WARPED: A Menapace Collection of Short Horror, Thriller, and Suspense Fiction

by Menapace, Jeff

  “You know your stuff,” Kane said. “I have met many who claimed to know about the Windigo.”

  “And…?”

  “They did not.”

  Professor Jon’s pride swelled. “It is indeed a passion of mine,” he said. “Vampires and werewolves—all more fable than folklore, all so done to death. But the Windigo—so close to home, so seasoned with culture and tradition. The idea that a man or woman resorting to cannibalism will ultimately transform into an insatiable creature, forever haunting the northern territory in its quest for sustenance…it truly is the stuff of brilliant legend.”

  “Legend,” Kane said, and for the first time the professor saw the man smile: a faint smirk that was gone just as quickly as it had arrived.

  The professor was confused. “Yes…legend. This is the twenty-first century, Kane. Surely your people now realize that the Windigo is legend.”

  “You don’t believe.”

  “Oh I believe,” the professor said, inserting a deliberate pause for effect—the exuberant teacher in him helpless to melodrama—before adding: “I believe in Windigo psychosis.”

  Kane said nothing.

  The professor, already building a head of steam, would have likely continued even if Kane had started to walk away:

  “The mind is exceptionally powerful, yet curiously susceptible to superstition and placebo,” he said. “Well over a century ago, many who resorted to cannibalism during periods of famine in the northern territory pleaded guilty to Windigo psychosis. Many psychologists still believe it to be prevalent today, though I doubt their credentials, if not their own stability. With all we know about psychology today it seems ludicrous that someone would jump to such an unsubstantiated diagnosis. Shameless people perhaps looking for their fifteen minutes, if you ask me.

  “But I’m not a closed-minded fellow,” the professor continued. “I’m open to any and all possibilities when it concerns the bizarre behaviors in man. Look at individuals like Albert Fish or Jeffrey Dahmer—men who consumed their victims. Dahmer may have claimed to have done such atrocities to keep his victims with him forever, but how to explain someone like Fish? A horrible man who dined on the flesh of children, the preferred meat of the mythical Windigo itself?

  “Of course individuals like Dahmer and Fish, while undoubtedly sick, never took the form of the monster I showed during my presentation. However, many men—again, over a century ago—believed they ultimately would, and therefore insisted they be executed at once, lest they transform into such beasts. But of course the notion was pure fallacy, and factual reports of such fiction at the time were never substantiated.” Professor Jon smiled, turned up both palms as though finishing a sermon and said, “The uncanny susceptibility of the superstitious mind.” He clasped his hands together. “Windigo psychosis.”

  The subtle smirk reappeared on Kane’s mouth and the professor immediately spotted it. Though he believed he’d said more than enough, the professor felt the need to continue. The subject was his passion, yes, but he also believed anxiety was doing just as he suspected it would moments ago: keeping his trap yapping until someone told him to shut it.

  “Did you ever see The Wolfman with Lon Chaney, Jr.?” Professor Jon asked.

  Kane shook his head.

  The professor noted that Kane’s smirk was staying this time, and he questioned why. Was he being silently laughed at, or was the smirk a gesture of respect for his knowledge? He continued all the same:

  “Okay, well, there’s a fantastic scene with Lon Chaney, Jr. and Claude Rains. Chaney plays Larry Talbot, the wolfman, and Rains plays Sir John Talbot, Larry’s father. Larry has been bitten by a wolf and worries that he might have been infected with the horrible curse of the werewolf, fearing that he will change into a wolf during a full moon. He asks his father, Sir John, a learned and respected man throughout their hometown in Wales, if he believes that it’s possible for a man to transform into a wolf.

  “Sir John replies that the notion of a man transforming into a wolf, actually taking on the physical characteristics of an animal, is impossible. However…” The inflection in the professor’s tone went up a notch, eager to finish his analogy. “Sir John then becomes adamant in emphasizing to his son that most anything can happen to a man…within his own mind.” Professor Jon smiled and tapped his temple on mind.

