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    Shadow of the Wendigo
    Shadow of the Wendigo
    Shadow of the Wendigo
    Ebook196 pages7 hours

    Shadow of the Wendigo

    By Dale T. Phillips

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    About this ebook

    In the snowy Canadian wilderness, a terrifying legend springs to life, sparking a series of gruesome crimes. Government agent Sean Laporte is sent to investigate, and must contend with an obsessive, resourceful foe, a hostile environment, and an elusive search for the truth. He is soon pulled between worlds of myth and madness, a present haunted by the past, and a primitive world of mystery and power.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherGenretarium Publishing
    Release dateDec 21, 2013
    ISBN9781386285618
    Shadow of the Wendigo
    Author

    Dale T. Phillips

    A lifelong student of mysteries, Maine, and the martial arts, Dale T. Phillips has combined all of these into the Zack Taylor series. His travels and background allow him to paint a compelling picture of a man with a mission, but one at odds with himself and his new environment. A longtime follower of mystery fiction, the author has crafted a hero in the mold of Travis McGee, Doc Ford, and John Cain, a moral man at heart who finds himself faced with difficult choices in a dangerous world. But Maine is different from the mean, big-city streets of New York, Boston, or L.A., and Zack must learn quickly if he is to survive. Dale studied writing with Stephen King, and has published over 70 short stories, non-fiction, and more. He has appeared on stage, television (including Jeopardy), and in an independent feature film. He co-wrote and acted in a short political satire film. He has traveled to all 50 states, Mexico, Canada, and through Europe. He can be found at www.daletphillips.com

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      Book preview

      Shadow of the Wendigo - Dale T. Phillips

      Copyright © 2013 Genretarium Publishing

      Cover Design copyright 2013 Melinda Phillips http://www.snapichic.com

      First printing, December, 2013

      This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is coincidental.

      Other works by Dale T. Phillips

      The Zack Taylor Mystery Series

      A Memory of Grief

      A Fall From Grace

      A Shadow on the Wall

      A Certain Slant of Light

      A Sharp Medicine

      Story Collections

      Fables and Fantasies (Fantasy)

      More Fables and Fantasies (Fantasy)

      Crooked Paths (Mystery/Crime)

      More Crooked Paths (Mystery/Crime)

      The Last Crooked Paths (Mystery/Crime)

      Strange Tales (Magic Realism, Paranormal)

      Apocalypse Tango (Sci-fi, End-of-world)

      Halls of Horror (Horror)

      The Big Book of Genre Stories (Different Genres)

      Jumble Sale (Different Genres)

      Non-fiction Career Help

      How to Improve Your Interviewing Skills

      With Other Authors

      Rogue Wave: Best New England Crime Stories 2015

      Red Dawn: Best New England Crime Stories 2016

      Windward: Best New England Crime Stories 2017

      Insanity Tales

      Insanity Tales II: The Sense of Fear

      Sign up for my newsletter to get special offers

      http://www.daletphillips.com

      DEDICATION

      To the Fergusons: Stephen, Amanda, Lorna, Charlotte, and Heather.

      So glad you came and stayed for a time on our side of the pond.

      Acknowledgments

      Almost all writers need editors, and a number of people have given feedback on this book, in hopes of making it better. A hearty thank you to Vlad Vaslyn, Stacey Longo Harris, Ursula Wong, and Pete Ewing—all authors in their own right, who took the time and effort to read this work and offer their suggestions to make it better.

      My thanks also to the Tyngsboro Writer’s Group, including, but not limited to: Mike Johnson, Joe Ross, Karen Johnson, Brian Hammar, and Bernie Ziegner. And thanks once again to the helpful staff at the Tyngsboro Public Library for giving us space to meet and work.

      Many thanks to Loren Coleman: Cryptozoologist, Author, Documentary Consultant, and Director of the International Cryptozoology Museum, Portland, Maine. One of the coolest jobs in the world. Stop by the museum next time you’re in Portland, and he can explain the differences between Yetis, Sasquatches, and skunk apes.

