Before the hunger

Nancy had always been fascinated by the wendigo.

Not like the villains in Marvel movies, or the theatrical demons from The Conjuring. Those things were loud. Dramatic. They wanted to be seen.

The wendigo did not.

It was hunger given a shape. Madness wrapped in flesh and bones, lurking in its shadow. Its body starved, its soul worse—gnawing, aching, screaming without a sound. Every second of its existence was need. Endless. Unforgiving.

It did not kill in rage.
It did not kill in hate.

It fed.

That was what Nancy believed.

She believed the stories were warnings, not promises. That the creature ate because it had to. She mostly believed people made the wendigo up to describe greedy and desperate people. That somewhere, buried beneath the antlers and the rot, there was something almost human left—something tragic.

She believed that when she stepped beneath the trees.

The forest swallowed sound. The air felt too tight, too cold, as if it were holding its breath. Every shadow seemed to lean closer. Watching. Waiting.

And then the truth found her.

The wendigo did not eat to survive.

It ate to make hunger last.

It ate slowly.
It ate deliberately.
And it never stopped.
It ate when it was already full.

“Nancy!” a voice called.

Nancy stopped reading the book she had just bought from the store. She owned many books about creatures—legends, myths, things that were never meant to exist. She loved those stories. Even more, she loved forming her own image of those creatures in her mind, untouched by other people’s fears.

“Nancy!” her mother’s voice called again, louder this time.

Nancy sighed in annoyance and called back, “What is it? I’m reading my book right now, Mom!”

She had liked the book at first. The beginning was good, and she felt connected to the main character. They shared the same thoughts. Even the same name.

But then it became strange.

The book insisted that wendigos were evil. Purely cruel. Demons wearing bones.

Nancy frowned.

She didn’t believe that. Wendigos weren’t evil beings. They didn’t hunt for pleasure. They were desperate. Starving. Cursed by hunger, not malice. That misunderstanding ruined everything for her. Completely destroyed the story.

With a sharp motion, Nancy stood up and threw the brand-new book into the trash bin.

Such a waste of money, she thought.

Nancy went downstairs with heavy, obviously annoyed footsteps. Her facial expression and the way she slouched down the stairs said more than a thousand words. Sunlight spilled across the kitchen floor, and the smell of toast made her stomach growl, though she barely noticed.

It was 2 p.m., and she hadn’t even changed out of her pajamas or brushed her teeth. She had been reading all night—the book she had just thrown away—which only made her more annoyed, realizing she’d wasted her time on such a dumb, false story.

“Nancy, you look like you just woke up!” her mother scolded furiously.

Nancy rolled her eyes, dragging her hand through her messy hair.

“You know the school trip is tomorrow, don’t you? Or did you forget that again? And I told you to stop reading those strange books all night—you’re getting lost in your fantasies!”

“I know, Mom, you don’t need to remind me every time you see me!” Nancy called back, sleepy and uninterested.

Her mom just sighed and muttered to herself, “Oh my… what should I do with this child?”

Nancy didn’t care what her mother thought. She loved her books and the mysteries within them.

She grabbed her toast and ran up the stairs again, her steps uneven and fast.

Nancy went into her room with heavy steps and threw herself onto her soft, cozy bed. It was her favorite place, if she was being honest.

She didn’t have many friends, and yes, some kids thought she was weird—but she had never really been bullied. Plus, she had her best friend, Tanja, so she didn’t care.

That was just who she was. Maybe she should think a little more and not be so naive—but Nancy didn’t think that would cause her any problems in the future.

Right?

Nancy unwillingly forced herself out of bed, knowing her mother would storm in soon and fill her ears with yelling. She didn’t have the nerves for that right now.

She tiredly threw her luggage on the floor and began packing for the school trip.

Boring, she thought. I didn’t even want to go on this stupid trip.

She didn’t understand what the so-called “great thing” about it was.
She didn’t like to socialize much—only when necessary, or when she actually had the energy for it.

A class trip was the nightmare of every introvert.
And oh, Nancy was a big one.

She tossed a few clothes into her red luggage, along with her hygiene products and a few books she wanted to read on the way to the village.

At least they weren’t going to a big city. She hated big cities and found them stressful; a small, quiet village was just her style.

Most of her classmates weren’t happy with this decision, but Nancy had her own plans. She wanted to go into the woods.

“Who knows,” she said playfully to herself, “maybe I’ll even see a wendigo. Haha.”

When she was finally done, she shoved her luggage—heavy from all the books she had packed—into the corner of her messy room and flopped onto her soft bed.

She inhaled and exhaled slowly, trying to shake off the lingering exhaustion. Her eyes drifted to the trash bin, where her brand-new book still lay.

Then a dark, distant feeling crept over her. Her body went cold, and a strange unease started to settle in her chest.

She crept over to the bin, grabbed the book, and tossed it out the window. A chill followed it, brushing against her cheek.

Hopefully she hadn’t hit her neighbor’s head—this had already happened once.

Such a dumb statement, she thought. Wendigos aren’t really evil like that.

She looked at her other wendigo books stacked beside her bed, surrounded by her plushies. She just loved how comfy it all felt.

"You aren’t evil, just...misunderstood," she whispered to herself.