“It’s a little girl,” she said to the night, and then, pulling her head back inside, to everyone: “It’s a little girl tied to a tree.”
CHAPTER 2
Bemidji, Minnesota
Earlier
Professor Jon’s lectures on cryptozoology and folklore were popular at Bemidji State. He held only a handful a semester, but they were worth a pleasant four to the usual three credits. Commonly referred to as an easy (a term the professor loathed), the truth was that every freshman or sophomore was entitled to build their credit pile with a few easies before hunkering down with the pre-requisite toughies their majors demanded. And so when searching for easies, mythical monsters (with an additional credit to boot) were a heck of a lot more appealing than any turn of the century philosophy class.
Professor Jon began his lecture with a slide show. Dimming the lights by remote, his silhouette visible in front of the big white screen, the professor spoke over the excited chatter in the auditorium. “Shout them out,” he said. “If you know them, shout them out.”
The professor’s silhouette strolled towards one side of the screen. He hit a second remote. An image flashed in the room, igniting eager faces.
“Vampire!” the majority called.
Another image flashed.
“Werewolf!”
Flash.
“Loch Ness Monster!”
Flash.
“Bigfoot!”
Flash.
An eruption of laughter.
It was a black and white still of Gene Wilder as Dr. Frankenstein, and Peter Boyle as The Monster, both dressed in tuxedos and dancing to “Puttin’ on the Ritz”—the infamous scene from Mel Brooks’ comedy-classic, Young Frankenstein.
Professor Jon’s silhouette said: “Sorry—couldn’t resist.”
Once the laughter softened, another flash.
There was a brief pause, then what sounded like an uncertain but unanimous: “Werewolf…”
The lights rose back to full strength. The image the class believed to be a second werewolf remained on-screen.
“Another werewolf?” the professor asked. He turned and looked at the giant image shining above him. The monster had many of the characteristics of the traditional werewolf, but there were differences: it stood exceptionally tall on its hind legs. Its body appeared painfully thin, almost emaciated—each rib was visible, each joint by the elbow, shoulder, and knee protruding, its coat a furless display of grey, sinewy muscle. The eyes glowed yellow, its menacing fangs not stained red as the werewolf’s had been, but dripping, almost pouring with saliva. Its hands were not the paw-like hands of the werewolf; they were the hands of man, each finger twice the normal length, fingernails like yellow talons on a predatory bird.
“Did I make a mistake?” Professor Jon continued, a smile forming on the corner of his mouth as his planned ruse built momentum.
The class hummed with uncertain whispers to one another.
“It’s a Windigo,” a voice from the front row called.
Professor Jon’s smile dropped, but the old eyes behind his glasses jumped. He zeroed in on the voice. It belonged to the man the professor had noticed the very moment he’d entered his class. And why not—the man was a man; not a student. He was also the first to arrive…by thirty minutes.
“Correct, you are,” Professor Jon said, his smile returning. “It is indeed a Windigo.”
Professor Jon gave the mysterious student a second going-over. The first had been lacking; the professor was too busy setting up his presentation. It was only the man’s extreme punctuality, and perhaps his age of what the professor guessed fifteen or twenty years the senior of his average student that managed a brief register in his preoccupied mind before being discarded less than a minute later.
But not now. The mystery man had recognized a Windigo. Just as exciting, the professor was fairly certain the man was Native American; had the mystery man sported long black hair as opposed to a shaved head, he would have been dead certain (a bit guilty of stereotyping, but dead certain all the same).
“Curious,” Professor Jon said to the man. “A whole class in Northern Minnesota, an area ripe with mythology of the Windigo, and yet you are the only one to recognize it.”
The mystery man said nothing in return.
The professor took a chance, followed his gut and asked: “Cree or Ojibwa? Or—”
“Cree,” the man said.
The professor closed his eyes and nodded, paying his respects to the man’s tribe while trying to contain his excitement. If his class only knew what this meant, the correlation to what he was about to discuss…
A hand in back shot up. “So what is it? What’s a Windigo?”
Professor Jon could not stop his smile from returning. It felt too perfect. The mystery student might as well have been a gift—a clever plant to pique then raise the interest of his class that much higher on a subject he’d planned for his primary lecture today; a subject he loved more than any other: the legend of the Windigo.
Except the mystery student was no plant, and when he stood, turned and faced the class and spoke first, it was grimly apparent he did not share the professor’s exuberance on the subject:
“My people do not believe in your devil. But we believe in evil. We believe in the Windigo.”
CHAPTER 3
The car had been maneuvered accordingly off the narrow road to prevent traffic (as if there’d ever be any, Tim had regrettably thought), and more importantly, to position the headlights onto the scene everyone doubted Michelle saw the moment she voiced it.
But Michelle had been right. The scene was there: a little girl tied to a tree.
All four of them huddled around her now, their anxious breaths like constant exhales of smoke in the damp cold. The child appeared four, maybe five. Her clothes were rags. Long dark hair was wet and matted to her face, the recent rainfall somehow enhancing the tangled mess as opposed to helping. And the soiled face beneath the twisted vines of hair—to suggest mere soap and water was laughable.
