Curse of the Wendigo

Someone—or something—is killing off professors in a small college town one by one. Can Tom and Rachel defeat the curse?

 

Curse of the Wendigo, Part One

 “The campus police said a coyote killed him,” Abigail Fishling told me. “Just like the first one.”

            McKinnon College was a small school with an emphasis on business, economics, and education in northern Illinois, 30 miles or so outside of Aurora, two hours west of Chicago and not quite on the prairie. Abigail Fishling’s husband had been a teacher there.

            We sat in her house, a small bungalow on the edge of the small campus. Abigail was in her 50s, with silvery blond hair and thin glasses. She taught business writing; her husband Isaac had taught Greek and Latin—the education department had a small classics division.

            “The first one?” I remembered reading something about it online.

            “Joel Gunderson.” She rubbed her eyes. “He was attacked by—something—out riding his bike. Just coming home, Jill said. She heard screams right outside, and ran out, and by the time she got there—” She shuddered and reached for a tissue.

             “I’m . . . sorry.” She blew her nose. “It’s just—then two nights ago Isaac was out in the backyard, smoking, with the dog—” She smiled at a small basset hound hiding under a piano bench. “Ulysses came running inside, barking and barking. I went out and Isaac was on the ground, bleeding. I—I thought I saw something, like a deer running away. And Isaac was—” She shuddered. “It looked like something had tried to eat him.”

            I wanted to shudder too. But hardboiled private eyes like me don’t shudder. At least in front of clients. “A coyote, you said?”

            “The cops said.” She shook her head. “We get coyotes sometimes, but they usually just wander around. Raccoons are more of a problem. I just don’t—” She stood up. “There’s something I want you to see,”

            I followed her down a hall, past two bedrooms and into a small office with a window that looked out at flowers in the side yard. A laptop sat on a desk underneath a Monet print. Bookshelves crammed with books lined the walls. I glanced at the titles. Half of them were in Latin. Or French. Or possibly elvish. 

            Abigail sat down and tapped at the computer, opening an email program. She scrolled down, then opened a message. “Here.”

            I bent down. The subject line was “CURSE.” The message was one sentence:

            BEWARE THE CURSE.

            Okay. I straightened up. “Any idea who sent it?”

            “It’s from the college email server. I checked it for viruses before I opened it.” She shrugged. “It came the day before—before.”

            I leaned down again. The sender was wendi919. “This is your husband’s computer, right?”

            “Yeah. I have my own.”

“Have you replied?”

            “N-no. Do you think . . .?”

            “Ask who it is.”

            With a nod, she wrote “Who are you?” and hit Send. “How long should we wait?”

            We waited five minutes with no response. Finally I said, “I’m going to forward this to my own email. I have an associate who might be able to figure out where it came from.” Rachel. She’s good with computer stuff. She’s my girlfriend, but it sounds more professional when I call her an associate. 

             She nodded. “The campus police just don’t have a lot of experience with—well, we’ve had assaults and robberies, but they’re treating this like just another animal attack. But this isn’t just a coyote, is it?”

            Abigail Fishling had heard about me. Aside from the typical cheating spouses, embezzlement, and employee background checks I handle, my cases sometimes veer toward supernatural. Why me? Just lucky, I guess.

            “I don’t know much about coyotes,” I said. “But this looks like a threat. Did you show it to the police?”

            “Yeah.” She sighed. “Probably just spam. That’s what they said.”

            “Could I take a look outside?”

            We walked back through the house and out a screen door to a small deck in the backyard. Cops had sprayed some kind of paint around some dark stains in the grass. A folding chair lay upside down.

            She pointed toward a row of bushes. “It just ran through there. I only saw it for a second. Like I said, it looked like a deer, but deers don’t eat people.”

            I walked around the spot, not expecting to actually find anything the cops had missed. But it sometimes pays off to be thorough, or at least look like you’re searching for clues. Some the branches in the hedge were broken. I bent down.

            Some kind of footprint was still visible in the ground. Half of it, anyway. Two long toes, and one of them looked like it had poked a deep hole in the dirt. They didn’t seem like deer tracks, not that I’d really know, but I took a few pictures anyway. 

            I walked back to the deck. “Okay.” I nodded, trying to reassure her without promising too much. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

            She stared at the curse on the screen. “Please.”

 

I collected a retainer check, and then I headed to the McKinnon Campus Security office. It was across the street from the five-story college administration building, a small stone building with a wide awning over the front steps and folded blinds in the windows. Inside I walked up to the front desk, where a woman in uniform was scrolling down her iPhone. She peered up. “Can I help you?”

            “Tom Jurgen.” I showed her my card, and a photocopy of my P.I. license. “I’m interested in the deaths of Joel Gunderson and Isaac Fishling. My client is Abigail Fishling.”

            She looked at my credentials, then picked up a phone. “Roy? A mister Tom Jurgen to see you. He’s a P.I.? About the coyote killings.” She hung up. “Hang on a minute.”

            Five minutes later I was sitting in the office of Roy Benning, chief of security, a short, heavyset man with a sunburned face and large hands. He wore a uniform with a chest patch that bore his name and the MCS logo. “What can I do for you, Mr., uh, Jurgen?”

            “Joel Gunderson and Isaac Fishling. Were they killed by coyotes?”

            He folded his arms across his belly. “It was some kind of animal. It attacked their legs, brought them down, and started on dinner before it ran away. I can show you the pictures, but they’re pretty awful.”
            “Abigail Fishling said it might have been a deer.” I knew how that sounded even before Benning rolled his eyes, but I had to put it out there. “She saw it running away.”

