During the Hunt

That day... was fifteen years ago.

I was already in my fifties, but still strong enough to take on most things that went bump in the night. I remember it as clearly as if it happened yesterday. At the time, I was hunting alone. The boys had their own serious matters to handle, so I took this hunt by myself and bid them farewell.

I was called here after a major news broadcast reported a massacre in a remote Arctic village. A few residents torn apart, their body parts scattered, chewed, and eaten. At first, I assumed it was a werewolf.

But when I reached the nearest town, I heard more alarming news: a growing list of missing people in the surrounding forest.

I spent hours cracking my head over what kind of creature could be responsible. To get answers, I disguised myself as an FBI investigator and inspected the crime scene. The moment I saw the bodies, my instincts told me it couldn’t be a werewolf. The remains were torn apart, then tossed aside like rag dolls. Werewolves kill to feed or to turn. They don’t mutilate for sport.

Talking to the villagers gave me my first real lead.

Every time something terrible happened, they heard a bone-chilling howl. Then they saw it—the shadow of a wolf, far too large to be any ordinary animal. Big enough to make a polar bear look small.

They called it... Amaroq.

An Amarok, or Amaroq, depending on which Inuit elder you speak to. A gigantic wolf of legend. A lone hunter of the night. Stories say its eyes are so deep and piercing they feel otherworldly, as if the creature stares straight into your soul.

One legend said that when a man killed an Amarok’s pups, the beast dragged something human-shaped from the lake—something that wasn’t the man—and he die instantly. Never even faced the creature directly.

I’m not easily shaken, but after reading through the old stories and seeing the carnage with my own eyes, my hands trembled. I had hunted gods, demons, and fallen angels... but this felt different. Like something that didn’t fit into the categories I knew.

Still, driven by bravery—or stupidity—I decided to hunt the creature. Even knowing I might not make it out alive.

Looking back now, I can admit it was a foolish decision. But what happened, happened.

I rented an old wooden cottage near the forest where the Amarok was usually sighted and set up a base. I geared myself properly: a shotgun loaded with silver bullets, an angel blade my celestial friend swore could kill anything under the sky, the Colt, a flare gun, and a first-aid kit.

Around noon, I ventured into the forest. The Arctic sun hung low even at that hour, stretching the shadows between the trees like thin fingers. I walked for a good two hours before I heard a small whimper. Following the sound, I found a wolf pup trapped beneath a collapsed snow hole. Its leg was badly wounded, likely from landing on a sharp rock.

The hole wasn’t deep, so I climbed down, bandaged the pup’s leg, fixed a makeshift splint, and lifted it back onto the snow. It looked at me once before disappearing into the white forest. I stood there for a moment longer than I should have, wondering if I made the correct decision by embarking on this hunt.

I continued forward until nightfall. A snowstorm rolled in, so I searched for shelter and found a cave deep in the forest. The moment I stepped inside, something felt wrong. My hunter instincts prickled like needles under my skin—like something old and hateful was watching me from somewhere in the dark.

I ventured deeper, twenty... thirty minutes, until I reached a wider chamber. Bones everywhere—piles of them, unmistakably human. Some old, some disturbingly fresh. And in the far corner, half-hidden in shadow, stood a massive figure.

Its shape was a wolf’s, but its size defied logic. Its body should’ve scraped the cave walls, yet it moved easily, as if the space bent around it. For a moment, I didn’t breathe. I wasn’t sure I could.

I raised my shotgun and stepped closer. Close enough to fire. The silver pellets tore into its fur and flesh—but the Amarok didn’t even flinch. It simply turned its head and looked at me.

Its stare...

It didn’t just give me chills.

It felt like it was pulling my soul out through my eyes.

When it lunged, I threw myself aside, barely dodging. I drew the Colt—my finger itching to fire—but then I heard a familiar whimper.

The pup I saved stepped between us.

It faced the Amarok with its tiny, trembling frame, and something in me realized.

That wasn’t a wild pup.

It was the Amarok’s child.

They howled at each other—low and mournful. Their sound echoed through the stone chamber, vibrating through my bones. It didn’t sound like a monster’s roar.

It sounded like grief.

And then, from the corner of my vision, three shapes shifted in the shadows.

Their bodies were tall and thin.

They were human-shaped, but everything about them felt off—the way they moved, the way they breathed, the way their eyes glowed faintly in the dark. I never faced them personally before, but I’d heard the tales from the two boys; they had hunted such creatures and shared their knowledge with me.

Creatures like these move extremely fast. They’re smart enough to unlock doors. Conventional guns are useless against them. Their name means “evil that devours.” Legend has it they were once human, but after being forced to eat human flesh to survive, something inside them changed. That diet twisted them into bloodthirsty predators that crave only human flesh and nothing else.

The real culprits.

Everything clicked into place.

The creature behind the massacre and disappearances wasn’t the Amarok.

The things lurking in the cave were...

... Wendigos.