By John Hood
Robert Roy McInnes had French ancestry on his mother's side, and he took some pleasure and pride in his Gallic heritage; but he did not know a great deal about his mother’s ancestors, although he had often heard her allude to colourful family characters in her background when she was still living.
It did not therefore come as a complete surprise to him when a legal letter arrived in the mail one Tuesday in July, informing him of the death of his great uncle Louis Hennepin, that the deceased had a french name. His great uncle Louis was, he vaguely remembered, the brother of his maternal grandmother and though he had never met the man, he had a mental image of him derived from a vast collection of yellowed and sepia toned family snapshots, featuring women in stylish outfits, and a succession of magnificent vintage automobiles. The letter stated that his great uncle Hennepin had been 94 years old when he passed. What was something of a surprise to McInnes was that he was the legal next of kin.
McInnes sipped Tea. The letter informed him in legalese that he had inherited his uncle's house and some not at all undesirable property on the east side of the town of Pembroke, Ontario. Furthermore, he was the executor of the estate. The letter stipulated that he must contact his uncle's legal representatives at their Toronto office to confirm these matters and obtain the key to the house, and that it would be advisable to travel to Pembroke as soon a possible to examine the building.
McInnes left Toronto early the next Friday in a rental from Thrifty. He made the trip at a relatively leisurely pace, enjoying the summer scenery, the air conditioning keeping him cool and comfortable. He drifted into an agreeable reflective state as he drove along, imagining his great uncle's life and speculating what he might find in the house. By around 6:00 p.m. he was within fourty miles of his destination when the pleasant weather broke, and the sky grew dark and turned an eerie leaden green colour, presaging one of those sudden summer storms. A tumultuous rainfall began to beat violently on the roof of the sedan, and before much longer the rain was pouring down so heavily as to reduce visibility to virtual zero. McInnes hunched over the wheel, peering past the rapidly flicking wipers into the grey-out, slowing enough to keep the vehicle on the unfamiliar road but uncomfortably mindful of the possibility of getting hit from behind. The sky deepened in shade to an acid copper green that was unearthly and somewhat frightening; the vehicle was now being buffeted by high winds that had the sedan changing lanes without any driver input and which threatened to send it careening into the ditch. Presently however the heavens assumed a somewhat less threatening cast and although a hard rain continued to fall the winds decreased in intensity sufficiently to ease his concern a little.
McInnes continued through the deluge. By the time he reached the turn off, the rain had stopped falling more or less completely and twilight had suffused the dripping landscape with a strangely ominous character. The heat of summer had not been dissipated by the sudden violent storm and the wet fields surrounding his uncle’s property had begun to steam and were already half concealed in a misty haze. He came down the leafy drive to the house and pulled the car to stop near the porch of the old Victorian building. His uncle’s place was a considerable distance from town, and he was quite alone as he stepped from the vehicle. He thought to call out to confirm this, but felt an odd inclination not to do so; in any case it was fairly obvious that no one was around.
It was impossible to deny to himself that under the present circumstances the house assumed a distinctly foreboding atmosphere. It was a beautiful building, clearly built sometime around the 1870s made of brick with a rambling veranda and with gables and casements in a high Victorian style, but even a cursory examination revealed the house had decayed significantly. The darkened windows took on a haunting aspect in the grey solitary half light, and he shivered involuntarily despite the warm clammy air. McInnes felt a sudden impulse to get back in the car and leave the place with its secrets undisturbed, never to return, but he was a practical man, and had no intention of passing on his inheritance because of a momentary case of nerves. He laughed to himself as he looked through a screen of boughs to the right and noticed that the house was situated adjacent to a small rural burial ground, with bleached white stones jutting at odd angles from the damp mossy ground. He looked to the left of the drive and saw misty open fields, backed by a thick woodlot. The place had character, there was no doubt of it.
Taking his bag from the vehicle, he strode resolutely to the porch and climbed the steps. All was quiet as he peered in the gathering gloom through a window into the shadowy interior of the house. Taking the key from his pocket, he inserted it into the door lock and swung the heavy old wooden door open on its hinges. Predictably, they whined in protest, making a sound which though expected was none the less haunting. McInnes stood for a moment in the oppressive damp heat of the evening and looked into the darkened interior of the structure.
He stepped through the lintel and entered the house.