            “Yeah, she said something about horns or antlers, but those wounds weren’t made by antlers. Deer don’t attack like that. Maybe there really was a deer, but it didn’t kill her husband.”

            “She’s received a threat.”

            Now Benning snorted. “A curse? She couldn’t name anyone who might want to put a curse of her husband, or Joel Gunderson, or her for that matter. If she did, we could ask questions, but there’s not much we can do about a single email except tell her to contact us if she gets another one.”

            “Could you trace where it came from?”

            “Priorities.” He shrugged. “We might be on a small campus, but we’ve got plenty to keep up with. Like I said, if she could name someone, or if something more happened . . .” He shook his head.

            The phone on his desk buzzed. Benning glanced at it. “Sorry, this is president Marston. I’ve got to take this.”

            I stood up. “Thanks for your time. I’ll, uh, be in touch if I learn anything.”

            He was already on the phone. “Yeah, Phil, I’ve got that report right here—”

            Outside I got in my Prius and took a quick drive around the campus. A spring day, the students were walking to and from class, sitting in one of the two parks, drinking coffee in sidewalk cafes, just like normal college students. The classroom buildings were tall and suitably imposing, with brick walls and granite columns. I could smell flowers and grass through my open windows.

            I found Gunderson’s address, and the spot where he’d been killed. A few bloodstains were fading on the sidewalk in the afternoon sun. Or maybe they were just oil. The Fishling house was one block over. It felt like a quiet, safe neighborhood. Not a prowling ground for monsters. But you never know.

 

Rachel was working when I got back to the office we share in our apartment. She’s got short red hair, hazelnut eyes, mild psychic powers. “Hi. New case.”

“Don’t bother me.” She does graphic design when she’s not working with me. “Big project. Boring project.” She yawned. “Is it interesting?”

            “There’s a curse. I’m forwarding an email. Can you figure out who sent it?”

            She grinned. “Good thing I’m a hot psychic with mad hacking skills and killer legs.” She turned to her keyboard and grabbed her Supergirl coffee mug. Rachel’s computer expertise is way ahead of mine when it comes to ferreting out hidden information. I know some tricks, but she’s less leery about strictly interpreting the rules—and better at hiding her tracks. 

            I had a number for Joel Gunderson’s wife from Abigail Fishling, so I called her. Left a message. Then I pulled up news stories on the two deaths. 

            Joel Gunderson, 52. Found mauled to death in front of his driveway. The story quoted his wife Eileen: “I just saw something big and dark, and it was on top of him, and then it just ran away. Jumping. It jumped.” Police and wildlife experts were looking for a coyote in the neighborhood. 

A woman saw part of the attack from her living room: “It was all over him, rolling around, and then it jumped up and was just gone, just like that. I heard the screams.”

            Isaac Fishling, 63. Attacked in his backyard. Died of his wounds in the campus hospital. Some kind of animal, a doctor who was quoted as saying.

            The story quoted college president Philip Marston: “Campus security chief Roy Benning is taking extra precautions, including increased foot patrols and bringing in wildlife officers, to ensure the safety of our community. I’d hate to see any coyotes or any other wildlife killed, but our students, faculty, staff, and visitors are our top priority.” A photo of Marston showed a broad-shouldered man with gray hair and a neck like a bulldog.

            I checked out McKinnon College. Founded in 1909 by Emerson Silvester McKinnon, a philosopher and teacher. Originally it emphasized the classics, but over time it had evolved toward more worldly studies, like engineering and science, then shifted during the 1970s toward economics and business. It had kept the classics department but steadily downsized it until its office shared a floor with what was left of the art history department, in a building on the edge of campus. 

            The current president, Philip Marston, had been a classics prof himself, specializing in mythology and native American studies. He’d worked his way up from department head to provost and eventually the presidency, where he’d expanded business courses while downsizing the liberal arts. Art history had once boasted 15 fulltime instructors, now it was down to five part-timers. Classics had only seven people left—actually five, now that Gunderson and Fishling were gone. A photography division had been jettisoned two years ago. It still had a small journalism school—I used to be a reporter myself, so I liked that—and a student-run newspaper, the McKinnon Press.

The towns near the campus did report sporadic coyote sightings, but no attacks or deaths. A nature preserve to the north was home to deer and other wild animals who were closely monitored by the state park service. 

            I took a break for some coffee. Rachel had gone back to work on her project after a few preliminary attempts to hack the email. “I’ll get to it, all right?” she told me. “But somebody’s got to pay the bills around here.”

            “Hey, I pay my share of—” Then my phone buzzed. 

“Mr. Jurgen? This is—this is Eileen Gunderson. Your call?” She sounded frazzled. 

            “Thanks for calling me back.” I introduced myself again. “This may sound a little strange, but I have to ask—do you know if your husband received any strange or threatening emails before—before what happened?”

            “I—I don’t usually look at Joel’s email.” She paused, and then I heard clicking keys. “Give me a minute while I find his password—”

            She put the phone down. I waited, listening to murmurs and movement on the other end for 30 seconds. “Here it is. Just a minute . . .” More tapping. “I’m not sure what to look for. It’s mostly department stuff, they’re still sending him—wait. What?” Another pause. “I don’t—this is bizarre. It says, ‘Beware the curse.’ Capital letters.”

            Oh boy. “Who’s it from?”

            “It, uh, let me—wendi919. What does it mean?”

