The Windago

Author’s note: We lived in Alaska for three years when I was in the Army, so this setting was familiar. I have actually flown out to the Eskimo village of Nulato a couple of times. This story came to me as a particularly vivid nightmare. I typed it just as I dreamt it.

         Mark Chambers sat mesmerized by the emerald landscape that flashed underneath the small turboprop plane as it churned across the Alaskan muskeg. The winding rivers and marshes teemed with life, much of it large enough to be seen from this height. He turned to see his fifteen-year-old daughter Kirsten similarly occupied with the opposite window. He was pleased she had come. Her mother had not blessed the trip, but it had been a decade or more since she had blessed anything Mark had done. He forced the thought from his mind.

         The pilot banked gently left and cut the power sufficiently to initiate a gradual descent. Mark could make out the linear scar of an airstrip running parallel to the river below. He snugged his seatbelt slightly and reached over to do the same for his daughter. Satisfied that they were ready for landing he leaned back and closed his eyes. He always closed his eyes during takeoffs and landings. It was a habit. He supposed if nothing else this fact alone should have forever disqualified him as a pilot. That thought brought a smile.

         Kirsten’s company had been nothing but icing. Mark had written for a variety of magazines since well before she was born. An amicable phone call to his editor at National Geographic had easily secured permission to take her along. Spending a summer field trip in the wilds of Alaska with no one but her dad and a photographer should make for spirited discussion when she got back to school. As he got her for the entire summer anyway in keeping with the custody agreement, Mark was pleased he had been able to put it all together.

         As the plane lined up on final the pilot came over the intercom, “Everybody buckle up if you haven’t already. We’ll be down in a hot minute. Something’s sort of strange, though. There aren’t any kids out on the taxiway. Every time I’ve been here before you have to make a low pass or two just to shoo the kids out of the way. Getting a plane in here is a pretty big deal for these folks. No matter. We’ll sort it out directly. Sit tight.”

         Jim Elliott, a bush pilot Mark had known and used for years, greased the plane down as though he had done it all his life; which, for all practical purposes, he had. The transition from flying to rolling was seamless. For a man who hated flying as much as Mark did, Jim was the ideal pilot. As Jim taxied the plane onto the parking apron and killed the engine, there yet remained no sign of life from the village.

         Mark and William, his photographer, downloaded their meager gear while Kirsten poked around the airstrip and Jim checked over the airplane. Jim reached deep into the back of the cargo compartment and produced a Winchester 12-gauge pump shotgun. The weapon sported an extended magazine, and there were at least a dozen spare shells stored bandoleer-fashion in the sling.  

         “Jim, you know something I don’t?” Mark asked. “You really think we need the howitzer?”

         “No, buddy, I don’t,” Jim answered honestly. “But we’re not the dominant predator out here like we were in Anchorage. I just don’t see the harm.”

         Jim slipped the sling over his shoulder and grabbed his flight bag with a disarming smile.

         “I’d guess we’ve got another forty-five minutes to an hour of usable daylight,” the pilot continued. “Let’s head into town and settle on bunking arrangements before it gets too late.”

         As the party made its way down the four-wheeler track that led to town, Mark filled Kirsten in on the town and its inhabitants.

         “Nulato is an Inuit Eskimo village,” he explained. “It’s been here at least two hundred years and sports a population of around four to six hundred depending upon the time of year and how many kids have gone Outside for school. We’ve been here before, so everybody pretty much knows William and me. They’re gonna go ape over your blond hair. They don’t get a whole lot of that up here. It’s less than a quarter mile from the strip into town—that’ll be it just over this next rise.

         “Everything store-bought comes by air. In the summer the primary mode of travel is by four-wheeler. In the winter it’s by snow machine. It is peculiar that we haven’t seen or heard from anybody yet. As Jim said, having a plane come in is sort of a social event in my experience. Of course, this may all be something Todd and Amy put them up to.”

         Todd and Amy Ratcliffe were the focus of their upcoming article. Meeting and marrying in grad school, they had been in Nulato for two years studying a variety of areas. Caribou migrations represented the topic of the day, and Mark’s discussions with them by satellite phone had promised stunning photographs along with earthy material about which to write. They were, however, notorious practical jokers.

On a previous trip, Mark had been surprised when Amy had slipped into his room early one morning and slid open his window before leaving a basket of greens on the sill. The shock of awakening to find the enormous head of a live moose grazing peacefully not five feet from where he had slept was nearly enough to stop his heart. Amy brought the story up every time they were together. Mark was always a good sport and bore up under the ridicule right up until she claimed he had wet his pants. At that point he would always set the record straight and explain that, while he had indeed screamed like a little girl, he had not actually peed the bed.

They were good friends, and he looked forward to seeing them again. The couple lived in their own cabin on the other side of town. While William and Jim were planning to grab a bunk somewhere in town, Mark and Kirsten had an invitation to the spare room with the Ratcliffes.

