The Wendigo

I was steered towards Algernon Blackwood’s The Wendigo by someone who read my admiring review of The Willows, another creepy, wonderfully written novella or long short story by Blackwood.

And I must say that I found The Wendigo an even more unsettling read, though also showing Blackwood’s particular interest and strength – the wild, wild, natural world, far from civilisation, and how that ancient world might be at best, indifferent to the puny biped who so often despoils and abuses it, but, sometimes, unleashes a power which might be felt as malevolent towards us

I suspect one reason that The Wendigo worked even more powerfully on me, especially as a long, chilly dark nights winter read, is its own dark, chilly, Northern wintry setting

A small group of moose hunters set forth in Northern Canada. There are a couple of friends, rational men, one a doctor, one a younger Scottish man, more imaginative perhaps, a divinity student. They are accompanied by two guides, also friends of each other, one of whom, a French Canadian, is prone to an occasional dark melancholy. They also have a cook, probably Algonquian, North American/Canadian Indian

Algoquian folklore recounts the presence of a much feared, malevolent spirit, The Wendigo, which inhabits the dark forests.

Blackwood’s story explores this. There is, of course, that tension between those who dwell in cities, more or less free from daily exposure to the great wild, and those who are more used to, and both more respectful, and perhaps more fearful, of its power.

Like The Willows, the trajectory of the story begins with a love and an appreciation of the wild, a delight in being far from cities, healthfully experiencing the majesty and awe of nature. And begins, bit by bit, to sow seeds of doubt and terror in the minds, in the imaginings of the characters in the story. Not to mention in the minds and imaginings of the reader.

“The forest pressed around them with its encircling wall; the nearer tree stems gleamed like bronze in the firelight; beyond that-blackness, and so far as he could tell, a silence of death. Just behind them a passing puff of wind lifted a single leaf, looked at it, then laid it softly down again without disturbing the rest of the covey. It seemed as if a million invisible causes had combined just to produce that single visible effect. Other life pulsed about them-and was gone.”

It may be a while before I walk in forests again, unless the sun is brightly, brightly shining

I had to double-check the Wikipedia for Wendigo, since my mental image of them has forever been supplanted by My Little Pony.

MLP is a little hardcore, sometimes.

But anyways, this story deals with the great north mythical creature who lures men from their camps with the calls of the wild. Once isolated, the men are taken on a long run, their very feet burned away from the friction of their flight. This tale is narrated by one of the men left behind, and deals with his growing realization of the horror that has seduced his friend out beyond the safety of camp.

It's a slow story. I'm sure, in a more modern telling, it would be at least half the size, and still convey the same tone and terror. However, it was enjoyable, so I'll just be marking it as a midway tale.

This story is in the public domain, so it's available on both Librivox and Project Gutenberg. I listened to the audio production available for free from Tales to Terrify.

THE ULTIMATE TESTIMONIAL

I first became familiar with Algernon Blackwood's "The Wendigo" in 1953 when I was a 17 year old senior at Phillips Andover Academy. There were about twenty-five of us seniors living in a student dormitory reserved exclusively for seniors, Bartlett Hall South, in which also lived our housemaster, Dr. Alston Hurd Chase. Dr. Chase was the head of the Classics Department and the most brilliant member of the Andover faculty. After study hours every evening he would typically invite us all into his apartment for relaxation and conversation. On one particular evening he asked us if we would like him to read a story to us. We considered ourselves a super-sophisticated group of young men. In truth we were probably a horrible combination of naiveté and ignorant arrogance, throughly wet behind the ears, yet convinced that we knew everything and that nothing could ever faze us. So when confronted with Dr. Chase's question, and remembering that the last time any of us had a "story" read to us was years before when we were very young nursery school children, we all sly smirked and, just to be patient and kind and gentle with our old housemaster, we condescendingly replied "Sure, go ahead."

And with that Dr. Chase began to read aloud to us "The Wendigo". Within just a few minutes we were all silent and paying rapt attention, caught and paralyzed in its web. It was a late fall evening, rainy, dark, and the wind had the branches of the outside trees often scraping against the windows of Dr. Chase's living room as he read to us this tale of the supernatural which scared the living hell out of all of us notwithstanding how sophisticated and unflappable we thought ourselves to be.

No one seemed to move or breath the entire time, and when it was over there was silence. What came next was equally memorable. We all went back to our respective rooms, but rather than go straight to bed as we usually would in preparation for the next day's early classes, everyone seemed to casually make up reasons not go to bed right away: "Hey Tom, Jim and I are thinking of playing cards for awhile, want to join us?", "Dick, I'm having trouble with that last solid geometry problem for tomorrow's assignment, can you give me a hand with it?, "Time's running out, anyone want to talk about the senior prom decorations before it's too late to order them?" Anything, in other words, except go alone to your room, get into bed, and turn out the light with the memory of that story of The Wendigo fresh in your mind. Yet no one wanted to be -- in today's lingo -- "so "uncool" and honest as to admit that fact.

