Dave sipped a coffee. The caffeine no longer mattered, but it gave him something to do with his hands. He was dressed in red flannel, jeans, and washable boots; seasonal camouflage that suited the hunt. He’d been heavy before and now looked deflated and sallow. A sullen kid with oversized headphones rolled past them, the clatter of the longboard roused Dave’s companion Karl.

“How about that one?” Karl asked.

Karl appeared young, not much older than the prey, band t-shirt, collarless leather jacket, skinny jeans tucked into tall boots. He had the look of a scene kid in the wrong city, stylish but somehow off a beat. They had met a few weeks ago, but this was their first proper hunt. Dave didn’t want to be difficult, but he had concerns. 

“I don’t know, what is he…fifteen, at most?. “ said Dave.

 Karl shrugged and kept his voice even to avoid drawing attention. They had set up on a bench at the edge of a failed pedestrian mall; weed shops, dive bars and PaydayLoans dotted the cobblestone lane.

‘So, less chance of disease, more vital. We’re not sending him to buy smokes; feed, kill, ditch the body, end of story.” said Karl.

 Had it been later in the night Dave wouldn’t have argued, but it was a few hours past sundown on a Saturday, so they had time and opportunity to waste. 

 

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There are strange things done in the midnight sun

      By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales

      That would make your blood run cold”

Robert W. Service

Wendigo

  

Overview :

  We all have that friend who loves a complicated brunch. The sort who’d make you wait in line for hours because the place had twenty grain toast and a clever menu. The sort sustained as much by the hunger and frustration of their hungover pals, as they are a proper meal. I have been that hungover pal, standing in the endless cold, my good nature worn thin by thoughts of food denied. I was neither killed nor eaten, but in that moment I could feel a whisper of the Wendigos hunger.

 The Wendigo, depending on who you ask, is a spirit, or demon, or psychological compulsion, that results in the consumption of human flesh. This physical embodiment of Hangry cannot be sated; like murderous Pringles, once popped the urge for flesh cannot be stopped. To be clear, this is supported by more than legend.

One of the more famous cases of Wendigo psychosis reported involved a Plains Cree trapper from Alberta, named Swift Runner.[26][27] During the winter of 1878, Swift Runner and his family were starving, and his eldest son died. Twenty-five miles away from emergency food supplies at a Hudson’s Bay Company post, Swift Runner butchered and ate his wife and five remaining children.[28] Given that he resorted to cannibalism so near to food supplies, and that he killed and consumed the remains of all those present, it was revealed that Swift Runner’s was not a case of pure cannibalism as a last resort to avoid starvation, but rather of a man with Wendigo psychosis.[28] He eventually confessed and was executed by authorities at Fort Saskatchewan.[29]

 A man confessed to being a Wendigo, and the evidence at hand strongly supported it. Do you know how hard it is to eat six people? I get that five of them were children, but he still ate several hundred pounds of fruit off his family tree. Even if he was at it for a week he is still the Joey Chestnut of cannibals. I suspect they caught him because he couldn’t stop bragging about it in bars.

 Country of origin: Canada Continue reading →

    At some point my alley became hallowed ground for the neighborhood junkies. I suspect this began with the miracle of the stealable bike, but it has since become a place of refuge, commerce, and storage of recently acquired goods. In the past three months I have come home to discover:  Seatless bikes, Bikeless wheels, Futon Frames, Shitting whores, and a naked man trying on stolen pants. 

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  The office space was jammed between a micro-brewery and shuttered wig store. When Lyle and May first toured the place she had imagined getting hammered on cheap IPA’s and breaking into the wig store to find something suitable for Lyles enormous pumpkin head. Sadly the reality of onboarding their atypical workforce had left little time for boozing or fashion montages

 

 “So, under past work experiences you have : Thief of dreams.”

 

 May spun the resume around to face Karl’s side of the desk, so they could read the offending section.