            “Could you forward that to me?” I gave her my email address. “Isaac Fishling got the same message before—it happened.”

            “Oh my god.” For a moment she didn’t seem to breathe. “I can’t—what does it mean?”

            “I don’t know yet.” I just hoped I could find out before anyone else died. 

Curse of the Wendigo, Part Two

Rachel couldn’t crack the sender of the email, but after a couple of hours she did have all seven separate addresses it had been sent to, all with the McKinnon email suffix. “They’ve gotten better at hiding stuff since I did this before,” she told me over dinner.

            “You were a hacker for hire?” I sipped a beer.

            “Just part of my wild days.” She winked.

            Before dinner I’d sent emails to the remaining members of McKinnon’s Classics department, asking if they’d gotten an email like Gunderson and Fishling. I checked after dinner, but no one had gotten back to me. So I watched TV with Rachel until we got bored and went to bed.

            The next morning my phone buzzed while I was sorting through financial documents on an embezzlement case—someone was padding his expense account. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”

            “Mr. Jurgen? This is Tricia Howes.” Her voice was firm and clear. “I’m a professor at McKinnon College. I received one of those emails.”

            I switched windows on my computer. “What did it say?”

            “’The curse is coming.’” She sounded irritated. “Or something like that. All caps. I assumed it was a joke, so I deleted it.”

            “It seems that at least two other members of your department have gotten the same email. Do you know if anyone else has?”

            “I couldn’t guess. I’m actually on a leave of absence. COVID.” She coughed. “And it may turn permanent. Not the COVID, but the leave, if they actually close down the department.”

            “Is that happening?”

            “That’s the rumor. Budget cuts. Fewer instructors, larger class sizes. You can only raise tuition so much.”

            Things were tough all over. “Are you aware of the two deaths on campus?”

            “God yes. Some kind of coyote? I haven’t gone out of the house in eight months.” 

            We hung up and I checked Howes’ name off my list. I wasn’t sure what it meant, but patterns are always interesting.

            I got an email from one of the other profs, Leland Maines, who forwarded the message he got—another “The curse is coming.” He added, “What the hell is this?” and his phone number. 

            Rachel came in carrying her Supergirl coffee mug when my phone buzzed again. I waved to her before I answered. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”

            “Leo Frazer. I got one of those emails you were asking about?”

            Third of the five I’d contacted yesterday—the last living five in the department. “What did it say?”

            “Uh, it’s right here. ‘Beware the curse of,’ and then it stops. It doesn’t say what the curse is. What’s going on?”

            “Everyone in your department has gotten the same email. Or mostly the same.” I paused. “And, uh, two of them are dead.”

            “The coyote.” He laughed. “Yeah. What should I do?”

            “Forward it to me. Can you think of any reason someone would be targeting the Classics group?”

            “Well, they’re trying to close it down. I mean, the budget’s been cut back three time in the last 18 months, they offered buyouts and two profs took them and they weren’t replaced, and the rumor is Marston’s trying to get rid of us. Which is stupid. Enrollment’s down a little bit, but everything’s down from the pandemic. And sending a coyote to kill us off? Seems a little extreme, right?”

            “What about the email? Any idea who might have sent it?”

            He thought for a minute. “Hank Hinch—that’s Henry Hinchcliff, he was head of the department before he retired two years ago. Took one of the buyouts. He had a daughter named Wendy. You know, like Wendi? She died—car accident, not COVID, this was years ago. Hank was working on a book of poetry to honor her, and had some kind of fundraising site to publish it, but it got shut down by the college for some reason. He was pretty unhappy, and then he left. That’s the only thing I can think of.”

            It sounded like a farfetched connection, but nothing was off limits in my life. I thanked Frazer and turned to Rachel as she started working. “Sleep okay?”

            “Once you let me get to sleep. You animal.” She grinned. “Anything new?”

            I shrugged. “I should probably check to see if anyone outside the department got the same email. Maybe it’s a campuswide thing. But I’ve got another name to track down.” I stood up. “Once I get some more coffee.”

            With more coffee, I checked in with my client. She gave me Hinchcliffe’s number and email address, as well as the okay to reach out to a handful of other profs she knew, checking on whether the curse emails had gone out to anyone beyond the Classics department. In the meantime I got two more replies, from Paula Wren and Jerome Spadley. Both forwarded their emails. Wren’s was “The curse is coming,” and Spadley’s was “Beware the curse” again. 

            I sent more emails, then called Henry Hinchcliff. “Hank Hinch,” he answered on the second buzz.

            I introduced myself, and he recognized Abigail Fishling’s name right away. “Riiight,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “I was sorry to hear that. I was going to send her a card. Isaac was a great professor—and a friend.”

            “Have you received an email from wendi919? Something about a curse?”

            He chuckled. “I don’t get emails from the college these days. I blocked them, unless it’s someone I know. Let’s just say we didn’t part on the best terms.”

            “What happened? Leo Frazer said you took a buyout.”

            “I was . . . forced out, really.” Hinchcliff sighed. “Philip Marston, our beloved president, is determined to bleed the place dry so he can pay for his pet projects. New buildings, a bigger central park with statues, more acreage, a state-of-the-art science lab—none of which have happened, yet. It’s always delayed, but in the meantime he’s cutting corners and stockpiling cash. He probably expects one of those new statues to be him.”

            “So he’s not very popular in your department?”

            “My former department? No. I stood up to him as long as I could. Photography couldn’t take it, they all left or got fired. Art history is probably coming next, they don’t have anybody with enough seniority to fight back. McKinnon’s focus was always on the practical—business, agriculture, that sort of stuff. But it has a long tradition of supporting the liberal arts too. Their place is getting smaller every year.”