         As they crested the hill, the entire town came into view. The tidy frame buildings were still nicely maintained, but there was no sign of people anywhere. Mark had never been to the place before that it did not have a dozen or more little Inuit kids tearing up and down summer or winter. It did seem peculiar.

         As they walked into the little town proper, Mark was surprised to notice fleeting glimpses of dark faces darting back behind curtains from all the buildings they passed. They knocked on several doors as they passed, but were unable to convince anyone to respond. Making their way to Greg Paslit’s place, the nominal mayor of the community, they stepped up onto his porch and banged on the door.

         “Greg, open the door, friend,” Chambers shouted as he knocked. “It’s Mark. You knew we were coming. Open up.”

         A familiar voice from behind the door answered, “Mark, get back in your plane and leave. It is not safe for you here. Please, go back now.”

         “Greg, what are you talking about?” Mark asked puzzled. “Open the door and let’s talk about this. You’re confusing me here, man.”

         William had his camera out and was snapping pictures of the deserted community. Jim slipped his flight bag over his left shoulder and shifted his weight so the grip of the shotgun rested just behind his right hand. Mark was the only other member of the party who had noticed the movement, but it gave him an involuntary shiver.

         “What are you jabbering about, Greg?” Mark continued. “What’s not safe about Nulato? Aside from the fact that nobody will come out and talk to us, it seems pretty normal to me. What’s going on?”

         The muffled voice returned from the other side of the door. “Mark, if you trust me, get back in your plane. I mean it. We cannot protect you here. Please leave.”

         Mark looked quizzically at the rest of his group. Kirsten looked shaken.

         Mark leaned close to the door and lowered his voice before speaking. “Really, Greg. What is this all about?”

         There was a brief pause. Mark could almost catch a tremor in the voice of his friend as he answered simply, “It is the season of the Windago, Mark Chambers. Please just leave now before it gets dark. I cannot speak with you any further. I have to get my family into the basement for safety. Good luck.”

         Mark listened as the footsteps receded into the house.

         “Jim, you know anything about a Windago?” Mark asked. “Sounds like an RV.”

         The pilot thought for a moment before answering.

         “I have heard the legend,” he said. “The Inuits tell an ancient story about the Windago. It is some kind of evil spirit that comes to life during certain specific times in the northern reaches. It’s said to be bloodthirsty…eats people according to the legend. The story goes back as far as the Inuits themselves do. I never got the details. Never really paid much attention to it before now. Whatever it is sure has Greg spooked, though. What do you want to do, boss? We’ve still got time to get back to the plane and launch before hard dark.” His hand stroked the stock of the shotgun absentmindedly.

         “I think this is all fairly ridiculous, but will make for some great Geographic fodder,” he answered with a smile. “Let’s get out to Todd and Amy’s and get their take on all this. If Nulato beds down for a day or two during Windago season, we’ll just all hang out with them and it’ll make some great background for the story. William, looks like you have plenty of shots of the deserted town. In a couple days when it comes alive again it’ll make for some great before and after stuff. Just follow me.”

         Mark took Kirsten’s hand and headed down the road toward the far end of town. Jim and William fell in behind them. Jim slid the strap of his flight bag securely up his left shoulder and shifted the shotgun to the ready. When Kirsten looked back at him he smiled. She smiled back, but her heart wasn’t in it.

         The Ratcliff cabin was less than a quarter mile outside of town. The route to it was little more than a footpath worn down through the shoulder-high summer grass. The breeze stiffened slightly and the grass seemed to move with a mind of its own, appearing more like water than flora. As they rounded the last curve, they could see that the lights were on in the cabin and the front door stood slightly ajar. As they approached the austere little porch with the hand-made willow chairs, Mark motioned for everyone else to stand back while he mounted the steps.

         Calling to his friends, Mark stopped at the threshold and gently pushed the door open. Stepping slowly into the doorway he looked around the tidy living room and fell backwards against the doorframe at the sight that greeted him.

         The modest furnishings of the little cabin were tossed and broken, framed photographs and dishes were strewn haphazardly everywhere as though there had been a great struggle. Blood still fresh and wet black was splashed liberally throughout. Mark felt his breath hang in his throat as he looked upward to the lifeless forms of his two friends suspended by their ankles from the rafters of the cabin. One of Amy’s arms had been torn raggedly from her body, and blood still dripped from the wound. Both of the corpses were ripped and mangled as though slaughtered by an animal. Coils of intestines hung from Todd’s ruptured belly in a cascade of gore.

         Regaining his senses Mark tumbled back out of the doorway and off the porch, his eyes wide with terror.

         “Todd and Amy are dead! We’re leaving now!” he gasped. “Let’s get back to the plane!”

         William seemed confused by events, but a glance through the open door made Jim drop his flight bag and cycle the action of his shotgun.