 

 “Does that seem like a legitimate job to you, Karl? Even figuratively it makes you sound like a shitty high school teacher. But literally, Karl, if I have to explain why we are paying eighty grand to someone who used to…literally, steal dreams…do you think that will be seen as a legitimate expense?” Said May.

 

 Karl glanced at the resume, its red rheumy eyes were impossibly large and made a slucking noise when moving about the socket. Karl was unused to brightly lit rooms and people yelling at it, not because of it. The small tan girl, tattooed and imperious, would not look away.

 “I thought this was mostly for internal use, so I figured I would be transparent…and then maybe you’d, like, corporatize the language “ said Karl.

 

 When May agreed to help set up the call centre she understood that Lyle’s special projects would need extra administrative help, but she was finding their selective incompetence, at tasks that they did not want to do, quite challenging. 

 

 “Yeah, I’m not your fucking ghost writer, Karl. And even if I was, “Thief of Dreams” is not a job description, it’s a prog-rock band. Break it down into a list of actionable skills and capabilities and I will create a plausible work history around that.” said May.

 

 Karl nodded in compliance. May slid the resume towards it.

 

 “So why don’t you take this back, and if the next one could sound less like a pedophiles suicide note that would be super. ” said May.

 

 Karl grabbed the resume, its hooked claws clattering on the desk, and slunk out of the office. May pressed button one on the intercom.

 

 “Lyle, if you’ve got a minute I’d love to chat.” said May.

 

 There was a long silence before Lyle’s rich baritone replied.

 

 “Is it a right now thing, May? I’m swamped here.” said Lyle.

 

 “Yes it’s a right now fucking thing, Lyle.” said May.

 

 “Go ahead.” Said lyle.

 

 May arranged the notes she’d prepped for this conversation.

 

 “Lyle, what the fuck is Karl?” said May.

 

 Lyle had a couple of false starts before flowing into his patter.

 

 “I get it, Karl and Stewart are non-traditional hires, with backgrounds and appearances that can be jarring, but I think it’s best to focus on what they need to do to get better, not what they are…or what they may have done in the past.” said Lyle.

 

 May wrapped the silver talisman that she’d made around her fist, and bit the inside of her cheek. She would not be swayed by sweet words or Lyle’s pace.

 

“Stewart is fine. I also don’t know what Stewart is, but I don’t give a fuck, because Stewart can follow basic instructions and doesn’t hide in the breakroom closet… and grab at my ankles when I am making coffee. But I’d like to know who, or what, I am dealing with in regards to Karl.” said May.

 

 Lyle failed to respond. May pushed the issue. 

 

“Lyle, is Karl the fucking boogieman? Or a boogieman?” said May.

 

 Lyle cleared his throat over the intercom and began to dissemble.

 

“Karl is not male, in the classical sense, but yes some of its behaviour, in a natural setting, might line up with certain elements of that myth”

 

 May drummed her fingers on the solid oak desk. It was the one request that Lyle had fully followed through on.

 

“Does whatever the fuck Karl is…eat children? Because I am pretty morally flexible, but I do have a line.” said May.

 

 Lyle spoke quickly and comfortingly.

 

 ‘Ummm,  it’s not unprecedented, but that almost never happens. I mean, it can, but a lot of things would have to go wrong…and that is in a natural setting. These guys we are bringing in are…well, I don’t want to say civilised, but they are city mice. They don’t shit where they live.” said Lyle.

 

 May pressed the talk button hard enough it left an angry red square on her thumb.

 

“Mice shit all over the place, all of the time, uncontrollably. It’s how people get the fucking Hanta virus. Did you bring me diseased mice, Lyle?”said May, loudly.

 

 “Of course not. They’re like that mouse from the Green Mile: super smart, kind of magical, and loyal to the one that feeds them. Look,  I’ll handle them, just sort out the upfront h.r. stuff and you will only be dealing with the regular folks on a daily basis.” Said Lyle.

 

 “Okay, I am rolling with this, for now. But I would appreciate a more detailed heads up on potential problems in the future.” said May.