  Kane said nothing, but the smirk was still there. The professor swallowed dry, both from talking too much and unease. Should he continue to speak? Yes, but get back to the original point; you’ve babbled enough. Why is the man here?

  “I’ve said quite a bit, Kane. It’s a weakness of mine when I’m nervous. I apologize.”

  Kane held up a hand in forgiveness. “It was amusing,” he said.

  Professor Jon said, “Thank you.” And then, “You wanted something from me.”

  “You know much about legend. More than me, I admit.”

  Professor Jon said, “Yes—legend.”

  Kane’s dark eyes shimmered. Professor Jon could not tell if the shimmer was one of delight or one of annoyance at his insistence on referring to the Windigo as strictly legend. What he did know was that Kane began unbuttoning his flannel shirt.

  Professor Jon took a step back. “Uh, Kane, what are you—”

  Kane pulled open his shirt.

  “My God...”

  Professor Jon flashed on the film A Nightmare on Elm Street. The professor had seen it years back, and was now reminded of the infamous villain Freddy Krueger with his custom-made glove of razor-sharp knives.

  Kane, standing bare-chested in front of the professor now, looked as if he’d taken on Krueger and come out second best—four finger-thick scars raked their way across the man’s entire torso, each jagged slice a wincing white in olive skin.

  “What are those?” Professor Jon asked. “What are you showing me?”

  “You know more than me,” Kane said. “But I would wager you’re no tracker.”

  Professor Jon said, “No…no, I’m not…how did you get those—”

  “I am the best tracker amongst my people. The best hunter now that my father has passed. I can find the Windigo. I know where to look.”

  Professor Jon now began to wonder if Kane was the aforementioned crackpot. He collected himself, cleared his throat. “Kane, you can’t honestly—”

  “I know where to look...” Kane ran a hand over his scars, his dark eyes never leaving the professor. “…and with your help, this time I’ll kill it.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Andy said, “Trying to communicate?”

  Tim faced his friend. “Think about it. All she keeps saying is ‘eat’ and ‘eat now’ and ‘you eat.’ Yet we say ‘hungry’ and she has no reaction. Rachel says ‘food,’ and again, no reaction. I offer the protein bar, repeat her own words back at her, and she practically takes my arm off grabbing the thing before shoving it down her throat.”

  “She didn’t look like one for table manners,” Andy said.

  “No, it wasn’t that. I think what we saw was classic conditioning. Like when a dog or cat hurries towards its bowl when it hears the can opener.”

  Andy shook his head. “That big brain of yours is losing me again, man.”

  “She’s a parrot. She was repeating the only words she ever hears in a bid to communicate. I don’t think she was hungry—despite the way she wolfed down the bar—and I don’t think she’s slow. I think her neglect might be something way beyond anything we’d previously assumed.”

  “And her being overfed is part of that neglect?” Andy said.

  Tim nodded. “Ironically, yes.”

  “Why?”

  “No idea.”

  Michelle stepped forward. “Who cares? This isn’t a riddle, Tim. We need to get this child somewhere safe.”

  Rachel nodded emphatically.

  Tim held up a hand. “Just hold on a minute. Don’t you want to know exactly what’s—”

  “No,” Michelle said. “Who cares what about what? We need to help this
child. Period.”

  “I’m well aware of that, Michelle,” Tim said with a forced calm. “But I’d also like some answers.”

  Michelle gestured to the child. “And what? You think you’re going to get them from her?”

  Tim looked at the little girl. “No,” he said softly.

  Michelle stared at him, waiting for more. “So then what?”

  Tim said nothing; his mind was churning, trying to make some sense of it all.

  “The village,” Rachel said.

  Michelle looked at her friend. “What?”

  “We take the girl to that village on the map.”

  Andy nodded. “Yeah—we drop the kid there; call the police; boom, we’re back on the road in no time.”

  Rachel slapped him on the chest again.

  “What?” Andy said. “Are we supposed to babysit the kid?”

  “This isn’t just some lost child, Andy, it’s a kid who was tied up and left for dead.”