      As always, thanks to my wonderful family: Mindy, Bridget, and Erin, for suffering my peculiar and solitary profession of writing.

      To my dear and supportive friends and loved ones for making things more enjoyable along the path of life.

      To all those who have helped teach me to write, through their works.

      And to you, dear reader, my heartfelt thanks, for reading this one.

      Feel free to contact me and let me know what you thought of the book and what it’s about.

      Whoever battles monsters should take care not to become a monster too,

      for if you stare long enough into the Abyss, the Abyss stares also into you."

      — Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil

      CONTENTS

      Prologue

      Sean Laporte snapped out of the dream with a start, shivering and confused.

      Ree turned on the bedside light, rubbing her eyes. What is it?

      I was walking through snow in a forest. I was after something, or it was after me. It was cold, and I couldn’t move fast enough.

      Just a dream, right? Ree said, patting his arm. Not one of your visions? I’m not marrying a crazy man. She smiled.

      It felt like there was something important I had to do.

      Go back to sleep.

      Sean got up. In a bit. I’m okay, he lied, the feeling of dread still with him. You go back to sleep.

      ‘K. Ree switched the light off, and Sean padded out to the living room, wearing only his boxer shorts. He peeked through the curtains, but all was dark outside. He wanted to go get his service automatic from the bedroom closet, but resisted the urge. Ree would hear him, and wonder why he wanted a gun in the middle of the night. And he didn’t know himself. Perhaps he just wanted the reassuring heft of a weapon.

      For something had disturbed the peace of night, and Sean couldn’t quite put a name to the feeling. But whatever the disruption of his rest was, somehow he knew it was dangerous.

      Part I

      Chapter 1

      Jimmy Whitefeather knew his time was up. Getting caught out here in the forest could be fatal. All he wanted was to get back to his cabin before the storm hit. He scowled at the first flakes of snow spitting down from the lead-colored sky.

      In the ghostly silence of the Ontario wilderness, Whitefeather was the only thing that could be seen moving in the vast landscape. His snowshoes kicked up puffs from the smothering layers of fallen snow. Every other living thing was burrowed down against the oncoming storm, another of the many that had lashed the region. The wind was a malign entity that had joined forces with the cold, making relentless foes against the living.

      Whitefeather was out checking his traps, but so far had nothing for his labors. In times past, the people of the land had revered the ancient ways, and respected the spirit of each animal. If an animal must be killed, pardon was first asked. But Whitefeather was a modern man, and never apologized to the spirit of any creature that fell to his trap or gun.

      To Whitefeather, food was food, whether it was an animal he caught, or the canned goods that helped he and his wife Sue get through the winter. It had been a harsh season, a scant harvest of food and pelts from his traps. So he had been out longer than he should have, with a storm on the way. He was hungry now, after long hours of cold and exertion, and craved the hot food Sue would have waiting for him.

      As he approached the uprooted log that served as his marker, Whitefeather saw that the trap had been sprung. He smiled and unslung the rifle case from over his shoulder, resting it against the log. His smile disappeared when he squatted to inspect his catch. The dead rabbit caught in the steel teeth was emaciated from hunger, its fur patchy and damaged.

      Whitefeather wrenched the carcass free. Bits of flesh and fur clung to the teeth, as if the trap was reluctant to part with its prey. He stood and hefted the corpse for a moment, the meager reward for all his extra effort and risk. He should have kept it, shabby as it was, but he cocked his arm and hurled the dead rabbit into the forest. The body spun until it struck a tree, and rebounded to land in the snow. Lifeless eyes stared up at the pitiless, surrounding trees.

      There was no time to clean and reset the trap. Very well, he’d get it the next time. Whitefeather picked up his rifle case and looped the strap over his shoulder. He looked up at the sky once more, gauging. Hard-driving flakes pelted his face, stinging his eyes. He brushed the snow away and struck out for home.