Once inside, McInnes again laughed inwardly over his previous jittery state of mind, for although the interior of the august old manse seemed a made to order setting for a ghost story, the tall lead traced windows admitting a spooky light onto antique furniture shrouded against the encroaching dust, with a few lights switched on it was clear that it was, after all, a house and nothing more. He busied himself with a little tidying and put food he had carried with him into an aging but functional refrigerator in the spacious kitchen at the back of the ground floor.
Then, with his bag in hand he mounted the staircase to the second story to seek an appropriate place to bed down for the night. He looked into what must have been his uncle’s room at the front overlooking the drive, but dismissed the idea of using it; he had no desire to sleep in the dead man's bed, and instead selected a room at the back with a twin casement window letting onto the now dark fields to the east. He sat for a moment on the window case and looked out into the still, close night, impressed with the solemnity and quietness of the place, then opened his bag on a table at the foot of the bed. He arranged his things, turned back the bed and repaired to the kitchen to prepare a small meal. After his supper he inspected the ground floor, noting the contents of the building, and the condition of its furnishings. It was immediately evident to him that his uncle's house contained some antique furniture that was of significant value. An upright piano stood in the parlour. There were filled book shelves and clothes and a considerable amount of minutiae. It was clear that disposing of the estate would involve some substantial effort.
The hours drew on, and he presently grew fatigued and climbed the stairs again. He showered and made ready to retire, but as he did so his previous assurance drained from him. He was filled with a tremendous sense of isolation and dread, and again was ceased with the impulse to leave the old house and drive away as fast as he possibly could. Oppressed by this mood, he tossed restively for what seemed like hours before sleep overcame him.
Some time after midnight he was awakened by the sound of something scratching at the bedroom door. He started upright in the bed and peered into the center of the moonlit room. Suddenly the door pushed open and he was terrified to observe the entry of a large wolf like dog. He sprang to his feet instantly in horror, but inexplicably he felt immediately aware that the animal meant him no harm; rather, it whined beseechingly and seemed to be seeking his aid. He could see that it was a Husky or Malamute, something like a sled dog. The agitated and strangely familiar animal began to trot in circles in the middle of the room, whining and yelping. He became aware of an unpleasant taste in his mouth, and he was overcome with a dreadful dizzying apprehension. He put his fingers to his face and was stricken with terror as he realized his mouth was slick with blood.
All at once he was gripped with an irresistible desire to look out the window. He was consumed with the idea that something was coming out of the woods to the east and crossing the fields towards the old dark house. The dog began to bark madly. He felt as though he would go insane if he did not see the thing that was, he was now certain, looming across the furrows towards the house, but his feet were rooted to the spot on which he stood and he was unable to force himself to cross to the window. His feet felt warm, then hot, then as though they were on fire, and he let out a tortured shriek.
McInnes awoke with a sudden shout.
A nightmare...It had been a hideous nightmare.
He arose from the bed and went to the bathroom to gulp water. His face in the mirror appeared ghostly white, and his hands were shaking violently. There was no blood.
He laughed nervously. Good heavens. Distinctly unpleasant, he thought to himself. Evidently the unusual circumstances of this trip had placed him in a very impressionable frame of mind. No wonder; but he was a grown man. He had experienced nightmares before, and would do so again, no doubt. He hoped that he would not experience another one like that tonight, or for a long time.
_________________________
Morning had arrived. Although he did not feel particularly well rested, the night terrors receded with the shadows and the day broke fair and clear. McInnes took his breakfast and then attended to his task of inventorying the contents of the estate. By mid afternoon he had a good accounting of all the large pieces on the upper storeys. He had made a count of all the volumes in the library, and he had made notes about any of the books that suggested rarity or extraordinary value.
There remained only the task of surveying the contents of the basement. He felt distinctly ill at ease upon consideration of this duty. He puttered about for a further half hour then realized he was procrastinating, cursed himself for his foolishness, and stepped to the cellar door. The old wooden door was solid, and he noted that the door handle was mounted in an old square iron hardware, very much the charming antique. Armed with a flashlight he had located in a cupboard in the kitchen, he turned the knob and gently pushed open the cellar door.
The smell of earth, mold and dry rot rose up to his nostrils. He spied an ancient looking switch and snapped it on. A dim glow from a 40 watt bulb illuminated the raw earth floor at the foot of the stairs, and he began to step down the worn wooden staircase with a legacy of repeated passages worn onto the treads. When he reached the foot of the stairs he saw that the entire basement was one large space except for a small cell at the back of the house. The dim light thrown by the dusty old failing bulb revealed that the cellar apparently contained little of value. There were a few old garden tools in varying condition (one or two of which might have some interest to a collector) some decaying scraps of horse harness, old paint cans and the usual assortment of aging poisons and junk; not much to speak of.
