I know, I’m a horrible person for not updating in a year and not keeping to my promise of a shorter update gap. This chapter is basically setting up what is to come in the hopefully nearer future. I could rant on with excuses of university and work taking up most of my time, but I won’t bore you all with that. Thanks for reading!

The sun had barely peaked from the spindly pine trees as the trapper made his way through the lake. His motor boat sputtered and puffed, breaking the silent early morning. A warm breeze from the west carried the sharp scent of pine to his nose and ruffled through his scraggly, black hair. It was going to be another hot day, much hotter than it normally was in the summer. The trapper remembered when it was this hot in the far north, almost thirty–five years ago. Ah, those were the good ol’ days, he would think to himself. When the fishing so good, you could hold a fish hook over a boat and a ten pound jack fish would leap out of the water to catch it; when the elk and dear wandered through the forests in large herds, when the game was so plentiful, it only took half a day for a rabbit, minx or fox to be caught in a trap. But those days were long gone, thanks to commercial fishing, hunting, tourism, mining and logging. Being a trapper was not an easy life, it took days, even weeks to trap a single animal, and it often forced him to search for other areas several kilometres away from the usual sites. Today, the trapper hoped he would be lucky.

“Turn left here Bernard, we’re nearly there.”

The eighteen year old Dene driver steered the metal boat around the bend, feeling it jump and bounce on the gentle waves of the lake.

“How many traps are there, Laurence?” he asked.

“I only have one here, but I’d like to visit six today.”

Laurence was helping him trap animals since his father, a fellow trapper and friend, had been very sick. Because he was ill for so long, he had to be flown to the hospital in Twin Lake and has been there for the last two weeks. Until his father became well, Bernard was to take on the business to support his family. The large man tugged at the collar of his red plaid shirt and wiped his hands on his work pants, scanning the shore ahead.

“Cut the motor Bernie, we’ll let the current push us to shore.”

The teen shut the motor off and dug out the rope from beneath his feet. Laurence carefully leaned out and snatched a handful of branches to pull the side of the boat against the rocky coast. Bernard leapt from the boat and landed with perfect balance, rope in hand. Bushes tugged at his brown pants and yanked at the laces of his boots as he wound the rope on a tree, securing it tightly. He turned to see come towards him, handing him a pack of trapping gear and a cooler full of ice. The large man reached back into the boat and slung a hunting rifle onto his shoulder. Although he rarely used it, he brought the gun along just in case.

“Hope you’re in good shape, ‘cause the walk is mostly uphill. Just follow the red markers and we’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Bernard grunted as he swung the pack over his shoulders and picked up the cooler. Laurence chuckled as he hobbled along.

“Believe it or not Bernie, this is the easy trail. My other traps are usually a forty minute hike.”

The teen made a slight scowl but did not say a word. It was not the first time he had travelled in rough terrain, but the hot weather made it less tolerable. Rocks slippery with moss jutted out like mouldy teeth from the trail, bush and tree branches tugged at his pants and slapped against his sweaty face as he walked up the hill, but he did not complain. Finally the two trappers passed the last marker and there stood a small cage along an animal trail in the midst of the shrubbery and trees. Inside the cage was a good size rabbit, its brown coat looking very well groomed and healthy. The little creature’s nose twitched as he watched with big, fearful eyes at the humans. Bernard put down his gear with a sigh and Laurence gave a nod of approval.

“Yup, that’s a goon ‘un, lots ‘o meat on ‘im and beautiful fur,” he turned to his companion, “okay Bernie, show me what yah got.”

The Dene grinned and pulled out a freshly sharpened hunting knife. He went to the cage and stood in front of it to make the animal did not leap out. The rabbit did the opposite, it slinked to the back of the cage to try and avoid the large hand that reached inside. Bernard grabbed at the creature’s hind legs, holding fast as it began to struggle. He pulled it out just enough so he could grab its long ears. The rabbit made a high pitched squeal as Bernard pressed the knife against the furry throat and gave a sharp jerk. The rabbit stopped moving and this throat bled openly on the ground. Laurence smiled.

“Very good, that was quick and painless. You remember how to skin it?”

“Yeah, but I can’t do it like my dad. He can skin rabbits better than me.”

“It takes a lot of practise. Go on, I’ll coach yah.”

Under careful direction, Bernard carefully took the skin off the rabbit without damaging the fur or meat. Laurence went to set the trap again when he suddenly heard a strange noise. He looked around, wondering if a bobcat was nearby. When he heard nothing he shrugged it off and reset the trap. He went back to view the young boy’s work and was about to speak when he heard the strange noise again. This time he picked up what sounded like a very low, guttural growl. It was definitely not the sound of a bobcat and Laurence ruled out the possibility of a bear. He had sometimes seen bears try to get at the bait inside the traps, but they made huffing and grunting noises, not growls.

