That Which Should Not Be by Brett J. Talley Page B

from his work and furrowed his brow.  “They say he was the most beautiful of them all, the Old Ones.  But when he was cursed, his beauty was taken, and he was rendered hideous to behold.  And perhaps if you were to show him his own image, you might have a chance.  But, like I said, that legend has been around for as long as I can remember, too, yet I've never met a man who used it to his advantage.”
    I looked out into the now darkening forest, and in my mind’s eye I saw the Wendigo in every tree, in every swaying branch, in every rustling bush.  “So, he’s really out there,” I said. 
    Doc Stanley just smiled. 
    “There’s nothing out there, Jack.”  I looked at him and didn’t understand.  After all this, I thought there was no question. 
    “What do you mean?” I asked.  Doc Stanley looked up and off into the distance, and I saw him make a decision. 
    “You should know,” he said, turning to me.  “Tom didn’t want to tell you, but you should know.  The Old Ones have passed from this Earth, at least in their physical form.  The Wendigo is a spirit, a powerful one, yes, but not strong enough to act in this world.  Not without a body, at least.”  Doc Stanley looked at me, seeing if I understood.  I did not.  “The Wendigo, my friend, is one of us.” 
    I sat there a second, not believing what I had heard.  Then, I turned slowly, looking back at the tents behind me, wondering about the men who lay within. 
    “But if it’s not you, and it’s not me,” I began, but Doc Stanley held up his hand to stop me. 
    “We don’t know that is true.”
    “What?” is all I could manage. 
    “The curse of the Wendigo is upon us.  Whoever he has taken, he will soon take completely.  Only the dead are above suspicion.  The true horror of the curse is that he who has been chosen does not know it at first.  The Great Old Ones are the masters of dreams, and in those dreams they will possess you.  To he who is Wendigo, the possession will begin as nothing more than a nightmare, a horrible flash of color and pain.  But, eventually, the power of the Wendigo will overcome him, and he will live the life of the undead, locked in his own mind, seeing through his own eyes as he does unspeakable things, but having no power to control it.”
    I thought back to the night Joe disappeared, to the fevered and demon-haunted dreams that filled my mind.  I shuddered at the horror that might be before me.
    “So, tonight,” Doc Stanley continued, “I will be watching the others.  It is not the things of the forest I fear.  It is what lurks in our own midst.  Now, it is late.  Go sleep, if sleep will come.” 
    I left him then, and something inside of me knew two things:  I would not sleep that night, and I would never see Doc Stanley again. 
     
    *   *   *
     
    I didn’t sleep.  My fevered mind raced from dark thought to darker.  It seemed to me there could be only two choices.  Either I was the Wendigo or I would die at his hands.  That one fate was more horrible than the next offered no comfort.  And that death was the preferable choice . . .  These were the thoughts that filled my mind, and my troubled soul found no respite.
    After several hours, I decided there was no point, and I arose to relieve Doc Stanley.  The fire still burned, but Stanley was gone.  He had not disappeared without a trace; in the flickering firelight, I could see blood dripping from the box on which he had sat.  The area around it was stained crimson with the same blood.  The rifle lay in the snow.  I could see something else was beside it, something that shimmered tan against the red blood beneath it.  But I ignored whatever it was.  I needed the rifle.  That was my primary concern. 
    I ran to where it lay and offered a glance to the thing that sat beside it.  And then I fell backwards.  It was Doc Stanley’s face — just his face — as if it had been ripped clean from his skull.  Empty black