Only the little cell at the back remained to investigate. McInnes moved with some half conscious reluctance away from his line of retreat up the stairs towards the little chamber. The floor seemed to slant upward at this point and he experienced a momentary sensation of vertigo. He thrust his face into the confines of the musty little enclosure at the back, bent over and shouldered his way inside.
He felt the clammy wall for a light switch and finding none snapped on the flashlight. As if aimed purposefully, its beam immediately fell on an antique looking trunk with rusty padlock. Responding to some instinct, he swung the light around the ceiling of the room and was rewarded for his effort when the flashlight beam revealed an old key on a large ring hanging from a hook on one of the solid old joists. McInnes felt unwilling to stoop here in the damp dark and fiddle with the old chest but he felt strangely compelled to investigate its contents immediately, so after spiriting the old key into his pocket, he grasped the leather handle nearest to him and began to pull the thing across the earthen floor into the larger chamber.
The rotten old leather tore into after a few pulls.
Reluctantly, brushing cobwebs aside, he positioned himself on the far side of the chest and began to push. Eager and curious, but fearing to break the old key in the lock, he climbed to the kitchen, and returned momentarily with a can of WD-40 he had noticed earlier in a cupboard. He sprayed some of the fluid into the padlock and inserted the old key into the antique bit of hardware. He turned the key gingerly and the lock fell open. With an overwhelming sense of anticipation he slowly lifted the lid of the solid old coffer; it swung over on its long unused hinges and he was again assailed by the aroma of damp and decay. He peered into the box and saw lying inside a small leather bound portfolio of apparently considerable antiquity. He lifted the curious article gently out of the old box and carried it with caution up to the kitchen. Spreading some newspaper he found on the table he carefully laid the ancient book down, and essayed a sort of curatorial triage. He tenderly brushed away lose dirt and dust and some flakes of mold and when he had cleared the debris away, he cautiously opened the fragile volume and began to examine its pages.
It was a diary.
Not of his great uncle, but evidently by an ancestor of a much earlier era. The hand penned pages revealed that its author had been one Jaques Normand Duluth Hennepin, evidently a trapper, and the date 1758 was inscribed at the beginning of the entries. He could hardly believe his eyes. Moreover, the diary was in fairly good condition despite his great uncle's bizarre choice of storage place.
_________________________
“Fine...that’s wonderful...I’m really looking forward to reading it. Yes...Uh Huh...Yes...that’s great. I’ll be down this afternoon to pick it up...thanks so much!”
McInnes placed the phone back on its cradle. Outside snow was falling gently through the pale morning light. Four months had elapsed since his discovery in the Hennepin house. He had in that time concluded terms of an agreement with the reference library for the purchase of the antique diary of his great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great grandfather on his mother’s side. The events recorded in the diary had taken place nine generations back into history; it still boggled him to consider it. One of the terms of the agreement had been that he would be provided with a transcript of the translation immediately on its completion. The diary had been subjected to a painstaking procedure by the library experts in order to preserve its integrity, before it could be translated. McInnes was beside himself with excitement to read the text; he had been unable to decipher more than a tiny amount of it before hurrying back to Toronto with his treasure. The library assistant who he had just spoken with had instructed him that the head translator had asked to be notified when he came in to pick up the transcript. Apparently she wished to have a few words with him.
_________________________
McInnes stood at the reception area for special collections. He could have stepped over to the railing and looked down into the shell like rising structure of the library, watched the people moving around, but he stood next to the desk, waiting.
Before long, she came out.
“Mr. McInnes?” She extended a slim, elegant hand.
“I’m Vera Collins. I’m very pleased to meet you. We haven’t spoken before now...As you know, everyone here is absolutely delighted about the purchase...it’s...very exciting”
She seemed to be choosing her words carefully. He noticed she wore a curious expression. She slid a large Manila envelope across the desk to him.
“Here is your copy of the transcript...I wonder if perhaps you’d like to step in here for a moment?”
She indicated a closed reading room back of the desk. They entered the glassed in chamber and she closed the door. The busy hum of the library was cancelled and the air was heavy with silence.
“I’m very pleased...” he started to say, and checked himself. His voice was too loud.
“Please sit down Mr. McInnes. I haven’t had the opportunity to speak to you firsthand about this remarkable find...You had no idea that it was in your uncle’s possession when you found it, is that right? She seemed pained. There was a look of urgency on her face.
