The milky white moon glowed solemnly in the black night, the only light in a dark world. Soon the sun would rise and the fields would bask in a frosty golden light. Spring was cold in the mountains.

I sat atop the farmhouse roof, gazing up at the void above me. The moon is friendly. Wendigos tend to shy away from the moonlight, so a friendly face is always welcome. And tonight it is especially welcome, for something terrible had happened.

I had awoken to a silent house. As usual, I dressed and unbolted my door. But the strange thing I first noticed was the absence of the smell of breakfast. Mama always made breakfast before I woke up. I thought maybe she slept in, but when I looked to my left, I saw it.

Blood. Blood and brains everywhere. A mangled arm had fallen in front of the doorway and I stared in horror as I moved farther into the hall. Blood coated the floors. Blood coated the walls, the shelves, the pictures, the bedsheets, the ceilings. Brain and organ matter were strewn everywhere. My parents were dead.

Tears threatened to burst out of my eyes and I turned away. My chest convulsed as I choked back sobs and I ran back to my bedroom. Puke stung the back of my throat and I yanked the window back, bitter bile erupting out of my mouth. When I had finished, I slumped heavily against the wall, breathing hard and tears sticking to my cheeks. I was shaking.

The smell hit me as I toed out of my room and my stomach lurched again. Trying to ignore the scene, I went to the kitchen and got myself a bit of bread and salt. It would help with the sick.

I knew I had to do something. I knew I had to clean it up. But I didn't. The only thing I could do was kick the arm into the bedroom and shut the door. I locked my dead parents in their grave.

When that was done I released a breath. The morning had been gut-wrenching, the stench still permeating the house. I opened all the windows. I mopped up the prints in the hallway. I out away the dishes from the night before and I even fed the animals. It felt good to be out of the house.

All day I kept myself busy, trying to distract myself. Sometimes I would space out though and my thoughts would go back to my parents. My poor, poor parents. At one point I had to just let go for fear I would die of pressure and I cried in the hayloft for a few hours. But I had to wipe my tears and get back to work. With mama and papa gone, the work of three becomes a herculean task for one, especially for a small girl such as myself. But I was strong. My hands weren't dainty and frail, they were hardened from a life's share of hard work. I could handle myself.

So here I sit, on this rickety old farmhouse roof, looking up at the stars as the wendigos stalk the earth. I will never know how one got in the house. All our doors are protected with charms. Well, the outside ones. And it looked as if the prints had stopped in front of my door, so it was a wonder I was still breathing.

But the night was silent. And when the sun rose over the mountain ridges, casting golden light upon the silvery wheat fields, there seemed to be a healing about the place. Like the massacre that night didn't mean a thing. Like the insignificance of a single human life is as feeble as a broken blade of grass.


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