            He chuckled again. “Now I sound like an angry old man. Retirement’s great. I read and write, work in my garden, see my grandchildren—at least more than last year, not as much as before. I can’t complain for myself. But I can’t help feeling bad for whoever’s left. And Isaac . . .” He sighed again.

            “I’m glad you’re doing okay. You don’t still live on the campus, do you?”

            “No, no, I’m in Florida, like a stereotypical AARP member. My family still lives in Illinois, though.”

            “Leo Frazer mentioned something about a book?” I didn’t think it had anything to do with the case. I just liked talking to him.

            A soft groan. “My daughter Wendy died in a car accident 10 years ago. I wanted to publish a book of poetry in her honor. It got—there was a conflict with the college, and I ended up paying for it myself. I’ll send you a copy.”

            “Thanks.” I felt awkward. “I’m, uh, sorry for your loss.”

            “Thank you.” He took down my address and we hung up. 

            I stretched. Rachel was deep in her work, and I knew better to bother her. So I sipped some coffee, thought for a minute, and then decided to take a deep dive into Philip Marston, president of McKinnon College.

            He’d done pretty well for himself over the years. A vacation home on Martha’s Vineyard, lots of time on the slopes of Aspen, and a bunch of fancy cars—Mercedes, BMWs, Porsches. All on the standard salary of the president of a modest-sized midwestern university—not exactly Harvard.  So where was his money coming from?

            I was digging into that question when my phone buzzed. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”

            “Mr. Jurgen? My name is Paula Wren.”

 

At 4:30 I was back in the McKinnon campus, or rather at the edge of it, in a gravel parking lot with Paula Wren.

            In her 30s, she had short curly black hair and a long, thin nose, and she wore black shorts and a blue denim jacket. Cute, although I wouldn’t tell Rachel that—she still gets territorial. 

            Wren had asked me to meet her at the Emerson Silvester McKinnon Forest Preserve, a couple hundred acres west of the college. Thick trees surrounded the parking lot. Only a few cars were parked. A list of rules advised against littering, firearms, feeding the wildlife, picking any plants, and leaving the hiking trails. A map of the hiking trails was posted just below.

            She shook my hands. “Thanks for coming out. I know it’s a long drive.”

            “What did you want to show me?”

            “I was out here looking for coyote tracks.” She led me to the head of one trail. “They were saying Joel was killed by a coyote, and I didn’t believe that. I walk here a lot—more, since they cut my class load. And my salary.” 

            She kept up a good pace. I tried not to huff and puff too much keeping up with her. “I know, it wouldn’t prove anything if I didn’t find anything, and even if I did, there are coyotes here, just not many. But I know where their favorite spots are. And I like to hike out here.”

            I can tail a car through rush hour traffic on the highway, but staying with her was a challenge. I need to start working out more. After 15 minutes we left the trail. The ground was rougher and rocky, covered in leaves and twigs and animal droppings. Squirrels jumped through the trees.

            “I’m sorry it’s so late.” The sun was dipping over the horizon. “I had a class, and then office hours. Two students. The Odyssey, it’s my most popular class. I’m not sure how much longer I’m going to stick it out, though.”

            “The budget cuts?” I thought I saw a snake slither under my foot, and managed to smother an unmanly yelp.

            “That, and my girlfriend wants to move to St. Louis. She’s got family there. Here we are.”

            She pushed between two trees. The ground in the clearing was bare except for a few scattered leaves. Wren looked around, frowning, then nodded. “Good. It’s still here.”

            She squatted. I bent down.

            A large track scarred the dirt. It would take a size 15 shoe or so. Five long toes jutted out, and something more extended from the tips. Claws?

            I took a few pictures, then brought up the photo I’d taken in Isaac Fishling’s back yard, under the hedge, They looked similar.  

I looked around. I saw a few more partial tracks, leading toward a hill.       

            “There were more this morning.” Wren stood up. “I took a long hike to clear my head before class. But tracks don’t last too long. Good thing it didn’t rain.

            “What are they?”

            She looked me over with an expression I’ve seen a lot—deciding whether or not I’d believe what she said. Finally she took a deep breath. “Wendigo.”

            “Wendigo.” 

            She crossed her arms. “Abby—Abigail said she hired you in particular because you’re open-minded to—strange things. And she doesn’t believe it was a coyote either.”

            I nodded. “Wendigos are cryptids. Mythological creatures. I’ve heard of them. Never seen one, but I saw a Bigfoot once. So yeah, I’m open-minded.”

            She breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. Except—not good. If there’s a wendigo prowling around . . .”

            I turned around, shading my eyes as I gazed up the hill, then peering through the trees. “Yeah. Maybe we should get back.”

Curse of the Wendigo, Part Three

 We found a small coffee shop next to the college bookstore, and sat in a corner bending over my phone so Rachel could talk. Outside the sun was setting, casting long shadows over the street. 

            “I saw a wendigo in a horror movie once,” Rachel said. “It was pretty gruesome.”

            “What do we know about them?” I looked at Wren.

            She shrugged and sipped her latté. “It’s part of folklore around Canada, the Great Lakes, and the plains. They’re human, possessed by evil spirits that fill them with an insatiable hunger, especially for human flesh. They’re tall and skinny because they’re never full, so they’re constantly on the hunt. They have horns, like deer.” She hesitated, still afraid I might think she was crazy. “That’s the folklore, anyway.”