         The wind picked up to a soft roar and an inhuman howl lifted above the sound of the grass, vacillating unnaturally in pitch. Kirsten stifled a sob, and Mark pulled the girl close out of reflex. The dim light and the wind turned the entire world outside the light of the cabin into a sea of shadows and movement.

         “Right,” Jim said. “Stay close to me and don’t slow down. Sing out if anybody sees anything. Let’s go.”

         Mark and Kirsten fell in behind the pilot, while William pressed close in the rear. They followed the little trail at a trot while the windblown grass pressed them from the sides. Rounding the first curve by feel as fast as they dared in the dim light, there was suddenly an explosion of motion and William screamed long and shrill.

         Kirsten shrieked, “Daddy, he’s gone!” and pointed back down the trail.

         There was a sickening tearing sound followed by a wet gurgle just audible above the wind. Mark could hear some weak thrashing and then that same long howl. Down the trail back toward the cabin he could just make out the red glow of a pair of eyes looking back at him from the darkness.

         “Jim, there…” he shouted as he gestured toward the cabin. “Do you see it?”

         In one smooth motion Jim pressed Mark and his daughter down with his left hand as he swung his weapon to bear. He loosed two charges of buckshot as fast as he could cycle the action and then pulled the writer to his feet.

         “C’mon, let’s go!” the pilot shouted.

         “Wait, Jim, no!” Mark pleaded. “What about William?”

         Kirsten whimpered slightly.

         “William is dead, Mark,” he shouted. “And we have to go. Now!”

         The three remaining members of the group staggered madly down the trail toward the little Inuit town, trying to find footing on the trail in the darkness. Kirsten was sobbing openly.

With a horrifying suddenness, the thing burst out of the grass again and slammed all three of them to the ground. Kirsten screamed madly as she felt the creature’s weight press her into the dirt and its claws sink deep into her shoulder. Mark struck blindly at the beast as it flailed among them, its limbs knocking him aside without obvious effort. Jim brought the butt of his shotgun down on the creature by reflex and felt the wood of the stock crack against sinew and meat. He swiveled the weapon and pressed the muzzle as deep into it as he was able before stroking the trigger.

         The 12-gauge exploded like a thunderclap, and the monster convulsed away from the girl to begin thrashing mindlessly in the trail. Mark pulled his daughter close as Jim cycled the action on his gun. The pilot then reflexively rolled between the two of them and the dying monster. Before he could fire again, the thing fell still. In the darkness Mark heard its breath coming in ragged gasps before finally terminating in a long shrill cry. Unlike the earlier howling, the cry now had an eerie human quality.

         Mark groped in his pocket for his butane lighter. Struggling to shield the little flame against the wind, he held it out toward the still form in the trail. In the dim flickering light he made out the shape of a thin young Inuit boy, perhaps thirteen or fourteen, sprawled haphazardly in death. The boy was naked and there was an ugly jagged wound in the center of his chest. As the wind ebbed a thin wisp of smoke crawled out from the hole, and the boy’s body shivered slightly one last time before falling deathly still.

         Mark looked from the boy to his daughter and then to his friend. He could find no words. Kirsten moaned softly as he shifted his weight against her. Turning the flickering light toward his little girl, he could make out the sticky blackness of blood slowly soaking her t-shirt. Lifting the teenager as gently as he was able, he shouted, “C’mon, we’ve got to get her back to Fairbanks!”

         Both men stumbled along the trail with Jim in the lead, his shotgun tracking everywhere along their route. They pressed through the town without pausing and reached the airstrip winded and breathless. Jim took one last long look around before safing the gun and tossing it into the back of the plane. He tore the protective covers off of the engine intakes and pitot tubes and left them on the ground. As he climbed into the cockpit and began throwing switches, Mark lifted his daughter’s still form into one of the passenger seats and fastened her belt. By the dim cabin lights he retrieved his folding camp knife and cut the blood-soaked cloth away from the unconscious girl’s shoulder. Relief flooded over him as he saw that the four gashes were deep but obviously had not reached anything vital.

He leapt inside the plane and fastened the door behind him before taking the seat next to his daughter and tearing open the plane’s first aid kit. He had a large roll of cotton bandage pressed against the wound as the turbine engine began to whine. Rinsing the wound with half a bottle of peroxide, he slapped Jim on the shoulder and gave him a thumb’s up. Settling back into his seat, he dried and dressed his daughter’s injury with gauze and secured the dressing with surgical tape.

As the plane began to roll, he pulled his daughter’s head over onto his shoulder and stroked her blood-soaked hair. Whispering softly to her above the roar of the plane, he rocked gently back and forth, attempting to quench his own madness with the action. Jim extinguished the cabin lights and lined the plane up on the runway. Without voluntary thought, Mark let his head fall back against the headrest and squeezed his eyes shut tight for takeoff. At the same time, Kirsten whimpered and moved to burrow her head even deeper into her father’s shoulder, her long wet hair attenuating the movement. Her eyelids fluttered open, and, by the dim glow of the instrument lights, her eyes shown a deep but brilliant red.