The thing was nearby. He could sense it. He deliberately drove so the headlights illuminated the whole yard and house. He saw nothing yet. “Stay here,” he commanded, then he bounded out of the car. “Reese, it wants me. Let me go.” He shut the door on her protests. He was already running to his trunk and pulling out an automatic assault rifle, standard-issue trunk equipment in his department. He swept his way toward the cottage, using the light scope on the gun. That’s when he saw the studio door, open. The brute of a dog was down on all fours, ears tucked, whining, wanting to greet him but afraid to move from the doorway. “What is it, boy?” He whimpered at Reese, picked up his head and glanced at something behind him. Fear crawled along Reese’s spine as he smelled the stench of rotting flesh. He remembered that scent from the last encounter, a wendigo’s scent. He wheeled around. Where was it? He shined his light up into a tree and found the beast perched on a limb. His scope light speared the wendigo’s chest.