            “You said human?” I looked at my coffee. “So someone could be transforming into a wendigo? Like a werewolf?”

            “Maybe. They are related to European werewolf myths, but that might just be Hollywood.”

            “So,” Rachel said, “you’re thinking Isaac and Joel were killed by a wendigo? That’s your theory?”

            I looked out the window at the darkening street outside. “Could be. But why? That’s the question, and what it has to do with those emails.”

            Wren shuddered. “Someone’s killing us off? I’d call campus security, but they’re a joke. And who’d believe us?”

            “The state police must have jurisdiction,” I said. “But I don’t know anyone there who’d take me seriously.” In Chicago some cops would listen to me, but we were a long way outside the city. 

            “Looks like we’re on our own.” Rachel sighed, annoyed. “As usual.”           

            Wren stood up. “I’m going to pick up my girlfriend and spend the night in a motel far away.”

            “Thanks for your help.” I took my phone off speaker. “You still there?”

            “Is she gone? What does she look like? Wait, she’s got a girlfriend? I guess she’s safe then. You’re cute, but not that cute.”

            I laughed. “Glad you don’t take me for granted. So what do you think?”

            “You forgot to ask her how to get rid of the thing. Oh, wait, is that just an excuse to call her again? Is she cute? You jerk.”

            “You’d stab me in my sleep if I ever did anything like that. It keeps me honest. And nervous.” I checked for the restroom. “I’m going to drive around a little and then head home. Maybe I’ll spot something.”

            “You’re just trying to get out of making dinner.” It was my turn. 

            “I’ll pick something up. Love you.”

            “Same here. Jerk.” She hung up. 

            I drove past the Fishling house and over toward the Gunderson’s neighborhood, not sure what I was looking for or how I’d recognize it if I saw something. I headed east under the glowing streetlights, wondering what I could pick up for dinner so Rachel wouldn’t get mad when—

            I hit the brake. Something darted in front of the car, then leaped away on long legs. A dark shape, tall and thin. A jogger?

            No. It had horns on its head. Like antlers on a deer.

            I fumbled for my phone, but it was gone before I could pull it up. Was that really—

            Then my phone buzzed. Not a call, but a text. From Leo Frazer. I tapped the message—

            It was an image. Dark and blurry, but I could clearly see glowing red eyes, a gaunt, ravaged face, an arm like a twisted tree branch, and long horns sprouting from an almost bare scalp. Standing in front of a bookcase.

            Wendigo.

            What the hell? I stabbed the Call icon.

            Harsh breathing. Crashing noises. Snarling. “Jurgen? It’s here. I called—it was right outside. I called—I called—”

            Nothing. I could still hear him breathing. “Leo? Leo, you there?”

            I hung up and called 911. I didn’t know Frazer’s address, but I gave them his name and said it sounded like he was being attacked. “Is this the state police?”

            “This is McKinnon campus security. What is your emergency?”

            I talked as I drove.

 

By the time I got to the house, two campus squad cars and a state police car were already parked outside, lights flashing. Night had fallen, the stars sparkling brighter over the trees than you could see in the city.

            I jumped from my Prius, and a campus security cop intercepted me as I ran up the driveway. “Excuse me, sir—” She was Black and tall, with a face like a hawk. “You can’t go in there. Do you live here?”

            “No, I’m—” I took a step back, hands visible. “He sent me a picture. I want to get my phone out to show you.”

            She nodded slowly. I pulled out my phone and showed her the image. “This was right before—I mean, I called him, and he was being attacked.”

            After peering at the phone, she looked up at me. “And you are?”

            “Tom Jurgen. I’m a private detective. I talked to chief Benning yesterday about the coyote killings, I’m working for Abigail Fishling—”

            “Brenda?” The voice came from the house. “Who is—oh. You.”

            Benning came down the driveway and stopped next to the cop, hands on his hips. “What brings you here, Mr., uh—Jurgen, was it?”

            “Tom Jurgen.” I turned the phone to show him the image. “Leo Frazer sent me this right before . . . uh, I mean, is he dead?”

            He nodded. “This is a death investigation, yes. But what the hell is that thing? It looks like something from a cheap horror movie.”

            “It’s a wendigo.”

            Benning glanced at Brenda, the security cop, then back at me. “What’s a wen—wendigo?”

            I could see where this was going, but I had to try. “It’s a creature from native American folklore that kills and eats people. Abigail Fishling saw horns on the creature that killed her husband. This thing has horns. It’s cannibalistic and eats human flesh, and it never gets full. And it’s killed two—three people from the Classics department.”

            Again they exchanged glances. Then Benning said, “Well, thanks for the information, Jurgen. I think we have this under control for now. Why don’t you stop by in the morning to give us a statement. Officer Barnes, would you escort Mr. Jurgen back to his vehicle?”

            I felt like Carl Kolchak—a Chicago reporter in the 1970s who, according to legends passed around in newsrooms and nearby bars, had encountered more than his share of supernatural beings before fading out of sight in 1975. Some said he’d finally gotten killed by a monster; others claimed he’d been silenced by the government. A few said he’d just never finished writing his memoirs. 

            Like Kolchak, I couldn’t resist taking one last try at persuading Brenda as she walked me to my car. “This isn’t coyotes.” I fought to keep my voice calm. “Something is killing off the Classics department, one by one. Does that sound like a coyote? Do coyotes have a grudge against people who teach Aeschylus? A bad experience with Oedipus?”

            She crossed her arms as we reached my door, but smiled at my question. “Have a good night, sir. Drive safely.”

