Erwein's horrified gasp punctuates the scene as she hastily gathers her belongings, shoving them into her camping bag. I've encountered numerous people, but never have I seen skin as ethereally pale as hers. She clings awkwardly to Shiloah, extending her right arm in a gesture of desperation. I sit on Shiloah's left side, trying to steady my trembling body.
I've faced terrifying situations in my life, yet the presence of a wendigo—the stuff of childhood stories adults tell to spook mischievous kids—is something I never expected to encounter.
"That's a skinwalker. A wendigo. Th—that's a wendigo, Shiloah," Erwein stammers, trembling in her speech. As I glance at her, I notice her voice has taken on a squeaky tone, a manifestation of her anxiety. Confidence wanes bit by bit. Fear becomes an
