Chapter 7: The Wendigo — Part 1
[Highway 70 East — September 20, 2005, Morning — Colorado]
The Impala's taillights disappeared around another mountain curve, and Ethan downshifted to match the pace. Twelve hours of driving from California to Colorado, stopping only for gas and a roadside diner that served coffee strong enough to strip paint. His back ached from the truck's worn suspension. His eyes burned from too little sleep and too much highway hypnosis.
The Spirit, predictably, didn't care about human discomfort.
MOUNTAINS. OLD PLACES. HUNGRY THINGS LIVE HERE.
"I know what lives here."
YOU KNOW MANY THINGS YOU SHOULD NOT.
Ethan let that comment slide. The Spirit had been probing at his knowledge for days now, testing the edges of what he knew versus what he should reasonably know. It hadn't made any accusations yet, but it was curious in a way that felt increasingly dangerous.
The turnoff for Lost Creek appeared on the right. The Impala's brake lights flashed, and Dean guided the black Chevrolet onto a gravel road that wound up into the Rockies. Ethan followed, truck bouncing over ruts and potholes that hadn't been maintained since the Clinton administration.
Lost Creek. Blackwater Ridge. A state park that had been quietly accumulating disappearances for decades, always explained away as bear attacks or hiking accidents or the simple reality that wilderness didn't forgive mistakes.
The show had revealed the truth: a Wendigo. A creature that had once been human, transformed by cannibalism and dark hunger into something immortal, something insatiable, something that could mimic human voices to lure prey into its territory.
Fire killed them. That much Ethan remembered clearly.
The road ended at a ranger station that looked like it had been built from Lincoln Logs and optimism. A single truck sat in the parking lot—the ranger's, probably. Dean pulled up next to it, and Ethan parked his own vehicle on the other side.
"Briefing time," Dean said, climbing out and stretching muscles cramped from the long drive. "What do we know?"
Sam had his laptop open before his feet touched gravel. "Three hikers went missing six days ago. The Collins family—Tommy Collins and two friends. They were experienced, had proper gear, checked in with the ranger station before heading up to Blackwater Ridge."
"And then?"
"Nothing. No distress calls. No GPS signals. The search party found their camp torn apart, gear scattered, no bodies."
Dean's jaw tightened. "Bear attack, according to the official report?"
"That's the story. But I pulled the records going back twenty years. There's a pattern. Every twenty-three years, people go missing in this area. Multiple groups, always in the same general location, always between late September and early October."
"Twenty-three years between feeding cycles." Ethan spoke without thinking, then caught himself.
Both Winchesters turned to look at him.
"How do you know that?" Sam's voice was careful, analytical.
Damn it. "The pattern. Twenty-three years is consistent with certain types of creatures that hibernate between hunts. Wendigos, specifically. They gorge, then sleep, then wake hungry."
Dean's eyes narrowed. "You've hunted Wendigos before?"
"No. But I've studied the lore." Also not technically a lie. He'd studied Supernatural episode guides obsessively during his previous life's deployment downtime. Same difference.
"The lore says fire kills them," Sam said, testing.
"Fire's the only thing that kills them. They're fast, strong, nearly impossible to hurt with conventional weapons. But they burn like everything else."
Dean processed this for a moment, then nodded. "Alright. Fire it is. Let's talk to the ranger, see what else we can learn."
The ranger—a tired-looking man named Ranger Wilkinson—gave them the same bear attack story the reports contained. Ethan stood in the corner of the small station office, letting the Winchesters handle the interview while he reached out with his senses.
The forest beyond the windows pulsed with something wrong. Not evil, exactly—the Spirit's definition of sin didn't quite apply to creatures that had surrendered their humanity centuries ago. But hungry. Ancient and patient and absolutely certain that prey would come to it eventually.
IT WAITS. IT HAS WAITED BEFORE. IT WILL WAIT AGAIN.
"The Collins sister is in town," Ranger Wilkinson was saying. "Haley Collins. She's been raising hell with the search parties, demanding they look harder. Can't say I blame her—that's her brother out there."