            I pulled my seatbelt. “Thanks, officer. You too.”

 

When I got home with a couple of burritos Rachel was watching TV. “About time.”

            “I had murder stuff to deal with.” I put the to-go bag and some plates on the table in front of the sofa and got some beers. “Let me check my email.”

            I was expecting to scroll through some spam, with maybe a message from my mom or my brother in Oregon. Instead the first message was from wendi919. Subject: CURSE.

            “Uh, Rachel?” I called. “Could you take a look at this?”

            I heard a loud sigh as she turned the TV off. “That bitch Mariah was just going to get into it with—wait, what?”

            The message read: BEWARE THE CURSE OF THE WENDIGO.

            “That guy loves his caps lock.” She leaned forward and grabbed the mouse. After a few clicks, she smiled. “Oh, this is good.”   

            “I’m actually thinking a curse from the wendigo is not good.” Could a wendigo get all the way downtown? It wouldn’t exactly blend in with Chicago’s nightlife.

            “No, it’s sent directly to you. Move.” She punched my arm. I stood up, and she took my chair and attacked my keyboard.

            “Is this, uh, all legal?” I didn’t care that much. As long as we didn’t get caught.

            “Oh, you want legal? That takes longer.” She laughed and keep clicking. “Trust me. I’m a pro.”

            “Did I ever tell you you’re hot when you’re hacking?” I rubbed her neck. 

            She snorted, then slapped my hand away. “Don’t get me started. Another night of hot sex and . . . I’ll expect it every night. Do you even have that much Viagra? Go bring me my beer.”

            I got our beers and pulled her chair over to watch while she worked. She frowned a few times, cursed once, backed out from several attempts, then slapped her hand on the edge of my desk, almost spilling her beer. “Got you!”

            I bent forward. The email had originated from a Hotmail address—phma564. Huh. It took me only two seconds to connect the letters—“Philip Marston. President of McKinnon College.”

            “Or—” Rachel cocked her head. “Pink Hogwarts Man Adam?”

            “Any way to check?”

            “Hacking into Hotmail would take a looong time, and the lawyer’s bills when we get caught will be expensive.” She swigged her beer. “What about, ‘Good job, Rach’? I cracked the case. Sort of.”

            “Good job. Thanks.” I kissed her. That went on for a while, until Rachel decided she wanted another beer and went back to her burrito and the Real Housewives of whatever. 

            I sipped my beer and thought for a few minutes. Then I took a breath and started tapping the keys.

            I KNOW WHO YOU ARE. I KNOW YOU SENT THE WENDIGO. WHAT WILL MAKE YOU STOP? Hey, he liked all caps. I hit send. 

I used a separate email address. I’m not a dummy, despite what Rachel says.. Then I set my phone to notify me if I got a reply, and went back to the living room to eat my burrito. 

My phone beeped 20 minutes later, just as I was wishing for another burrito. Email from phma564.

            MEET ME AT THE MCKINNON FOREST PRESERVE 1 A.M. COME ALONE.

            I laughed and showed it to Rachel, who laughed too. I replied: “Seriously? I’ll meet you in your office. 9 a.m. tomorrow.” I was sick of all-caps.    

            No immediate response. We went back to watching TV.

            Two hours later we were getting ready for bed. Rachel was reading something by Doris Kearns Goodwin—she’d been on a history kick lately—and I was playing a game on my phone when it beeped again. Another email.

            This one repeated the first message: MCKINNON FOREST. 1 A.M. But it included a photo.

            Paula Wren sat on gravel, arms behind her back, squinting into the flash in front of her face. She had a bruise on her cheek, and her jacket was torn at the shoulder.

            My heart froze. What the—?

Rachel looked over. “Who’s that? Wait a minute—”

“She’s the one we were talking to.” I swung my legs out of bed. “She was going to go to a motel. He must have—damnit!” I grabbed for my pants.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Rachel threw her book on the floor. It was a hardcover. It landed with a loud thump.

I hesitated, mid-pull. “It’s my fault she’s there.” I finished yanking my pants up and shoved my feet into my shoes without socks. “I can’t—I’ve got to do something.”

Rachel jumped out of bed. “All right, but if you think you’re going out there alone—”

No point in having this argument again. “Figure out how to kill a wendigo. That’s your job. You can stay here and phone it in while I’m—”

She threw a pillow at me, already in her jeans and sneakers. “Shut up. But if you get killed, we’re going to have words.”

I shivered. “I certainly hope so.”

Curse of the Wendigo, Part Four

Paula Wren was unconscious, lying on the gravel, her arms duct-taped behind her back. My car skidded as we pulled up. 

I flung my door open and jumped out, trying to look in every direction for any shadow that moved. I heard Rachel’s door slam behind me

Wren’s eyes flickered as I stumbled to her side, my heart pounding. “Are you all right?” Stupid question—she’d been kidnapped and beaten, but I had to say something.

She coughed. “Benning and—another security cop. Told me I had to come in for questioning. Then they drove me out here . . . How’d you get here?”

“I, uh—I poked the bear. Sorry. I’ll explain later.” I clawed at the duct tape for a moment, then reached for the Swiss Army knife in my jacket and started cutting. “I thought you were going out of town.”

“Jeannette had to work late. I thought—figured it was crazy anyway.” She shook her head. “What’s going on?”

Her ankles had duct tape around them too. “It’s Marston. He’s sending it after everyone in the department, I don’t know why—”

            “Tom?” Rachel’s voice was higher pitched than usual. Not a good sign. “Maybe hurry up?”