“That’s right Ms. Collins...I didn’t know my great uncle at all, really...”
“And no one in your family had ever spoken of it?” She seemed incredulous. He nodded
“That’s right...is there something wrong, Ms. Collins?”
She hesitated, She seemed about to say something, then apparently thought better of it.
“Your ancestor was born in Normandy in 1732, we know he arrived in Canada in 1748...Mr. McInnes, we found a document inside relating to the text...composed by Jaques Hennepin's wife. We know that he had a wife and six year old son at the time the diary was made. They were living with his brother’s family in Acadia...I think that you should read the diary, and then read the supplementary document...”
He started to say something, but she cut him off
I...I must go now. Thank you Mr. McInnes...”
She stoop up, smoothed her grey wool skirt and shook his hand briskly, and was out the door and gone before he could react to her odd behaviour.
_________________________
Evening. A cup of hot Earl Grey. Outside a bitter November wind howled, but in here it could only be heard faintly. The other errands of the day disposed of, McInnes finally sat in his study with the transcript, the room darkened but with a good reading light focused over the desk. With eager fingers, he opened the envelope containing the transcript. Another slightly smaller envelope fell onto the desk. It bore a marking identifying it as the supplementary material by Hennepin's wife that the head translator had spoken of. He was about to open it when he remembered her instructions. He placed it back on the desk.
He began to read.
The Diary of Jaqués Normand Duluthe Hennepin begun 12 October, the Year of Our Lord 1758
October 12
My Dear Madelaine: I found this little volume yesterday in my stores and remembered that I wanted to make a record of my sojourn for you...better late than never...when I present this diary to you we will be wealthy with the profits of this my present expedition. Our little Georges will want for nothing upon my return. Already I have reaped a good harvest of furs. My trap lines yield bountifully still and I will continue my efforts for a while yet. Before too much longer we shall be together again. The dogs are always hungry. The air is cold and sharp, and everywhere the colours of autumn make a beautiful display.
October 13
Today I took a beautiful fox and several beaver pelts. All is well. we shall be rich dear one. Perhaps the fox will be for you, love
October 14
Fortune did not smile so well upon me today my love.
October 15
A party of Ojibway came by the cabin today. They advised me to break camp and head for the winter hunting grounds. I traded with them a little. They gave me beaver in return for powder, ball and glass beads. A good supplement to my takings of the day.
October 17
A wonderful day, dearest. Many beaver and muskrat, and some otter. I shot a bear and have skinned him. Another few days and I will leave the cabin to return to you and Georges...
October 19
Awoke yesterday to find the cabin snowed in completely. It has been snowing hard for two days. A surprise early season storm. I fear conditions will make it impossible to leave the cabin as I had planned. I have taken the decision to winter in the cabin, or wait for a thaw that will allow me to travel safely. I have taken stock and should have plenty to last the duration of the season. I have an ample supply of powder and ammunition, a good deal of pemmican, and some salt fish. I have a sack of flour and lard. I even have some chocolate, various other sundries, I will be fine with what I can hunt and I have my auger to fish through the ice. As you know I have wintered in the cabin before. It is secure...
McInnes read on. A number of entries followed detailing his efforts to dismantle his trap lines in the snow, and his efforts to make a toboggan using components from the drag sledge he was equipped with, and to which he would have harnessed his two huskies. Another entry described his successful efforts to fashion snowshoes. It was clear form the tone of the entries that Hennepin was in a dangerous situation, and in full survival mode.
October 28
Weather conditions are worsening. The snow is much deeper now, and everything is frozen solid. I fear there will be no early thaw. Perhaps in December. Maybe we shall celebrate Christmas together, dearest. I am a little leaner. The dogs don’t appreciate their scanty ration. When I shoot something they will have a little more to eat.
November 2
Tomorrow I will make a foray in search of game with the dogs. I feel out of sorts today...
November 3
Madelaine. dearest Madelaine...I can scarcely describe what happened today... I took the dogs out and we were many miles from the cabin. We were attempting to get a caribou. A terrible storm developed and I became disoriented...The wind was screaming and I couldn’t see more than fifty paces ahead. Then something uncanny...the dogs began to bark like they had taken leave of their senses...Something possessed me...a sort of shrinking terror...I felt as though I would go mad...I had a feeling of hideous dread...something evil...
Then I saw...he appeared in front of me, not more than fifty paces away...just at the limits of visibility. He looked like a man but it can’t have been. He was naked from the waist up....the skin was like...leather...hair long, to the waist and lank, oily. The arms dangled down almost to the ground it seemed and claws...talons. The creature was loping past. It stopped and turned.