  “I understand that, Rachel, but we haven’t come across dick for miles. My guess is that whoever left her here is probably from that village.”

  “Exactly,” Rachel said. “And you want to just drop her there and leave.”

  “No—I said drop her there, call the police, and then leave. For all we know, the whole goddamn village tied her up here. Ever see The Wicker Man? I don’t know about you, but I’m not keen on hanging out with folks like that when I can be in a cozy cabin gettin’ blazed and enjoying a few cocktails.”

  Rachel threw up her hands and looked at Tim. “What do you think, Tim?”

  Tim was still processing it all. Admittedly, helping the girl—an irrefutable priority he was well on board with—didn’t interest him as much as finding out why the child needed help in the first place.

  “Tim?” Rachel said.

  Tim’s daze broke and he looked at Rachel. “Sorry. Well…I guess we really only have two choices. We can take her to the village, or we can turn around and take her home with us.”

  “Back to Minneapolis?” Andy said.

  Tim nodded.

  “Wouldn’t we lose the cabin if we headed back home?” Rachel asked.

  Andy snorted. “A minute ago you were Mother Theresa. Now you’re worried about losing the cabin.”

  “Fuck you, Andy; that’s not what I meant.”

  Michelle said, “Why not just call the police now? Ask them to meet us here?”

  “You know where here is?” Andy asked.

  “No—but we can give them the address for our cabin; we can’t be that far from it. Plus they can trace the call to our location or whatever, can’t they?” She tugged on Tim’s coat. “What do you think? Should we try calling from here?”

  “A hundred to one we won’t get reception,” Andy muttered. “Just like a horror movie.”

  Michelle glared at him.

  “Or maybe we will,” Andy continued. “The cop will call us back and tell us, ‘...the calls are coming from inside the tree!’”

  “Would you please shut the fuck up?” Michelle all but yelled.

  “Yeah,” Rachel added.

  Andy turned his back on them and kicked at a dead tree branch.

  Michelle tugged on Tim’s coat again. “What do you think?”

  Tim said, “I’ll go get my phone.”

  But Andy was already heading toward the car. “I’ll get a phone,” he called over his shoulder.

  “Grab mine too,” Tim called after him, “in case one actually doesn’t have reception. In fact, grab them all.”

  Andy was gone awhile—certainly longer than Tim had predicted. But he hadn’t vanished; Tim had a decent view of his friend rummaging around throughout the interior of the car. Every few seconds a string of curses would echo back to the group.

  “What’s wrong?” Tim called.

  Andy’s head appeared over the hood of the car, annoyed. “I can’t find them!”

  Rachel yelled: “Mine’s in my purse!”

  Andy’s head vanished, appeared again a minute later. “No, it’s not!”

  Rachel cursed under her breath and headed towards the car. Tim held out a hand to stop her. “Hold on a sec’,” he said. “Mine’s in the glove compartment!” he yelled. “Check there!”

  “Already did! …Because that’s where I put mine!” Andy splayed his hands. “Nothing!”

  Tim turned to Rachel. “Alright—can you go help him look?” He would have gone himself, but he didn’t feel comfortable leaving the girls by themselves, even a mere twenty feet away.

  Rachel headed toward the car.

  The couple eventually returned from the car empty handed, Andy looking more than annoyed, Rachel looking scared.

  “Our phones are gone,” Rachel said.

  “That can’t be,” Michelle said. “How could they—”

  “Fucking bullshit!” Andy blurted.

  Tim held up a hand. “Okay, just relax.” He paused, took a breath. “Someone else must be out here.”

  Michelle wrapped her arms around herself. “Someone else? Like who?”

  Tim glanced around the woods. Black in all directions but the road. “I have no idea, but I think our options are now pretty obvious.”

  “Get the fuck out of here?” Andy said.

  “Exactly. We can do the cabin thing another time—but only if there is another time.”

  “You’re scaring me,” Michelle said.

  Tim pulled her close and kissed the top of her head. “It’ll be okay. Let’s just grab the girl and go. We’re heading back.”

  Andy crouched before the little girl and held out his arms. “Come on,” he said.