            I slashed the last of the tape and started pulling her up. “We’d better go before—”

            “Now!” Rachel shrieked.

            I turned. From the main trail, now shrouded in darkness, a tall shape stalked forward. Its thin bony knees were jointed backward, like a dog rearing up on its hind legs. The flesh on its bare torso was ripped, flapping as it walked. Horns jutted from the top of its skull, sharp as spiny spears in the yellow lamps glowing high overhead.

            Wendigo.

            I pulled on Wren’s arm. I heard Rachel curse, and then a thin highway flare burning at one end flew through the air toward the creature. 

            The wendigo flinched at the flame. Then it lurched forward again, big feet clomping in the dirt.

            Rachel leaned back, yanking at the top of a flare inside a bundle of dozen more that she’d duct-taped together. She yelped as fire erupted from it, but she managed to start three more before the heat got too intense. She hurled the flares at the wendigo and darted toward the car.

I had the rear door open and pushed Wren into the back as the spinning bundle of flame tore through the darkness and hit the creature in the chest. It dropped to the gravel, but the wendigo staggered, a burn on its chest.

            Then I was behind the wheel, and Rachel was beside me. “Go!” 

            We didn’t bother with doors or seatbelts. I threw the car into reverse and slammed down on the accelerator. 

The wendigo stomped the ground, kicking dirt at the blaze and howling up into the night. Then the rest of the flares exploded in a ball of fire, leaping up and whirling in the night air like a swarm of flaming hornets. 

It waved its arms, roaring with anger and pain, then plunged at us.

            I twisted the wheel as we hurtled backward. I had to stop momentarily to shift into drive as the wendigo lunged for the car’s hood. “Tom, Tom, Tom!” Rachel shouted as I rammed the pedal and shot the car forward. The wendigo pounded a hairy fist on the rear windshield, cracking it in a spiderweb shape.

            I reached the entrance gate and swung a hard right, fighting for control, praying no one else was stupid enough to be on the road at 1:30 a.m. The car skidded on the pavement, straightened out, and roared into the darkness.

            My heart pounded like a jackhammer drilling into concrete. I heard Wren gasping in the back. Rachel cursed viciously next to me, probably restraining the urge to punch my arm as I was trying to escape. 

            In the rearview mirror I saw the wendigo chasing us. It galloped like a racehorse, bent down on all fours, and for a terrifying second I was sure it was gaining. So I floored the accelerator. The speedometer leaped up to 87, and Rachel shouted, “Curve! Left!” I had to slow to stay on the road, and then I kicked it up again to 91.

            “Hey!” Wren bellowed. I saw it with just a split second to react—a truck pulling a long rig, heading toward us way too fast for the middle of the night, massive headlights almost blinding my eyes. I tromped on the brake, skidding onto the shoulder as the driver’s horn blared. 

He veered over, and I saw him glare at me, but I didn’t care how he felt right then. I peered into the rearview mirror, looking for the wendigo. They were fast, and they didn’t tire, according to what Rachel had read to me from her phone during the drive. A wendigo would just keep going and going until–

            The truck hit it.

            I saw the body fly up into the night sky and then fall into the woods beside the road. The truck’s brakes whined and the long trailer wobbled left and right, about to fall over for a second. Then, balance back, the truck snaked back onto the highway and after a slow moment hit the gas again and headed on its way.

            My body shook. The car was still, and everything was silent for a moment. 

“Should we go look?” I glanced at Rachel.

She punched my arm. “Drive.”

            “What—what did you do?” Wren, in the back, was rubbing her wrists.

            “Highway flares.” Rachel gulped in a deep breath. “You can kill them with fire, but you can’t rent a flamethrower. So we stopped at a Wal-Mart. I taped f them in a bunch.” She held up her phone. “Turns out there’s a few thousand answers on Google to ‘how to kill a wendigo.’”

            Wren laughed. “Take me home.”

 

We actually took Wren back to our apartment, figuring home wasn’t safe for the night. She called her girlfriend Jeannette, drank some whiskey with us, then collapsed on the couch.

The next morning we all drove back to McKinnon. Wren got out at Jeannette’s house, thanked us, then said, “Please don’t get me in any more trouble, all right?” before she slammed her door.

            “Can’t blame her,” Rachel said.

            I nodded.

            Then we went to the main administration building.

            Philip Marston’s secretary peered at us over the rim of her glasses. “President Marston isn’t in today. I don’t—nobody knows where he is. I can take your name and—”

            We left. “Now what?” Rachel asked in the elevator.

            I thought for a moment, looking for an excuse not to go where we had to go next, and not thinking of one. “Wren said Chief Benning was at her place when they took her.”

            She rolled her eyes. “Fine.”

            Officer Brenda was at the front desk. “You again.”

            “Is the chief available? We can wait. This is my associate Rachel, by the way.”

            Rachel smiled at her. “Charmed.”

            Two minutes later we were in front of Benning. He grunted a greeting. We sat without being asked. “Where’s president Marston this morning?” 

            Benning’s eyes were dark and droopy, as if he’d been up all night and didn’t quite have the energy to glare at us. “We haven’t released it yet, but—well, he’s dead.”

            I nodded. In spite of what Rachel says, sometimes I can think fast. “Let me guess. His body was found by the side of the highway near the McKinnon Forest Preserve?”

            Benning sat up, his eyes darting between Rachel and me. “What do you know about it?”

            I sighed. “You and Marston tried to kill me last night.”

