The Call of the Wendigo

In the deep and wintry wood, where nightfall whispers low,
There stirs a creature old as frost, called the Wendigo.
It prowls beyond the hearth’s last light, past branches frozen bare,
With footsteps faint as falling snow and hunger in the air.

No earthly beast nor wandering soul, it bears no mortal face,
Its eyes two burning points of fire that stalk the human trace.
Long, twisted limbs and matted skin stretched thin as hollow bone,
And breath that freezes warmth to ice, as cold as haunted stone.

They say it walks when hunger calls, when famine takes its due,
When forest folk are left with scraps and winter's biting blue.
In times of hardship, legends claim, the Wendigo will rise,
To mark the spot where bitter need awakens strange desires.

Once man, but lost to twisted fate, some hunter, trapped, alone,
Who crossed the line 'twixt life and death with flesh and marrow bone.
For when a man forsakes the bounds of what the soul should bear,
The curse of Wendigo descends, consuming all that’s there.

At night it watches over towns, its hunger sharp as blades,
Its fingers long as withered trees in frozen forest glades.
And should one wander past the path, where northern breezes moan,
They say the Wendigo appears, to claim them as its own.

Some travelers tell of distant howls, of cries that echo wide,
Of voices lifted in the dark from far on mountainside.
These sounds, they say, are warning signs that none should venture near,
For Wendigo does not forgive, it only brings you fear.

The people gather 'round the fire on nights of storm and snow,
To ward against the creature’s wrath, to pray it will not show.
But still, a chill may find its way, where walls give way to wind,
And shadows curl against the door, inviting something in.

For every hunter left alone where winter silence reigns,
Is one who feels that creeping dread run wild through his veins.
The Wendigo is patient, drawn by sorrow, cold, and blood,
And once it has you in its grasp, you’re swallowed in its flood.

They say it whispers through the frost, in voices soft and slow,
And lures the weary wanderer to where the lost things go.
With promises of endless feasts and comforts never seen,
It tempts the soul to stray beyond where warmer hearths have been.

But beware, for those who answer back, who heed that whispered call,
Shall find themselves in frozen snare where echoes twist and fall.
For Wendigo is hunger wild, a thing beyond control,
And those who see its face are lost, consumed both flesh and soul.

So heed these words when winter comes, keep close to warmth and light,
Stay far from woods where Wendigo walks, and stars grow faint at night.
For once the icy cold takes hold, your mind becomes unclear—
And Wendigo will feed again, as midnight draws you near.

Through hollow glen and shadowed wood, where moonlight dares not go,
The creature waits with bated breath: the dreadful Wendigo.