Assuming the little girl had been neglected, Tim thought, fell directly into the No Shit column. And if the child’s appearance somehow failed to clue anyone in, the fact that she was tied to a tree out in the middle of nowhere should certainly hammer that assumption home.
Except for one thing. One thing Tim didn’t get.
The little girl was overweight.
Those innocent cheeks, so caked with what might be months if not years of filth, were plump. And not little-kid plump, but little-kid-who-eats-too-much plump. In fact, if Tim had seen the child at the mall, or the movies, or wherever, he would have admittedly thought her chubby—borderline fat. If the child had been neglected and left for dead, why did she appear overfed? It didn’t make sense.
Rachel immediately went to work untying the girl. It was not a difficult task; the finger-thin ropes were wrapped around both the torso and the tree in a layer of three passes. The child’s wrists and ankles were left free.
Andy squatted next to his girlfriend and helped with the knot at the back of the tree. “Didn’t tie much of a knot,” he said, loosening it without trouble then displaying his palms as though he’d just performed a magic trick.
“Probably because they didn’t have to,” Tim said. “Look at her.”
They all did—again. Tim’s statement did not rely so much on the girl’s age when it came to the inability to free herself, but more on her apparent state of mind: once the ropes fell slack and she was free, the child didn’t move. She sat stoically in the cold wet earth, mouth ajar, eyes transfixed on the Toyota’s headlights some twenty feet away.
Michelle dropped into a catcher’s stance and inched close. “Sweetie? Can you hear me?”
The child showed no signs of human acknowledgment; the headlights’ trance still held her full attention.
Rachel and Andy moved back to their previous spots. Andy bent forward and snapped his fingers in front of the girl’s face. Rachel instantly slapped his hand a
way.
“What?” he said.
“Don’t do that!”
But the girl responded. She blinked, then looked at all four of them, slowly and one at a time.
Michelle, still squatting, said, “Sweetie?”
The little girl looked at her, eyes as transfixed on Michelle as they’d been on the headlights.
“Who did this to you?” Michelle asked.
The child continued to stare with what Tim was beginning to think were not mesmerized eyes, but vacant eyes. And her mouth—always ajar despite her body’s innate response to chatter from the cold. “Catching flies” his father used to call it before smacking little Tim in the head for “…looking like a damn retard.” What would delicate Dad say here? Or was the obvious so obvious that even a charmer like his father would find futility in ridicule? Futility because, as Tim wanted to think, any remarks from his father about this little girl would not be an insult—they would be fact.
“I don’t think she understands, honey,” Tim said to Michelle’s back.
Michelle repeated herself, slower, louder: “Who did this to you?”
“No—Michelle, I don’t think she understands.”
Andy said, “You think she’s deaf?”
“I don’t know.”
Michelle stood. “Foreign maybe?”
Tim shook his head. “I think she might be…you know…” He began spiraling one hand as though trying to waft the right word towards his mouth. “I think she might be a little slow.”
All three of them looked at the child as if to refute Tim’s statement. The girl continued to stare at them blankly, still not moving despite the recent absence of her binds.
Andy said, “Slow, like retarded?”
Rachel slapped him again, on the chest this time. “Don’t use that word.”
“Oh come on, you know what I meant.”
Rachel was firm. “I don’t like that word. It’s wrong.”
Andy splayed his hands. “Fine. So what should I call—”
“Eat?” the little girl said.
Everything stopped. Everyone stared.
“You eat?” the little girl said.
All four exchanged looks.
Michelle dropped back down into her catcher’s stance. “What was that, sweetie? What did you say?”
The little girl looked at Michelle. “Eat now. Eat. You eat?”
Michelle said, “I think she’s hungry.”
The child showed no response to Michelle’s words. No eager nods in the affirmative. No verbal confirmation. Her face appeared as lost as ever. Tim found this curious.
Rachel said, “Of course she is. My God, the poor thing. This goes beyond any and all neglect. This is like…attempted murder.”
Tim studied the child. Her wide eyes were now shifting curiously back and forth between each of them. “Ask her something else,” he said to Michelle.
Michelle brushed some matted hair out of the child’s face. “Like what?”
“Anything. Ask her anything.”
Michelle thought for a moment, then touched the little girl’s shoulder to get her attention. “Do you know where you live?”
“Eat now,” the child said. And then, loud enough to make Michelle flinch and nearly tumble backwards: “Eat!”
“She’s hungry, man,” Andy said to Tim.
Tim stepped forward and crouched in front of the girl. “Are you hungry?” he asked. “Hungry?”
The child cocked her head to one side like a puzzled dog. Tim nodded to himself. He still wasn’t sure exactly what it was, but something was coming together. He stood. “She doesn’t know the word ‘hungry’,” he said.
“So?” Michelle said.
“But she knows ‘eat’?”
Michelle frowned. “You’re the one who said she might be slow…”
“I’m not so sure anymore—at least not like I was thinking before.”
“You lost me,” Michelle said.
Rachel added, “Me too.”
Tim pointed to the child and kept his finger on her as he spoke to the group. “We can all agree that this child is a victim of serious neglect, yes?”
They nodded.
