Swift Runner, Plains Cree Trapper, Alberta Canada
October 13th, 1878
What a day!
My hands are still trembling as I write this—I think I’ve found something incredible, something that no one would believe unless they saw it with their own eyes. After weeks of tracking through this godforsaken forest, trudging through snow and bitter winds, I stumbled upon what could only be described as traces of the Wendigo.
The stories, the warnings from the locals—they all seemed like tall tales until today. Deep in the woods, I found enormous footprints—far too large for any human or animal I know. The ground was frozen, yet the prints were clear, as if something impossibly heavy had passed through. The claw marks on nearby trees, like fingers raking the bark, left me breathless. And then, there was the smell—an awful, rotting stench in the air, one that made the hair on my neck stand on end.
But that’s not all. There were bones. Scattered, half-buried in snow, picked clean and brittle as though they had been gnawed on. I couldn’t help but feel as though I was being watched—the forest felt alive with some terrible presence. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a branch made my heart race.
Could it really be true? Have I found the trail of the Wendigo? I dare not stay here long, but I will continue tracking these signs. This could be the greatest discovery of my life—or my last.
Tomorrow, I press on.
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