What better testimonial can there be to "The Wendigo" than that this story frightened the daylights out of a know-it-all bunch of young 17 year old kids ....so much so that everyone who was there that evening distinctly remembers this story which has been often alluded to at reunions years and decades later.

Kenneth E. MacWilliams
Portland, Maine

THE ULTIMATE TESTIMONIAL

I first became familiar with Algernon Blackwood's "The Wendigo" in 1953 when I was a 17 year old senior at Phillips Andover Academy. There were about twenty-five of us seniors living in a student dormitory reserved exclusively for seniors, Bartlett Hall South, in which also lived our housemaster, Dr. Alston Hurd Chase. Dr. Chase was the head of the Classics Department and the most brilliant member of the Andover faculty. After study hours every evening he would typically invite us all into his apartment for relaxation and conversation. On one particular evening he asked us if we would like him to read a story to us. We considered ourselves a super-sophisticated group of young men. In truth we were probably a horrible combination of naiveté and ignorant arrogance, throughly wet behind the ears, yet convinced that we knew everything and that nothing could ever faze us. So when confronted with Dr. Chase's question, and remembering that the last time any of us had a "story" read to us was years before when we were very young nursery school children, we all sly smirked and, just to be patient and kind and gentle with our old housemaster, we condescendingly replied "Sure, go ahead."

And with that Dr. Chase began to read aloud to us "The Wendigo". Within just a few minutes we were all silent and paying rapt attention, caught and paralyzed in its web. It was a late fall evening, rainy, dark, and the wind had the branches of the outside trees often scraping against the windows of Dr. Chase's living room as he read to us this tale of the supernatural which scared the living hell out of all of us notwithstanding how sophisticated and unflappable we thought ourselves to be.

No one seemed to move or breath the entire time, and when it was over there was silence. What came next was equally memorable. We all went back to our respective rooms, but rather than go straight to bed as we usually would in preparation for the next day's early classes, everyone seemed to casually make up reasons not go to bed right away: "Hey Tom, Jim and I are thinking of playing cards for awhile, want to join us?", "Dick, I'm having trouble with that last solid geometry problem for tomorrow's assignment, can you give me a hand with it?, "Time's running out, anyone want to talk about the senior prom decorations before it's too late to order them?" Anything, in other words, except go alone to your room, get into bed, and turn out the light with the memory of that story of The Wendigo fresh in your mind. Yet no one wanted to be -- in today's lingo -- "so "uncool" and honest as to admit that fact.

What better testimonial can there be to "The Wendigo" than that this story frightened the daylights out of a know-it-all bunch of young 17 year old kids ....so much so that everyone who was there that evening distinctly remembers this story which has been often alluded to at reunions years and decades later.

Kenneth E. MacWilliams
Portland, Maine

Hunters head into woods. Hunters feel evil presence. Mythical creature snatches up hunter.

It's a pretty basic plot as far as campfire horror tales go. But in the hands of a modern horror great, the psychology of the yarn morphs into something completely different. Sometimes it's in a good way, as with the terror that builds with each chapter. Other times, not so much, as with the climax that never quite takes off with the horrific jet fuel of the early parts.

It's a classic, though, and is best read right before a trip into the great outdoors.

The Wendigo is creepy in a way only Victorian stories can be. It is a short story, but an intense one. It did not take me long to read this story but it stayed in my head long after I finished, leaving me with a vague sense of unease and dread for the remainder of the night. I will be keeping this book in my collection and I recommend that horror fans read it if they can.

Algernon Blackwood's "The Wendigo" is not what I expected. Before going into the story, I knew the Wendigo was a werewolfesque creature of Native American mythology and expected that to be what the story was about. Having read Blackwood before, I should have known better. Instead, this is a deeply psychological journey into the dark recesses of the mind.

Precisely the story not to sit around the campfire and read aloud, which is what makes it so perfect for just that. This is one of the greatest creepy, lost in the scary woods stories ever written. If there is one drawback, it is that it is too short. It would have been much better served at two to three times its length. It ends, and you just wish there was more.

The author is Algernon Blackwood, not Albert! There is no arguing the haunting, scary tale of the Canadian Northwoods. This is a wonderfully chilling story for the campfire. I would only suggest that you select another edition, because if they can't get the name right, who knows what other liberties or errors are in the printing. Just sayin'.

The Wendigo is another shining example of the mastery of Blackwood, Algernon Blackwood. Not Albert. This publishing company doesn't deserve one cent for the reprinting of this wonderful book. They're so lazy and uninterested they didn't even bother to check what the author's name was. Shame on them. Shame! Buy this book by all means but buy it from someone else.

Awful quality of book. Story itself is intact, but cover image is ultra-artifacted JPEG blown up to resemble a decent cover image. Looks terrible so it's unlikely it will attract any readers whatsoever.

A wonderful tale, yet I purchased this hoping it included other Algernon stories as well. Be forwarned: this is only "The Wendigo," and it is typeset as if for the sight-impaired. An esthetically awful choice to accompany the opening of each section with an enormous roman numeral and capital letter ruins the otherwise brilliant story. A modest, well thought "intro" to the nine sections would have made this bearable to look at. The publisher was obviously trying to fill up space.