Marcus Phoenix's Arc

Chapter 2 of 4

The old man's warning followed Marcus up the trail. He found cabin one where the manager said, the number one bold on its warped door. Inside it smelled of mold and wet wood. A patched bed slumped in the corner. A small desk waited under the window. Marcus dropped his pack. He had a lair to map, and he needed rest before he tried the right trail at dawn. He searched the sagging porch for firewood. He found split logs stacked against the rail. He built a fire in the stone ring out front and fed it until the flames stood high. He sat close and watched the wood burn down to red coals. When the last light dimmed, he went inside, kicked off his boots, and lay under the frumpy blankets. Sleep came fast. A scratch woke him. Slow claws dragged across the door. Wood groaned. Marcus sat up, heart hammering. He heard heavy feet cross the porch boards. Then a moan rolled through the walls, low and wet, like wind forced through a dead throat. He reached for his flashlight. He did not turn it on. He crept to the window and looked through a gap in the boards. A shape stood in the coals' dying glow. It was tall, far too tall, and thin as bare branches. Ribs pushed against gray skin. Antlers rose from a skull-white face. Two eyes burned pale blue, fixed on the door. The Wendigo. The creature the missing hikers never named because none returned. Marcus stayed still. His mind raced past the fear to the work. This was his quarry. If he could see how it moved, he could learn where it came from. The thing scratched the door again. It tested the latch with one long finger. Marcus's throat went dry. The wood held, but barely. He would not survive a second night this exposed. He made a choice. He eased his notebook from his pack and set his back against the wall beside the window. Through the gap he watched. He sketched the antlers, the ribs, the way the legs bent wrong. He wrote the time. He wrote how it favored its left side, dragging one foot. After a long while the creature turned. It moved off the porch and crossed the clearing toward the pines. Marcus pressed his eye to the gap and marked the direction. It went right. Toward the trail that descends. Toward the den. He did not sleep again. He sat by the window until gray light filled the room. The coals were cold ash. On the door, four gouges cut deep into the wood, level with his throat. Marcus ran his thumb along the marks. He had seen the creature and lived. He knew now which way it came and went. His map had its first true line. But the thing had his scent, and it knew exactly where he slept.