For a long moment the hideous creature turned to gape at me...Its horrible mouth was ringed with fangs. I was so terrified I thought I should drop dead upon the ground. One of the dogs, the good old girl, Isabelle, broke traces and rushed at the creature. It turned to her and fixed her with a baleful stare...she just...dropped...as though she had been shot...poor old girl. The general was whining in terror.
Then the thing...the creature...Ah God in his heaven, blessed Madelaine I am trembling as I write this...the thing glared at me and a loathsome expression broke over the accident of a face...as if it were mocking me...dear God...then, oh most horrible...it turned away and went rapidly with an unholy leaping...bounding... nothing human could move that way...
but oh Madelaine...this was perhaps the worst...when it was gone from my sight...the thing made a sound...so hideous...I think that I should have been able to stand it if it were a howl... It was a cackling noise; fearsomely loud...like some perverse imitation of a human utterance..dear God have mercy on me...like a nightmare...
when I regained the power of movement I went to Isabelle with tears streaming from my eyes...she was...shrunken...wasted...like a husk...oh, the ghastly look in the wretched animals eyes. The general and I tried to bury her, but we couldn’t get through the ice...I have burned her...better that way...what kind of abomination was it that I saw? the horror of it...
November 4
I am losing my mind. It knows where we are. I have shot the general...a mercy for him...I am afraid to go outside...
November 5
God has forsaken me. I have barricaded the door. I hear the awful creatures mockery...that cursed cackling. Sometimes near, sometime far...sometimes he scrapes on the door as I lie on the hearth. He is circling the cabin...
(The head translator had recorded that there were a few entries here that were unintelligible. After this the entries were undated.)
I am praying every moment. Dear God have mercy on my soul...I know what the foul thing is...when the natives spoke of him we always laughed at their childish superstitions...but it wasn’t just a story to frighten their little ones...Heaven help me...the natives call him the Wendigo...he’s coming for me even now...
I have removed my clothes. My feet... they are burning. I will open the door to him. Curse the foul demon...Let us embrace...
God forgive me...
McInnes sat for a moment. He reached for the other envelope and opened it. The transcription was short;
This diary of my late husband was brought to me by a party of Ojibway in the late spring of 1759. It was found by them at the trapping cabin he used on the north shore of Lake Superior. They reported to me that they found no trace of my husband, only the diary and his supplies, nothing more. They presented me also with a rich store of furs he had accumulated. His whereabouts remain unknown and his ultimate fate undiscovered. I presume him dead.
Madelaine Hennepin-Spring 1759.
Evening. A cup of hot Earl Grey. Outside a bitter November wind howled, but in here it could only be heard faintly. The other errands of the day disposed of, McInnes finally sat in his study with the transcript, the room darkened but with a good reading light focused over the desk. With eager fingers, he opened the envelope containing the transcript. Another slightly smaller envelope fell onto the desk. It bore a marking identifying it as the supplementary material by Hennepin's wife that the head translator had spoken of. He was about to open it when he remembered her instructions. He placed it back on the desk.
He began to read.
The Diary of Jaqués Normand Duluthe Hennepin begun 12 October, the Year of Our Lord 1758
October 12
My Dear Madelaine: I found this little volume yesterday in my stores and remembered that I wanted to make a record of my sojourn for you...better late than never...when I present this diary to you we will be wealthy with the profits of this my present expedition. Our little Georges will want for nothing upon my return. Already I have reaped a good harvest of furs. My trap lines yield bountifully still and I will continue my efforts for a while yet. Before too much longer we shall be together again. The dogs are always hungry. The air is cold and sharp, and everywhere the colours of autumn make a beautiful display.
October 13
Today I took a beautiful fox and several beaver pelts. All is well. we shall be rich dear one. Perhaps the fox will be for you, love
October 14
Fortune did not smile so well upon me today my love.
October 15
A party of Ojibway came by the cabin today. They advised me to break camp and head for the winter hunting grounds. I traded with them a little. They gave me beaver in return for powder, ball and glass beads. A good supplement to my takings of the day.
October 17
A wonderful day, dearest. Many beaver and muskrat, and some otter. I shot a bear and have skinned him. Another few days and I will leave the cabin to return to you and Georges...