 

 “Absolutely, May. Completely reasonable. There is another guy I’m talking to tonight…but I think we might be best keeping him in a work from home setup for special projects. But if there is ever need for overlap I’ll bring you into the loop.” said Lyle.

 

 May disconnected the call and paced around her office. Lyle had somewhat lived up to his end of the bargain so she was coping, but if he didn’t hire her a competent, human, admin by the end of the week she would be seeking other opportunities. 

 

***

***

ACT One

Part Ten: Epilogue 

 Part Nine

Part 8

Part seven

Part Six

Part Five

Part 4

Part Three

Part Two

Part One

 

   I arrived home to find a broken door propped against the frame, and a house in disorder, materially and otherwise. There was a note written on the back of a water bill: Isaac….icecream park, usual time. Shit got real! May. There was a small amount of blood on the floor and the baleful smell of predator lingered. Lyles’ room was open and empty of furniture, the forced entry had broken his wards. My toaster was hiding under the sink in the kitchen. I didn’t have time to comfort it but I put out some lightly combustible treats for later. 

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   The boy’s house was indistinct, but fittingly seedy, simple and thick with old magic. A man’s place became him. Malcolm Hannish had watched for days and had taken measures to ensure Isaac was away long enough to have a proper conversation. In his hand Malcolm Hannish held a package he’d stolen from a porch down the street. He knocked thrice and waited. A small, tanned girl with short curly hair opened the door a crack, but left the chain on. Malcolm Hannish had been told she was May, person not month.

 “I have a package for delivery,” said Malcolm Hannish.

 

May closed and locked the door and responded by speaking through the mail slot.

 “Yeah, I can see that…but since you don’t have a clipboard I don’t need sign for it, so you can just put that shit on the porch and fuck off.” said May.

 It had not occurred to Malcolm Hannish to acquire a clipboard. Guile had never been his strength as a hunter. He pressed on.

 “This package is for Isaac Barrow, are you they?” Said Malcolm Hannish.

 “ I don’t know who that is, and you are giving me serious raper vibes, so why don’t you deliver that package straight up the ass of whoever gave you this address. I already called the cops.” said May.

 Malcolm Hannish was sure she had not. Those that lived on the fringe didn’t involve mundane authorities. Malcolm Hannish studied the protections on the door. They were robust, in a crude way, but designed more to contain that which was within, than to to bar entry. This ruse was thin, and Malcolm Hannish was not built for deception, so he kicked firmly at a spot below the knob. The lock burst along with the protections, and the door swung in, sending the girl sprawling to avoid being struck. She was quick and held a souvenir mini-bat from a local baseball team. Malcolm Hannish had never played, but enjoyed the cheap beer and sunshine of a day game. The girl swung it at his knees, Malcolm Hannish stomped the bat to the floor, pinning the girl’s hand beneath it.

  “I have not come to harm you, I need only that you tell me of Isaac. Answer in a clear and timely fashion and this could be brief and relatively painless.” said Malcolm Hannish. 

 May kicked towards Malcolm Hannish and tried without success to dislodge her hand from under the bat. Little bones broke loudly with each attempt. She screamed.

 “I have no fucking idea who that is.” said May.

 

Malcolm Hannish gestured about the room.

 “You are in his house.” said Malcolm Hannish.

 “This is my house you piece of shit, I got it at a police auction for a hundred grand. The last owner killed himself because he fucking sucked.”, said May.

  Without taking his foot from the bat Malcom Hannish picked up a bill, addressed to Isaac Barrow, from the side table and presented it May “And this”

 Fury and petulance twisted the young woman’s features. 

“I steal mail!” said May.

  Malcolm Hannish felt a certain regard for her will but the lie was obvious. Kneeling down Malcom Hannish grabbed the back of the girls neck and lifted her off the floor, his thumb and forefinger close to touching on the other side. She struck at him with no effect.  Malcolm Hannish turned the girl to face a framed picture of Isaac and her prominently displayed on the fireplace mantle.

“And this?” said Malcom Hannish.

 The words gurgled out.

“It came with the frame,” said May.

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