“So then why…?” He paused, once again looking for the right words.
Andy blew into his cupped hands and rubbed them together vigorously. “Why what?”
Tim just said it. “Why is she so heavy?”
Rachel said, “Tim!”
Tim shrugged innocently. “Look, I’m not trying to be a dick, but look at her. She’s filthy. Her clothes—if that’s what you wanna call them—are something a bum would turn away. Wouldn’t logic tell you she’d be pretty damn skinny too?”
They all looked at the girl again. The girl looked back, still in a state of both confusion and wonder.
Andy eventually said, “He does have a point.”
Michelle got to her feet and looked at Tim. “I’m still lost. What are you saying exactly?”
“I’m not sure. All I’m saying is something here doesn’t make sense.”
“Does it matter?” Rachel asked. “The kid was left, no, tied out here in the cold and left to die. We have to get her somewhere safe.”
“Eat? Eat, eat? You eat?”
All eyes fell on the child once again.
Rachel took a knee at the girl’s side and rubbed her shoulder. “We’ll get you some food, sweetie.”
Again, the child looked as lost as ever, Rachel’s words eliciting zero response.
“Huh,” Tim said.
Michelle looked at Tim. “Huh, what?”
Tim turned to Andy. “Can you go get one of your protein bars from the car?”
Andy frowned. “What for?”
Rachel said, “Those things are gross. She won’t eat that.”
Tim splayed a hand. “If she’s hungry, she’ll want it, right?”
Michelle eyed her boyfriend up suspiciously. “What are you up to?”
Tim ignored Michelle and kept his eyes on Andy. “Can you just go get one, please?”
“Whatever.” Andy headed towards the car. He returned a few minutes later and handed the protein bar to Tim.
Tim thanked him and began unwrapping the bar.
“She’s right, you know,” Andy said. “Things are gross.”
Michelle asked, “So why do you eat them?”
Andy smirked and raised his thick arm, flexing his bicep. The impressive bulge was still evident under the sleeve of his coat.
Michelle looked at Rachel who rolled her eyes.
Tim was oblivious to it all: the protein bar was now unwrapped. He squatted in front of the girl, but did not present her with it right away. He waited until her attention was fixed squarely on him. When their eyes met, he held the bar in front of the child’s face and said, “Eat. Eat now.”
The child snatched the bar as an animal would, immediately jamming it into her mouth, eating with fevered intent. Except there were no expressions of relief in the act. No satiating moans as she gorged. She was force-feeding herself, like someone bent to win in a contest.
“Jesus,” Andy said. “I guess she was hungry.”
Tim stood. “Doubt it,” he said.
Andy continued staring at the little girl, who was stuffing the last of the bar down her throat. “Could have fooled me.”
“I don’t think she really wanted food,” Tim said. “She ate that bar like we had a gun to her head.”
“Dude,” Andy said, “you’re losing us again.”
Michelle said, “Why was she asking for something to eat if she wasn’t hungry?”
Tim glanced back at the girl, the protein bar now gone, wide eyes back on them. “I don't think she was asking for anything. I think she was trying to communicate with the only words she knows.”
CHAPTER 4
Professor Jon had finished his lecture. It hadn’t been his best, but he’d be damned if he didn’t have a good reason: the mystery student had left half-way through, leaving the professor to wo
nder if his material on the Windigo had disappointed the man. It was so hard to tell; the man sat like a stone fixture during his stay. When students posed questions to the man’s back, he ignored them. When some students tried to get a response via insult, he ignored them still. It was only when Professor Jon asked the mystery student to maybe come to the front and share some background about his Cree culture that the man stood, and then left the auditorium without a word. Some excited chatter and giggles followed his exit, Professor Jon’s zeal for his treasured lecture along with it.
Now, as the professor was packing his belongings inside an empty auditorium, a deep voice popped his head up.
“You’re not a crackpot.”
The professor stared, both startled and exhilarated. “You,” was all he said.
The mystery student said, “Kanen.”
Professor Jon tried a smile. “Kanen? That’s your name?”
“You can call me Kane.”
Professor Jon nodded, tried another smile. “Okay…Kane. Did you enjoy my lecture? You left half-way through, and I—”
“You’re not a crackpot. You know your stuff.”
“Thank you. Coming from someone like you, I take that as a compliment.”
Kane frowned. “Someone like me?”
The professor’s smile dropped. “I only meant…”
“It’s okay, Professor Jon. I know what you meant. I was only joking with you.”
The professor exhaled. Kane was a big man. Over six feet and with a powerful physique that did not come from hours in the gym, but from years of physical labor. A physique that gave you forearms like Popeye and a back layers deep. No useless beach-muscles here; this was all functional strength.
“Good one,” the professor said with a nervous little chuckle. “You had me going for a second.”
Kane only nodded.
The professor saw no point in small talk; the roundabout act was almost assuredly foreign to men of Kane’s ilk. He went right for it. “You want something from me,” he said.
“Yes,” Kane replied.
The professor thought it best to stay silent, let the mystery man fill in the gaps. An agonizing pause followed. Professor Jon remained mute, though he doubted how long anxiety would allow it.
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