“Hey Bernie, did you hear somethin’?”

“Hear what?” the young man did not look up from his work.

“I thought I heard something growl.”

Bernard shot his head up, “What?”

Laurence shook his head, “Nevermind, must be these old trees. Keep goin’, you’re doin’ great.”

The young Dene appeared worried, but went back to skinning the rest of the rabbit. Laurence folded his arms and continued to listen a little longer, holding his gun closer to him. After a while he should his head and sat down on a nearby rock and reached into the pack to pull out a bottle of water. He took several gulps when his ears picked up the mysterious growl, this time it was much louder. Bernie jumped and nearly cut himself with the skinning knife.

“What was that?”

Laurence tried to think of something to calm the situation, but his mind drew a blank. Whatever growled, it was something he had never encountered before. Laurence took the hunting rifle from his shoulder and flicked the safety off.

“Wait ‘ere Bernie, and don’t make a sound,” he said quietly as he pushed through the underbrush.

The young man did not know what to do, he felt he should help his friend, but obediently he stayed where he was. The experienced trapper stared at the bush like a hawk searching a mouse, his ears perked to the slightest abnormal noise. He carefully picked himself over the rocky terrain, gun cocked and ready. Laurence stepped over a boulder, silently pushing willow branches away from his view. His heart pounded in his chest as he turned in a slow circle, listening. Forgetting the rabbit, Bernard watched anxiously at his companion and also peered into the trees, trying to pin point where the growl came from. Laurence suddenly pulled the trigger and a loud bang erupted through the forest. Bernard’s hands flew to his ears, feeling them ring painfully. The Dene’s heart began to race as Laurence listened again, hoping that the gun shot scared away whatever was stalking them. But there was nothing, there was hardly any movement at all.

After several long minutes Laurence relaxed and appeared satisfied. “I must be gettin’ old,” he thought. He turned to give Bernard the okay, when the hairs on the back of his neck suddenly rose. Forty years of trapping in the wild told him they were being watched. He tensed his hands over his weapon, darting his eyes from one bush to another, trying to locate the danger. The trapper was abruptly stopped by a sudden flicker in the brush. A ball of fear grew in his as he stared at it. The more he did, the more it began to take the shape of a body and head. Laurence felt fear crawl up his back and he nearly screamed when he saw two, yellow glowing eyes. He raised his rifle and aimed, shooting off another round. Bernard leapt to his feet when he saw the gun flare.

“Laurence!”

“Run Bernie, run!” The large man shouted back as he fired again. The wavy form dodged from his shot and the man turned to run.

“Run boy—“

He didn’t finish when Bernard say a spray of red explode from the man’s neck and he gurgled as he fell. Something round and silver flew through the air before disappearing. The teen gasped in complete shock, unsure of what to do. Laurence looked up desperately, chocking on blood that was gushing from his neck.

“I…..said….run…..” Laurence gargled.

Bernard felt sick to his stomach, his mind screamed to run, but his legs would not move. A shake in the bushes caused him to look away from his wounded companion. He could not see anything, until his sharp eyes caught a momentary glimpse of a large body materialising out of nowhere. Huge, sharp blades sprung out from the form’s arm and plunged in to Laurence’s back. He cried out in anguish before collapsing to the ground. The teen shrieked and slowly began to back away trembling, refusing to believe what he had seen.

“Windigo…” he gasped through rapid breaths.

The invisible creature gave a final twist and yanked the blood covered blades from his dead victim. The boy saw the creature raise his head at him and Bernard’s legs suddenly worked. He ran full speed to the boat, stumbling over rocks and moss, branches whipping at his face and clothes.

“Windigo…Windigo!” he kept crying through whimpered gasps.

He finally came to the end of the trail and collapsed into the boat. He cut the line and pushed off the shore, fumbling to try and start the motor with his blood soaked hands. He frantically checked the forest to see if the creature was following him until the motor suddenly came to life. Bernard turned on the throttle and sped away from the island as quickly as he could, not even paying attention to where he was going as tears of fear and sadness rolled down his cheeks.

From the shore, the cloaked Hunter watched the small ooman leave. He was grinning behind his mask, “perfect,” he thought, “now the real challenge begins.” He went back to his fresh kill and proceeded to make it his trophy.

