing faintly like dying embers, and its lips were shredded, flayed into bloody tatters that revealed far too many teeth.
Steam poured from its mouth in ragged bursts as it hissed, claws curling and uncurling with a sound like knives scraping on stone.
The sheriff stood frozen. His hand shook around the gun’s grip, but he couldn’t pull the trigger.
Then, with a guttural roar that split the quiet of the storm, the creature lunged.
The snow exploded beneath its feet—white plumes rising around it like smoke—and the sheriff shouted, stumbling backward.
But Damien didn’t move.
At least, not in any human sense.
His shadow stretched outward across the snow, spreading too far, too fast. The dim streetlight behind him flickered, and the darkness that should have lain flat began to rise—thick tendrils unfurling from it like smoke turning solid.
The Wendigo noticed.
It faltered mid-lunge, its stride breaking as the shadow surged toward it. One tendril coiled across the ground like a living whip, another slithered around its leg. The creature shrieked, tried to pull back—too late. Its clawed foot slipped against the ice, sending it crashing forward into the snow with a howl.
Damien moved with fluid precision, stepping into the motion. He pivoted on one foot and drove his fist hard into the creature’s jaw. The impact cracked like thunder.
The Wendigo reeled, stumbling back several paces, its long arms flailing for balance. For the briefest second, its amber eyes locked with Damien’s—and whatever it saw there made it hesitate.
Then it turned and fled, disappearing into the blizzard with inhuman speed, vanishing into the pale nothing beyond the trees.
The sheriff cursed, raising his gun. “Goddammit! It’s getting away—!”
“Don’t,” Damien snapped, his voice sharp as breaking ice.
The sheriff swung toward him, furious. “Don’t? Are you kidding me? What the hell even was that thing—”
“You’ll need silver bullets,” Damien interrupted. “And sniffer dogs. It’s fast, but it’s hurt.”
The sheriff stared at him, chest heaving. “Silver bullets? What are you—”
Damien turned his hand palm-up.
It was slick with dark, almost black blood, steaming faintly in the cold.
He looked down at it, then back to the sheriff. “This,” he said quietly, “is all the proof you’ll need.”
The sheriff’s words caught in his throat as he saw it — the blood bubbling slightly, almost alive, before freezing solid in a sheen of frost across Damien’s skin.
The blizzard howled around them. Somewhere in the forest beyond, the Wendigo’s scream tore through the night, echoing off the mountains.
The sheriff stood motionless for a long moment, the cold burning in his lungs as he stared into the wall of white where the creature had vanished. Then, shaking himself, he yanked his radio from his shoulder and thumbed the transmit button.
“This is Sheriff Halvorsen,” he barked, breath ragged. “We need backup at Third Street behind Black Peak Ink—send the hounds. And I want silver bullets issued immediately.”
A crackle, then a confused voice came back through the static. “...Did you say silver bullets, Sheriff?”
Halvorsen ignored it. His eyes stayed fixed on the treeline, where faint movement stirred just beyond visibility. The forest looked suddenly wrong—shadows too deep, silence too heavy.
Beside him, Damien stood perfectly still, his gloved hand still stained with the creature’s black blood.
“A Wendigo,” the sheriff muttered, half to himself. “How? How in God’s name does something like that happen?”
Damien exhaled softly, his breath fogging the air. “Andrew must’ve eaten flesh,” he said, voice low. “Human flesh. Maybe he was starving, maybe it was desperation. It doesn’t matter. Once he did, the Wendigo spirit found him—possessed him. And that hunger…it never ends.”
The sheriff turned sharply. “Possessed? You mean he wasn’t born that thing?”
“No,” Damien said. “He became it.” He looked back into the woods, eyes dark. “The more he ate, the less of him remained. His bones stretched, his body warped to contain the hunger. Judging by his size—eight feet, maybe more—he’s been feeding for nearly a year.”
Halvorsen’s jaw clenched. “Christ almighty,” he whispered. “That means there’s more bodies out there.”
Damien nodded grimly. “There are. And not all will be found.”
For a long moment, neither spoke. The snow fell heavier now, thick and silent, swallowing the world around them.
Finally, flashing red and blue lights began to shimmer faintly through the haze. Backup arrived—two cruisers, an SUV, and a pair of handlers with their dogs straining at the leash. The men moved with confusion and fear, weapons drawn, their breaths coming in sharp bursts of steam.
A deputy approached with two rifles, each wrapped in a gray wool cloth. “Sheriff, these are from the evidence locker. Old hunting rounds, silver-tipped. Best we could find on short notice.”
Halvorsen nodded and handed one to Damien. He took it without a word, checking the chamber, the motion smooth and practiced. Another deputy hurried over, pressing a fresh reel clip into the sheriff’s gloved hand for his sidearm.
The handlers brought the dogs forward—lean, strong beasts, restless under the leash.