  The girl gawked at Andy, but didn’t move.

  “Come on!” he said again.

  Rachel said, “Stop—don’t yell.”

  “What do you want me to do, just grab her?”

  “She doesn’t understand you.”

  Andy stood upright, pulled a face and swept a hand towards the child as if to say: Be my guest.

  Rachel crouched and held out both hands. “Come on, sweetie.” Rachel reached under the girl’s arms and pulled her gently forward. The child didn’t resist, and soon Rachel had the little girl in her arms. “She’s heavy,” she grunted, hoisting the child for a better grip. “And…my God…” Rachel wrinkled her nose. “The poor thing smells horrible.”

  “You gonna compliment her hair next?” Andy asked.

  “Shut up.”

  Tim held out his arms. “Here—give her to me.”

  Rachel passed the child over to Tim. She went willingly, but did not hold on to Tim as a regular child would. She wasn’t completely slack either. She felt…awkward, as though she had never been held properly before. And why shouldn’t she? Tim thought. She probably hadn’t.

  “Alright, I’ve got her,” Tim said. “Let’s move.”

  They walked a few feet and stopped suddenly. A screech, loud and shrill and impossibly loud, radiated out from the forest beyond and collectively froze them.

  “The fuck was that?!” Andy yelled.

  All four of them circled where they stood, desperate to find the source of the shriek.

  “I don’t know,” Tim said, wide eyes on the distant black of the forest.

  They headed towards the car again, and the screech came again, inexplicably louder than before. Michelle, Rachel, Andy, even the child put hands over their ears. Tim did not have the luxury; the screech reverberated in his ears, making him momentarily deaf. When sound returned, he couldn’t be sure if the piercing cry was still echoing in his ears or the forest.

  Andy asked the obvious again: “What is that?!”

  Tim kicked his curious nature abruptly to the side and said, “I don’t know and I don’t care. Let’s just go.”

  They made it to the car. The forest was quiet this time as they piled in. The child was placed and buckled in the middle of the back seat between Michelle and Rachel. Tim put the car into gear,

  (thank God they didn’t steal the keys)

&
nbsp; maneuvered it back and forth across the road,

  (why didn’t they steal the keys?)

  and before long they were facing the opposite direction, ready to head back the way they’d came.

  CHAPTER 6

  “I’ll go with or without you,” Kane said.

  The professor, his belongings tucked under one arm as he made his way to the parking lot, said, “Kane, please, what you’re proposing is shrouded in the very thing I teach. Myth.”

  Kane matched the professor’s stride towards the lot, spoke to his profile. “I showed you my wounds. Did I do them to myself?”

  “I don’t doubt you were injured, Kane. And I’m sorry to hear about your father. But the two of you likely encountered a wolf or a bear…”

  “I know a bear. I know a wolf. It was neither. It took my father. It did not eat him right then and there as an animal would. It took him—to dine on at its leisure. That was the last image I can recall before I lost consciousness: my father’s body being dragged away by the ankles. What animal does that with its prey?”

  “I’m sure plenty do—to avoid unwanted guests…”

  “No,” Kane said, his statement not one of dispute when it came to the professor’s guess at an animal’s feeding habits, but a statement rooted in unmovable belief.

  “You’re sure it wasn’t a man?” the professor said.

  Kane placed a hand over the professor’s chest, stopping his march cold. The gesture was not a forceful one; it didn’t need to be. Kane’s gaze was now stronger than anything brute force could manage.

  “It was not a man. No man is capable of handling my father as deftly as this beast did.”

  The professor took a step back and swallowed hard. “Alright, Kane—suppose I believe you. Suppose I believe a Windigo killed your father and wounded you...” He shrugged. “I still wouldn’t be able to help you. I told you inside; I’m not a medicine man. I can barely cook my own meals, for heaven’s sake.”

  “You have the knowledge, yes?”

  “I know the folklore.”

  “A Windigo cannot be killed by conventional means. My father and I thought this false. Our bravado was too strong. We tried…” Now it was Kane who swallowed hard, his reasons far different.