            “And me.” Rachel raised a hand. “Remember? And Paula Wren.”

            “You kidnapped Paula Wren, left her tied up in the forest preserve, then called me to come and get her. Then Marston sent the wendigo to kill us.” I stopped and shook my head. “Actually, Marston was the wendigo. He got hit by a truck chasing us down the highway.”

            “I knew we should have gotten the license number.” Rachel smirked.

            I expected Benning to snort and tell us we couldn’t prove anything. Instead his eyes got narrow. “It’s not legal to record me. If you’ve got your phone going in your pocket.”

            “I do.” I dug it out. 

Rachel lifted hers too. “Two’s better than one.”

            Benning shifted in his chair. “Okay. What do you want?”

            “Marston was president for eight years here, and before that he was head of the Classics department. He’s got a vacation home on Martha’s Vineyard, he spends—spent, I guess—a lot of time in Aspen, and had a bunch of fancy cars. And this place doesn’t pay Ivy League salaries.” 

            He crossed his arms. “What does that have to do with you and Paula Wren?”

            I crossed my arms. “He was shutting down departments and appropriating money for new buildings and expansions, but they never went anywhere. The money is going someplace else, and someone knew it. Someone from the Classics department, where he used to work. So he decided to kill them off, one by one, sending the wendigo after them. And telling you to blame it on coyotes.”

            “Was he sharing the money with you?” Rachel glanced around the office, as if looking for something too expensive to be there.

            Benning scowled. “I know he was being blackmailed. He thought it was someone in Classics. I don’t know who. He said—he told me some story . . .”

            He looked away from us, out the window. “He said he got bit. On a camping trip. It was big, faster than a wolf, with big horns everywhere. He tried to run, but it—got him. When he woke up, all of his friends were dead. The rangers blamed it on wolves, even though wolves don’t usually attack people.”

            “Like coyotes,” Rachel said.

            “Who was blackmailing him?” I asked.

            “I don’t know!” Suddenly Benning was angry. “He told me—only part of it. He thought he owned everyone, including me. He thought . . .”

            He shook his head again. “You can say anything you want. I’m retiring. Today. Wren can try to get me prosecuted if she wants. I’ll be long gone.” 

            Then Benning stood up. “That’s all. I don’t consent to being recorded, so you can’t use that in court at all. But like I said, I’m getting the hell out of here. You two do what you want.”

            Out in the car, Rachel sighed. “Sort of anticlimactic.”

            “I didn’t really expect a full confession, like Columbo or Perry Mason. I just wanted to confirm a few things.”

            “Too bad we couldn’t talk to Marston.”

            “Yeah.” I realized I’d never even met him. He’d tried to kill me, and I was at least indirectly responsible for his death, and it was weird to think we’d never even looked each other in the eye.

            “Is that it? Can we go home?” She yawned. “I got about half an hour of sleep.”

            “Me too.” I pulled out my phone and checked the recording. “Just . . .” I then looked up a number. “Let me make a call.”

            She groaned and closed her eyes.

            Thirty seconds later I had Hank Hinch on the line. “Yeah, what’s up?” He sounded cheerful.

            “I think the thing is over,” I told him. “I hope so, anyway. I just wanted to ask you a question. Between you and me. Oh, and my associate Rachel. She’s right next to me.”

            “Hi,” Rachel said sleepily.

            “All right. I guess.” He sounded doubtful. “What question?”

            “Did you maybe send Philip Marston an email accusing him of embezzlement?”

            It was a hell of a question, but asking impertinent question is in my job description. I held my breath.

            After a moment, Hinchcliff sighed. “I told you about my daughter, Wendy? I started a fund to publish that book I told you about. But the college—Philip, really—ruled that the KickFunder I started belonged to them, because I used my work computer and reached out to members of the faculty and the student body. It wasn’t that much money, but it pissed me off at the time. So I started poking around, and it looked like a lot of money was disappearing, money for the school. And Philip was buying cars and paintings and vacation houses.”

            A pause. “Yeah, I sent him an email. I was pissed. I just wanted him to know somebody knew about it. I hoped it would make him stop, but I guess—I should have just stayed away from my keyboard.”

            I didn’t trust myself to say anything. After a moment, he asked, “Is that it?”

            “Yes.” I took a deep breath. “Thanks.”

            We hung up. Rachel opened her eyes and looked at me. “So he started this?” She shook her head in disgust. “Over a book of poems?”

            “I’d say Marston overreacted a little. Most people don’t try to hide their embezzlement by turning into a supernatural monster and eating people.” But she was right. I couldn’t just drop it. People needed to know. If they didn’t believe in the wendigo, at least they ought to know about Philip Marston.             

            I started the car. Down the street we passed the university bookstore. I’d noticed a sign on a door next to the entrance yesterday: “McKinnon Press—Student-Run Newspaper.”

            I stopped the car. “Now what?” Rachel asked.

            I opened the door. “Someone ought to know. Come on. Or wait here if you want.”

            Up a flight of stairs we found an office with THE MCKINNON PRESS on the door. Inside a young woman sat at a computer, while other students walked around drinking coffee and talking on their phones.

            The name on her desk read “Susan Brinn, Editor-in-Chief.” Rachel and I stood in front of her desk. “Excuse me?”

            She looked up. “Yeah?” Skepticism in her eyes already. I knew the look. It felt comfortably familiar.

            “My name’s Tom Jurgen. I used to be a reporter myself. On the Tribune.” I dropped a card on my desk. “I’ve got a story that might interest you.”

 

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