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Morgan strummed the strings of his guitar and picked a few chords as he relaxed on the couch. “Five days,” he thought happily, “five days until the hunting trip.” The excitement grew warmly in the pit of his stomach. He had been busily planning his packing list: clothing, camping gear, footwear. Some of it was already set aside in his room, his hunting knife, compass, a survival guide, a whistle, his headlamp, cotton socks, nylon pants and old t–shirts. Uncle Danny had been making frequent visits to help his nephew form a food plan, show him maps of lakes and trails they would be visiting and teaching how to use the GPS. Following the maps and the GPS was not hard, but forming a departure plan was. So far they had planned to leave before the break of dawn to avoid heavy traffic and when day finally broke, Morgan would have to lay on the cramped backseat, with a blanket over him. It wasn’t going to be the most comfortable ride, but to get outside and go hunting was worth the effort.

Morgan’s tune became more upbeat as he continued to play. Him and his uncle would be gone for a week and although he was a little unsure of staying away from his piano and guitar that long. He stopped playing for a moment and looked at the head of his guitar, feeling the strings with his calloused fingers. Uncle Danny had told him he would be too excited to even think about his music. The front door opened and Morgan looked up to see Lindsay and Nicki come in with bags of groceries.

“Woah man, it’s boiling outside,” Lindsay said as she passed, “we live in the north for God’s sake! How can it be this hot and dry for so long?”

“Hot and dry? I haven’t noticed,” said Morgan with a grin.

Lindsay ignored him as she and Nicki unloaded the groceries in the kitchen. The red head opened the fridge door to put the milk away and left it open a while longer, letting out a sigh as the cool air kissed her hot skin. The phone rang and Nicki went to pick it up.

“Hello? Hi, Uncle Danny, how goes?”

Lindsay closed the fridge and put the cereal away.

“What? What happened?”

The seventeen year old stopped what she was doing and glanced at her brother, who appeared very shocked and confused.

“It happened when—” he paused, “what channel?”

Lindsay looked at her older brother questioningly. He covered the receiver with his hand.

“Turn the TV to channel nine. A trapper from Hague has been murdered.”

The teens eyes widened as she dashed into the living room and grabbed the remote to turn on the TV. Morgan strummed a sour note from the interruption.

“Hey, what gives?”

“Uncle Danny says someone was murdered up in the north.”

Morgan was confused, but worried none the less. Events such as this rarely occurred and it was a huge deal when they did. The screen come on and Lindsay surfed the channels until she found number nine to a news report.

“—twelve kilometres west of Hague a man by the name of Laurence Timbolt, an experienced northern trapper was found dead yesterday morning. According to his companion, whose name has not been released, they were attacked by a large human–like creature, claiming to be the creature Windigo—”

The three family members listened with great intent. They had heard about the Windigo many times from campfire stories and school lessons. Windigo was a mythical creature in Assiniboine culture who lived in the forests and fed upon people who became lost. But no matter how much the Windigo ate, his cravings were never satisfied.

“—the eyewitness got away from the attacker by jumping into the boat he and Laurence used to get to the island. Three passing fisherman saw him handling the boat in an unsafe manner and thinking he was in trouble, intercepted the eyewitness. The fisherman found him crying uncontrollably and his hands covered in blood. Rescuers were able to return to the scene of the attack and found the skinned body of Timbolt, hung upside down but his ankles with rope. Police have the eyewitness in custody and are questioning him of his story. Until the blood on his hands has been analysed, no further details or other suspects have been released.”

Lindsay hand her hand over her mouth, “My God, what kind of a maniac skins a body?”

Morgan shook his head with disgust, “I don’t know, he must’ve been on something. Did Uncle Danny know the guy?”

“He might ‘ave,” Lindsay was trying to listen to the rest of the report.

“Yeah we watched it,” said Nicki, “sure he’s here.”

Morgan felt a tap on his shoulder and looked to see his brother hand him the phone.

“Uncle Danny wants to talk to you.”

The alien put the phone to his ear.

“Hey, Uncle Danny.”

“Hi Morgan, you saw the news?”

“Uh huh. I can’t believe this guy skinned a trapper.”

“I don’t think he did Morgan. I knew that trapper and I was told recently that the son of a well respected Dene trapper accompanied him. I’ve gone on a few trips with him and his father. They are good people, that boy is not responsible for the murder.”

Morgan was speechless, “Then, why would someone kill and skin a trapper out in the middle of nowhere?”

“I don’t know. Listen Morgan, I think we may have to put off the hunting trip. Once the witness is cleared the whole north will be swarming with RCMP. I don’t want to risk you being seen if we go out there.”

Morgan tried hard not to growl in disappointment.

“Situations might become different if they catch the guy. You understand Morgan?”

The alien nearly hissed, “Yeah, I understand.”

“Good. I think the boy’s father is currently at the hospital. I’ll go there first to see how he’s doin’, then I’ll be comin’ over later.”