      He moved with the pace of the experienced snowshoer, a smooth, steady rhythm that covered ground quickly. The wind picked up, hurtling straight at him. Each puff of snow kicked up by his snowshoes was quickly whisked away, as if by a tidy, unseen butler, and his tracks were wiped out as soon as he made them. The snow blew into his eyes, making it hard to see, but he knew the way home and maintained his pace.

      Whitefeather thought he heard a moan. He stopped and cocked his head to listen, but the only sound was the crackle of wind-driven snow against the hood of his parka. Whitefeather shook his head in frustration and continued on. Racing the storm, he had no time for odd sounds or idle fancies. He spat, as if to purge himself of his folly, his cheeks stiff from the cold.

      The snow blew into large drifts, and slapped against Whitefeather like cold waves. Despite his effort and his warm clothing, he felt chilled. He tried to huddle further into his parka, cursing.

      Another odd sound skimmed by, making him stop again. It had seemed like a high-pitched wail, but had been so short and faint that Whitefeather wasn’t sure if he had imagined it. Either the wind was playing tricks on his hearing, or there was something strange going on. His ever-quick temper rose again. He did not have much imagination, and he hated mysteries.

      Whitefeather resumed the homeward trek, but over his anger, a feeling of dread crept up on him. Something was wrong in the forest, the familiar place. As his certainty and self-confidence slowly crumbled, he moved faster, spurred by a nameless fear.

      Whitefeather heard a high, clear cry and felt a chill far colder than the wind. It wasn’t like the howl of a wolf or the lonely cry of the loon, but it possessed the eerie qualities of both. He knew every sound in this forest, but this was one he had never heard.

      Whitefeather fought down the fear and stumbled forward on watery legs. He willed himself to keep going, for to panic would be to surrender to the storm, and to death. Half-forgotten stories and old legends tugged at his consciousness. The more he tried to push them down, the more persistently they came bobbing back. Elusive bits and pieces of memory flickered back from the time when he was a boy, and afraid of such things. He licked his cold lips and unslung his rifle.

      Whitefeather slowed his pace for a time, watching both sides of the trail, every bush and tree a phantom lying in wait.

      But the light was too quickly being stolen from the sky. Whitefeather swallowed and wiped fresh sweat from his brow. Now that he was close to his cabin, he picked up the pace again, sacrificing all for the sake of speed. Adrenaline sang through him, and he felt his heart respond with a vigorous pumping.

      When the cry came again, he snapped his head up. The wind blinded him with a stinging slap of pellets, and he snagged a snowshoe on a partially submerged bush. He fell, his ankle twisting painfully.

      Whitefeather pulled free of the bush with an effort, and groaned at the bolt of pain. He rolled to a sitting position, hissing through clenched teeth. He brushed the snow from his upper body, and leaned over to undo the bindings from his snowshoe. They were stiff, and would not yield to his gloved hands.

      Whitefeather cursed and used his teeth to pull the glove from his right hand. His naked fingers grew numb as they attacked the frozen knot, but he managed to loosen the bindings enough to pull the snowshoe free. He quickly put the glove back on and flexed his fingers to bring warmth back. When the hand felt as if it might work again, he assessed the damage done to the ankle. Any movement of the injured area caused sharp stabs of pain. He would be unable to put any weight on the foot. He was in trouble.

      Whitefeather removed his rifle case and brushed the snow from it. He rolled to his hands and knees. He pushed the rifle stock into the snow and used it as leverage to rise, keeping the injured foot in the air. He wobbled awkwardly and almost fell, cursing his stupidity and his throbbing ankle. He roughly beat the snow from his lower body.

      Using the rifle as a crutch, Whitefeather hopped on his good foot, like a wounded bird. He sank deep into the snow with every hop, and before long he had no breath to even curse. He stopped often, wheezing, as his leg tightened and threatened to cramp, while his injured ankle sent sharp reminders of its condition. Exhausted and afraid, he forced himself onward. His inner clothes were soaked with sweat, and the chill spread throughout his body.

      The taunting wind pummeled him, and when he heard the cry once again, Whitefeather burst

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