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    The Wendigo: Classic Horror
    The Wendigo: Classic Horror
    The Wendigo: Classic Horror
    Ebook72 pages1 hour

    The Wendigo: Classic Horror

    By Algernon Blackwood

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    About this ebook

    Algernon Blackwood's classic tale, The Wendigo. An influential novella by one of the most best-known writers of fantasy and horror, set in a place and time Blackwood knew well. A masterful tale, a classic of the fantasy and horror genres! A camper tale, this time set in the Canadian wilderness. A hunting party separates to track moose, and one member is abducted by the Wendigo of legend. Robert Aickman regarded this as "one of the (possibly) six great masterpieces in the field".

     
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDiamond Book Publishing
    Release dateDec 16, 2019
    ISBN9788835345725
    The Wendigo: Classic Horror
    Author

    Algernon Blackwood

    Algernon Blackwood was a master of supernatural fiction, known for his ability to create a sense of unease and tension in his readers. His writing often explored the boundary between the natural and supernatural worlds, and the psychological impact of encountering the unknown.

    Read more from Algernon Blackwood

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    Reviews for The Wendigo

    4/5

    8 ratings2 reviews

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    • 4/5
      An atmospheric, well narrated and descriptive read. It's not the spookiest thing I've ever read, however, the way the author sets the scenes up adds to the ominous feeling of the book. The atmosphere is one of dread, fear and terror. Though it's short, the story didn't feel rushed and really read seamlessly and kept my interest piqued.
      Really happy to have found this one on Everand and will be checking out more of this author.
    • 5/5
      Much horror, very pog. Memes aside is a very atmospheric with an enticing narrative.

    Book preview

    The Wendigo - Algernon Blackwood

    CHAPTER I

    A considerable number of hunting parties were out that year without finding so much as a fresh trail; for the moose were uncommonly shy, and the various Nimrods returned to the bosoms of their respective families with the best excuses the facts of their imaginations could suggest. Dr. Cathcart, among others, came back without a trophy; but he brought instead the memory of an experience which he declares was worth all the bull moose that had ever been shot. But then Cathcart, of Aberdeen, was interested in other things besides moose—amongst them the vagaries of the human mind. This particular story, however, found no mention in his book on Collective Hallucination for the simple reason (so he confided once to a fellow colleague) that he himself played too intimate a part in it to form a competent judgment of the affair as a whole....

    Besides himself and his guide, Hank Davis, there was young Simpson, his nephew, a divinity student destined for the Wee Kirk (then on his first visit to Canadian backwoods), and the latter's guide, Défago. Joseph Défago was a French Canuck, who had strayed from his native Province of Quebec years before, and had got caught in Rat Portage when the Canadian Pacific Railway was a-building; a man who, in addition to his unparalleled knowledge of wood-craft and bush-lore, could also sing the old voyageur songs and tell a capital hunting yarn into the bargain. He was deeply susceptible, moreover, to that singular spell which the wilderness lays upon certain lonely natures, and he loved the wild solitudes with a kind of romantic passion that amounted almost to an obsession. The life of the backwoods fascinated him—whence, doubtless, his surpassing efficiency in dealing with their mysteries.

    On this particular expedition he was Hank's choice. Hank knew him and swore by him. He also swore at him, jest as a pal might, and since he had a vocabulary of picturesque, if utterly meaningless, oaths, the conversation between the two stalwart and hardy woodsmen was often of a rather lively description. This river of expletives, however, Hank agreed to dam a little out of respect for his old hunting boss, Dr. Cathcart, whom of course he addressed after the fashion of the country as Doc, and also because he understood that young Simpson was already a bit of a parson. He had, however, one objection to Défago, and one only—which was, that the French Canadian sometimes exhibited what Hank described as the output of a cursed and dismal mind, meaning apparently that he sometimes was true to type, Latin type, and suffered fits of a kind of silent moroseness when nothing could induce him to utter speech. Défago, that is to say, was imaginative and melancholy. And, as a rule, it was too long a spell of civilization that induced the attacks, for a few days of the wilderness invariably cured them.

    This, then, was the party of four that found themselves in camp the last week in October of that shy moose year 'way up in the wilderness north of Rat Portage—a forsaken and desolate country. There was also Punk, an Indian, who had accompanied Dr. Cathcart and Hank on their hunting trips in previous years, and who acted as cook. His duty was merely to stay in camp, catch fish, and prepare venison steaks and coffee at a few minutes' notice. He dressed in the worn-out clothes bequeathed to him by former patrons, and, except for his coarse black hair and dark skin, he looked in these city garments no more like a real redskin than a stage Negro looks like a real African. For all that, however, Punk had in him still the instincts of his dying race; his taciturn silence and his endurance survived; also his superstition.

    The party round the blazing fire that night were despondent, for a week had passed without a single sign of recent moose discovering itself. Défago had sung his song and plunged into a story, but Hank, in bad humor, reminded him so often that he kep' mussing-up the fac's so, that it was 'most all nothin' but a petered-out lie, that the Frenchman had finally subsided into a sulky silence which nothing seemed likely to break. Dr. Cathcart and his nephew were fairly done after an exhausting day. Punk was washing up the dishes, grunting to himself under the lean-to of branches, where he later also slept. No one troubled to stir the slowly dying fire. Overhead the stars were brilliant in a sky quite wintry, and there was so little wind that ice was already forming stealthily along the shores of the still lake behind them. The silence of the vast listening forest stole forward and enveloped them.

    Hank broke in suddenly with his nasal voice.

    I'm in favor of breaking new ground tomorrow, Doc, he observed with energy, looking across at his employer. We don't stand a dead Dago's chance around here.

    Agreed, said Cathcart, always a man of few words. Think the idea's good.

    Sure pop, it's good, Hank resumed with confidence. S'pose, now, you and I strike west, up Garden Lake way for a change! None of us ain't touched that quiet bit o' land yet—

    I'm with you.

    "And you, Défago, take Mr. Simpson along in the small canoe, skip across the lake, portage over into Fifty Island Water, and take a good squint down that thar southern shore. The moose 'yarded' there like hell last year, and for all we know they may be doin'

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