"Where can we find her?" Dean asked.
"The motel on Main Street. She's been staying there since the search started."
They left the ranger station with more questions than answers. The official story didn't hold water—no bear attack explained the pattern of disappearances, the twenty-three-year cycle, the complete absence of bodies.
But they already knew what they were hunting. The question was finding it before it finished feeding.
Haley Collins answered her motel room door with the exhausted determination of someone who'd spent a week fighting bureaucracy and wilderness and her own fear. Mid-twenties, dark hair pulled back, eyes red from crying but jaw set with steel.
Her younger brother Ben sat on the bed behind her, maybe sixteen, looking lost and terrified.
"You're the reporters?" Haley's voice was flat with suspicion.
Dean flashed a smile. "That's right. We're doing a piece on the search effort, wanted to get the family's perspective."
"The search effort is a joke. They found Tom's campsite five days ago and they've done nothing since."
"Can you tell us what happened?"
Haley let them in, and the story spilled out in fits and starts. Tommy and his friends had planned a week-long hiking trip. They'd checked in via satellite phone the first two nights—everything normal, having a great time, weather was perfect. Then nothing. No calls, no signals, no sign of them until the search party found the camp.
"The rangers say bear attack." Haley's hands clenched. "But there was no blood. None. If a bear killed three people, there'd be blood everywhere. There'd be... remains."
"Maybe the bear dragged them off," Ben said quietly. "Maybe it—"
"No." Haley cut him off. "Something else happened. I don't know what, but I'm not leaving until I find Tom."
Ethan stepped forward. He'd been hanging back, letting Dean and Sam work, but something about Haley's determination resonated with him. He'd had a sister once. He'd failed her too.
"You hired a guide," he said. "For tomorrow's search."
Haley looked at him—really looked, for the first time since they'd arrived. "How did you know that?"
"The ranger mentioned you've been pushing for deeper searches. That means you're planning to go yourself. And you're smart enough not to go alone."
A moment of silence. Then Haley nodded. "Roy. Ex-military, knows these mountains better than anyone. He's meeting us at dawn."
"Mind if we tag along?"
Dean shot Ethan a look—half annoyed, half impressed. They'd been planning to search on their own, but joining Haley's group gave them cover and access to a guide who knew the terrain.
"Why would reporters want to hike into the wilderness?" Haley asked.
"Human interest story," Sam said smoothly. "Nothing sells papers like a rescue."
Haley considered them for a long moment. Whatever she saw must have satisfied her, because she finally nodded.
"Dawn. Don't be late."
[Blackwater Ridge Trailhead — September 20, 2005, Dawn]
Roy was exactly the type Ethan had expected: hard, competent, and carrying the particular brand of arrogance that came from surviving situations others hadn't. Former Marine, probably—he had the bearing, the haircut, the way of standing that said he'd done things and seen things and wasn't impressed by much anymore.
He also didn't like having extra people on his hike.
"Three reporters and two Collins kids," Roy said, checking his gear with practiced efficiency. "That's a lot of dead weight to drag through rough country."
"We can handle ourselves," Dean said.
"Can you?" Roy's eyes swept over them—assessing, dismissing. "These mountains eat hikers for breakfast. You fall behind, you get left behind."
"Understood."
They set off as the sun crested the eastern peaks, painting the forest in shades of gold and shadow. Roy took point, machete clearing brush when needed, pace relentless. Haley and Ben followed, then Sam and Dean, with Ethan bringing up the rear.
The Spirit stirred as they crossed the first ridgeline.
SOMETHING WATCHES.
Ethan's hand drifted toward the flare gun tucked in his jacket. Dean had loaned it to him that morning—a wordless acknowledgment that fire might be needed before the day was done.
"How far to the campsite?" Sam asked.
"Another three miles," Roy answered without turning. "We'll be there by noon if you keep up."
The forest grew denser as they climbed. Ancient pines blocked the sunlight, creating pockets of shadow that seemed to move when you weren't looking directly at them. The air smelled like pine needles and something else—something faintly wrong, like meat left out too long.