October 19
Awoke yesterday to find the cabin snowed in completely. It has been snowing hard for two days. A surprise early season storm. I fear conditions will make it impossible to leave the cabin as I had planned. I have taken the decision to winter in the cabin, or wait for a thaw that will allow me to travel safely. I have taken stock and should have plenty to last the duration of the season. I have an ample supply of powder and ammunition, a good deal of pemmican, and some salt fish. I have a sack of flour and lard. I even have some chocolate, various other sundries, I will be fine with what I can hunt and I have my auger to fish through the ice. As you know I have wintered in the cabin before. It is secure...
McInnes read on. A number of entries followed detailing his efforts to dismantle his trap lines in the snow, and his efforts to make a toboggan using components from the drag sledge he was equipped with, and to which he would have harnessed his two huskies. Another entry described his successful efforts to fashion snowshoes. It was clear form the tone of the entries that Hennepin was in a dangerous situation, and in full survival mode.
October 28
Weather conditions are worsening. The snow is much deeper now, and everything is frozen solid. I fear there will be no early thaw. Perhaps in December. Maybe we shall celebrate Christmas together, dearest. I am a little leaner. The dogs don’t appreciate their scanty ration. When I shoot something they will have a little more to eat.
November 2
Tomorrow I will make a foray in search of game with the dogs. I feel out of sorts today...
November 3
Madelaine. dearest Madelaine...I can scarcely describe what happened today... I took the dogs out and we were many miles from the cabin. We were attempting to get a caribou. A terrible storm developed and I became disoriented...The wind was screaming and I couldn’t see more than fifty paces ahead. Then something uncanny...the dogs began to bark like they had taken leave of their senses...Something possessed me...a sort of shrinking terror...I felt as though I would go mad...I had a feeling of hideous dread...something evil...
Then I saw...he appeared in front of me, not more than fifty paces away...just at the limits of visibility. He looked like a man but it can’t have been. He was naked from the waist up....the skin was like...leather...hair long, to the waist and lank, oily. The arms dangled down almost to the ground it seemed and claws...talons. The creature was loping past. It stopped and turned.
For a long moment the hideous creature turned to gape at me...Its horrible mouth was ringed with fangs. I was so terrified I thought I should drop dead upon the ground. One of the dogs, the good old girl, Isabelle, broke traces and rushed at the creature. It turned to her and fixed her with a baleful stare...she just...dropped...as though she had been shot...poor old girl. The general was whining in terror.
Then the thing...the creature...Ah God in his heaven, blessed Madelaine I am trembling as I write this...the thing glared at me and a loathsome expression broke over the accident of a face...as if it were mocking me...dear God...then, oh most horrible...it turned away and went rapidly with an unholy leaping...bounding... nothing human could move that way...
but oh Madelaine...this was perhaps the worst...when it was gone from my sight...the thing made a sound...so hideous...I think that I should have been able to stand it if it were a howl... It was a cackling noise; fearsomely loud...like some perverse imitation of a human utterance..dear God have mercy on me...like a nightmare...
when I regained the power of movement I went to Isabelle with tears streaming from my eyes...she was...shrunken...wasted...like a husk...oh, the ghastly look in the wretched animals eyes. The general and I tried to bury her, but we couldn’t get through the ice...I have burned her...better that way...what kind of abomination was it that I saw? the horror of it...
November 4
I am losing my mind. It knows where we are. I have shot the general...a mercy for him...I am afraid to go outside...
November 5
God has forsaken me. I have barricaded the door. I hear the awful creatures mockery...that cursed cackling. Sometimes near, sometime far...sometimes he scrapes on the door as I lie on the hearth. He is circling the cabin...
(The head translator had recorded that there were a few entries here that were unintelligible. After this the entries were undated.)
I am praying every moment. Dear God have mercy on my soul...I know what the foul thing is...when the natives spoke of him we always laughed at their childish superstitions...but it wasn’t just a story to frighten their little ones...Heaven help me...the natives call him the Wendigo...he’s coming for me even now...
I have removed my clothes. My feet... they are burning. I will open the door to him. Curse the foul demon...Let us embrace...
God forgive me...
McInnes sat for a moment. He reached for the other envelope and opened it. The transcription was short;
This diary of my late husband was brought to me by a party of Ojibway in the late spring of 1759. It was found by them at the trapping cabin he used on the north shore of Lake Superior. They reported to me that they found no trace of my husband, only the diary and his supplies, nothing more. They presented me also with a rich store of furs he had accumulated. His whereabouts remain unknown and his ultimate fate undiscovered. I presume him dead.
Madelaine Hennepin-Spring 1759.
