"Tales From the Sentinel, 1907"

By Nicholas Efstathiou

He was a rarity.
The world has produced few men, the likes of Odd Thompson.
He spoke little, hunted much, and wrote like one possessed.
There was never an assignment he shirked from, nor was there anything that might turn his stomach. He and I cleared out the remnants of a wyvern’s nest on one of my islands after a newlywed couple from Milford, New Hampshire, ended up as the creature’s dinner.
Death had come slowly for the husband and wife, and the wyvern had been a picky eater. Those bits it didn’t like were scattered about the nest and baking in the hot sun.
In 1907, word reached us of a Wendigo loose along the edges of town, dipping in and out of the Hollow to avoid capture. Odd went out there to gather up some information while I found a good spot to shoot from. I had no doubt the creature would return. It had, like all of its kind, a taste for human flesh.
I suspect Odd picked up the creature’s sign almost as soon as he arrived at the sight of the last incident. I’d no sooner set up my Whitworth rifle and adjusted the sights when I heard the roar of a pistol.
The Wendigo and Odd had found one another.
The beast charged across the road toward Odd, and the newspaperman stood his ground, his own Colt thundering in his hand.
The rounds struck the Wendigo in the chest and punched out the back, but they weren’t enough.
Reaching Odd, the Wendigo slammed its hand into Odd’s chest and lifted him off the ground. I watched as Odd went limp, impaled and held aloft.
I shot through my friend’s fresh corpse, the bullet screaming from the Whitworth’s barrel.
The slug tore through Odd’s body and buried itself in the Wendigo’s chest. The beast staggered back, tried to shake off Odd’s corpse and couldn’t.
In a heartbeat, I had a second round loaded, and I took aim as the Wendigo stepped on Odd’s body and pulled its arm free.
As the beast straightened up, I fired again.
The bullet passed through its neck and took the head clean off.
For a moment, I lay there, then I stood and made my way to the bloodied road.
It was time to bury my friend and butcher his killer.

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Nicholas Efstathiou is a US Army veteran. He writes horror, paranormal, and strange fiction. He has worked as a bookmobile driver, a librarian, a trashman, a bookseller, and now as a teacher. He has also ghostwritten dozens of popular books. This excerpt of his writing comes from the bite-size installments he shares on his Instagram page, chronicling tales from the fictional and supernatural town of Cross, Massachusetts. Read more here.

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