Ethan's Sin Sense flickered constantly. The creature was nearby, circling, watching. It registered as a deep, patient hunger rather than conventional guilt—centuries of kills had worn away whatever humanity the thing had once possessed, leaving only appetite.
"It's been following us since the ridgeline," he said quietly to Dean.
Dean didn't break stride. "You sure?"
"I can feel it. Can't pinpoint it—moves too fast—but it's there."
"Let it watch. We find the campsite, we find the survivors. Then we burn the bastard."
They reached the Collins campsite an hour before noon. Roy's pace had been brutal, but effective—they'd covered ground quickly, and the civilians were holding up better than expected.
The campsite was exactly as the reports described: tents shredded, gear scattered, no blood, no bodies. Whatever had happened here had been fast, violent, and impossibly clean.
Haley knelt beside her brother's ruined tent, hands trembling. Ben stood behind her, face pale.
"Tom!" Haley shouted into the forest. "TOM!"
"Keep your voice down," Roy snapped. "You want to attract whatever did this?"
Too late for that. The creature already knew they were here. Ethan could feel its attention sharpening, its hunger intensifying. They'd walked into its territory, and it was deciding when to strike.
"We need to establish a perimeter," Ethan said. "Set up a defensible position before dark."
Roy turned to face him, expression contemptuous. "I've been doing this longer than you've been alive, son. I don't need tactical advice from a reporter."
"I'm not a reporter."
The words came out harder than intended. Something in Ethan's tone made Roy's hand drift toward his own weapon—a hunting rifle slung across his back.
"Then what are you?"
"Someone who knows what's in these woods. Someone who wants everyone here to survive the night."
The tension held for three heartbeats. Then Dean stepped between them, hands raised.
"Easy, both of you. We're all on the same side here." He shot Ethan a warning look. "Let's focus on finding the survivors."
They searched the campsite for another hour, finding nothing useful. The creature had been thorough—taken what it wanted, left no trail that conventional tracking could follow.
But Ethan didn't need conventional tracking.
THE HUNGER LEADS WEST. OLD CAVES. OLD DEATHS.
"This way," he said, pointing toward a gap in the trees.
"How do you know?" Roy demanded.
"Instinct."
Roy looked ready to argue, but Haley cut him off. "If there's any chance Tom's alive, we follow every lead. Let's go."
They pushed deeper into the forest as the afternoon shadows lengthened. The creature's presence grew stronger with every step—closer, more focused, preparing to strike.
Night would come soon. And with it, the hunt.
Roy vanished three hours later.
One moment he was ten feet ahead, machete swinging at undergrowth. The next—gone. No sound, no struggle, just empty space where a man had been standing.
Haley screamed. Ben grabbed her arm. Dean's shotgun came up, sweeping the shadows for a target that wasn't there.
"WHERE IS HE?" Haley's voice cracked. "WHAT HAPPENED?"
Ethan's skin prickled with heat. The Spirit surged toward the surface, demanding transformation, demanding action. He forced it down—not yet, not with civilians watching, not until he had a target.
"It took him," he said. "Fast. Too fast to see."
"We have to find him!"
"We will. But first we survive the night."
The Wendigo screamed somewhere in the darkness ahead. Not a human sound—something older, hungrier, a noise designed to trigger prey responses in every mammal that heard it.
Then it spoke with Roy's voice: "HELP! HELP ME! OH GOD, PLEASE HELP!"
Haley lunged toward the sound. Dean caught her, pulling her back.
"That's not Roy. It's mimicking him. Trying to lure us."
"But what if—"
"It's not him." Dean's voice was gentle but firm. "I'm sorry."
The screaming continued for another minute, then faded into silence. The forest held its breath.
Ethan felt his transformation pressing at the edges of his control, fire building beneath his skin, the Spirit demanding release.
"It's close," he said. "We make a stand here, or we find its lair and take the fight to it. Your call."
Dean's jaw tightened. Sam was already pulling supplies from his pack—flares, lighter fluid, anything that could burn.
In the darkness, the Wendigo circled closer.
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