“Bye, Uncle Danny.”

Morgan hung up the phone and leaned back against the couch. Of all the times for a tragedy, it had to be now! He dearly prayed someone would find the murderer, otherwise he could very well go insane as well.

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The Hunter sat in a thick birch tree, letting the hot sun warm his skin as he held the freshly polished skull in his hand. He tenderly trailed a claw over the brow, around the eye socket and down the point bridge of the nose. The Hunter tilted his head to one side, he wondered why such commendable prey had very small brains. Not that it surprised him, these beings were so very primitive.

He heard a shout and looked down to the ooman males who were trying to get his kill down from the tree, ten metres away. Only two of them could handle the coppery stench of blood, while the four others would not come near. The Hunter saw one of them regurgitate behind a tree. “Pathetic,” he thought. This ooman he held did not become squeamish at the sight of blood while he was watching an animal being skinned. What difference did animals and oomans make? They both bled.

There was a roar above the Hunter and he looked up to see a tiny ooman aircraft approach. He thought it best to leave and put his skull away in a leather bag strapped to his belt. Though the oomans were primitive, he did not underestimate their technology. They too could track prey with the use of heat and radar and would most likely use them if they wanted to find the one responsible for the kill. The Hunter activated his cloaking device and took off through the trees towards his awaiting shuttle. Tomorrow was a new day, with new prey to hunt.

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The murders went on for another five days. Four more bodies were found strung up and skinned in the northern forests. Towns became panicked as they wondered who would be next to be killed by the Windigo. Morgan became more upset with each passing day, not only was he worried about the murderer, he was still distressed about the cancelled hunting trip. While he did not believe a mythical creature was causing the killings, he believed this person was very smart. All the murders were focussed towards trappers and hunters, no tracks, bullets or any evidence of a struggle were found and the bodies would be skinned with precision and ease. It seemed this serial killer was a hunter himself.

“Hey Morgan, come look quick!” shouted Lindsay.

Morgan dashed out of the music room and headed to where his sister was sitting in front of the TV.

“They’re showing what this Windigo looks like.”

The screen displayed two pictures, one of the Native American Windigo and the other one described by the only eyewitness. Although there were many different stories about the Windigo, his description was still the same. A taller than average, two legged being, with large eyes, a malformed body and large teeth inside a twisted mouth. It is said, that the Windo’s hunger is so intense, he ate his own lips off. The creature was more or less like a zombie and represented greed and selfishness—not cannibalism as some people thought. It was sometimes said, that those who became selfish, turned into a Windigo.

Next to the mythical creature was the eyewitness drawing: a very tall humanoid with glowing eyes, long hair and shadowed face. Very similar in appearance to the Windigo, but obviously one that did not follow the behaviour as told by Assiniboine legend. Lindsay shook her head and looked back at Morgan. She was about to say something, but suddenly frowned. She glanced back at the TV, then to Morgan.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing, It’s nothing.”

Morgan looked confused, but when he heard the sound of the quad he headed for the door.

“Dad and Nicki are back with the wood for the veranda. I’ll be back.”

Lindsay watched her brother leave and turned off the TV. She did not want to tell Morgan, but he looked almost exactly like eyewitness drawing of Windigo.

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The Hunter strapped himself to his seat of his shuttle and activated the controls. It had been a good hunting trip, four ooman skulls in total. One he was particularly proud of, for the ooman hunter had put up a fight before he died. I was not because of the way he defended himself, but how well he did. He actually took a swing at him! The punch caught him square under the chin and it had sent quite the painful jar through his mandibles. Many years had passed since he had been hit by an inferior creature and although furious, he was thrilled! The Hunter chuckled in his throat at the memory, one does not get prey like that on every hunt, but now it was time to leave. Four skulls in five days were more than enough to boost his status and with his influence on the oomans it was not safe to stay; but something tugged at the back of his mind.

He recalled the shadowy visions from Paya. Nothing miraculous or life changing happened on the hunt, yet he could not figure out why he felt the need to stay longer. The Hunter peered out into the dark forest in front of him, thinking maybe his visions were referring to another, future hunt. The Hunter shrugged and keyed in the last sequence in the controls. In four weeks, all the lone hunters would return from their trips and then they would return to the Homeworld. The Hunter felt the shuttle hover for a moment, then silently take off in a wave of blurred heat. The only witness to the take off was a moose, lazily grazing the grass near the landing area.

I thank all those who have stuck with this story. I understand how much you want to know more about what happens and it thrills me to see how much you all enjoy it. It’s comments like those that keep me going! Again, thanks for your patience and I hope to update more quickly in the near future.