Damien crouched, his coat brushing the snow. He held out his still-bloodied hand, letting the scent waft toward them. The animals froze, nostrils flaring, their eyes flicking toward the dark forest ahead. Then they began to pull, low growls rumbling in their throats.
Damien stood. “Let them lead.”
The sheriff nodded once, motioning to the handlers. The dogs surged forward, dragging their keepers through the drifts and into the treeline. The others followed, boots crunching in unison, rifles raised.
Damien glanced back once toward the bloodstained snow where Andrew had fallen. His shadow stretched long behind him, distorted by the pulsing red of the cruiser lights.
The forest swallowed them whole.
The deeper they went, the quieter it became—no wind, no birds, only the crunch of boots and the low panting of the dogs leading the way. Their noses were to the ground, pulling their handlers forward with frantic energy, every so often stopping to bark or whine at something unseen.
The snow grew deeper beneath the trees, and the air colder, thicker, as if the forest itself disapproved of their presence.
“Easy, boys,” one of the handlers muttered, tugging lightly on a leash. But the dogs didn’t calm; their bodies trembled, hackles raised, the whites of their eyes flashing in the half-light.
Then came the smell.
It hit them all at once—something sweet and rotting, seeping through the crisp mountain air.
“Jesus,” one of the deputies gagged, raising his scarf over his nose.
They found the first body half-buried beneath a snowbank. A woman, what was left of her, the flesh stripped away from her bones in long, uneven gouges. Her face was frozen mid-scream.
“Over here!” another deputy called, kneeling by a second corpse—then a third. All the same. Mangled, devoured, half-consumed and left to freeze.
Damien crouched by the nearest, brushing snow from its chest. “These are months old,” he murmured. “He’s been feeding here.”
The sheriff swallowed hard. “Son of a bitch…”
Before he could finish, one of the dogs whimpered—a sharp, high sound that made everyone freeze. Its ears went flat. Then, without warning, both animals began to howl, straining backward, snapping at the air.
“Something’s wrong,” Damien said quietly, rising to his feet.
The words had barely left his mouth when the forest erupted.
The Wendigo dropped from the trees like a collapsing nightmare—eight feet of clawed, skeletal horror crashing down into the snow among them. The handlers were the first to go, flung aside like rag dolls, one slamming into a tree trunk with a sickening crack. The dogs bolted, yelping as they vanished into the dark.
“Open fire!” the sheriff shouted, raising his rifle—
The shot went wide, tearing through branches as the creature blurred forward. Its clawed hand whipped out, striking him across the chest and sending him flying. He hit the base of a tree with a crunch, his breath bursting out in a cloud of steam.
Damien didn’t bother with the rifle. He dropped it, the creature too close for a clean shot, and shifted his stance. “Come on, then,” he said softly, almost mockingly.
The Wendigo shrieked—a raw, piercing sound that rattled the bones—and lunged.
Damien moved with impossible speed, ducking beneath the first swipe, twisting aside from the second. Snow sprayed as the claws tore trenches through the ground. He pivoted, brought his right hand around, and drove it hard into the creature’s face. The impact made it stagger, roaring in pain.
But the victory was brief.
Damien’s foot caught on a root buried beneath the snow. He slipped, the world tilting, and hit the ground hard. The Wendigo seized the opening, leaping forward with a predator’s speed. It crashed into him, pinning him down beneath its immense weight, claws digging into the snow beside his head. Its breath was rancid—meat and decay and hunger unending.
“Agent Beckett!” the sheriff wheezed from the tree line, fumbling with his holster. He yanked out his sidearm and hurled it.
The pistol spun through the air—
—and never hit the ground.
A tendril of shadow lashed out from Damien’s side, catching it mid-flight. The darkness coiled around the weapon, pulling it toward his waiting hand.
In one smooth motion, Damien pressed the muzzle beneath the Wendigo’s chin.
“Bon appétit,” he murmured.
He pulled the trigger.
The blast tore through the silence, echoing like thunder in the frozen woods. The Wendigo’s head erupted in a spray of black-red blood and gray matter, painting the snow, the trees—and Damien himself.
The creature’s body convulsed once, then slumped, collapsing heavily beside him. Steam rose from the open skull, the smell of iron thick in the air.
For a moment, all was still.
The sheriff staggered forward, clutching his ribs, staring at the ruin of the thing that had been Andrew. “Is it… dead?”
Damien wiped a streak of gore from his cheek with the back of his hand, then glanced down at the corpse. The shadows at his feet twisted faintly, restless.
“For now,” he said.
Into the Darkness: Chapter 8 (Trigger Warning)
Hey everyone, for this chapter I am adding a Trigger Warning because it approaches, mental abuse and gas lighting, this is written in the context of a Gothic Horror... so please avoid if it is a sensitive topic for you. Chapter 8. The apartment gleamed like a confession she couldn’t stop...
www.chatzozo.com
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