Ghost of the Badlands

By Lincoln Reed

Theodore Roosevelt clicked the hammers back on his double-barreled shotgun. The mustache atop his upper lip crinkled in a defiant sneer. “Steady, Bill. The hunt’s underway, and we’re the hunted.”

A low moan echoed amongst the ominous hilltops, climbing into an ear-wrenching wail that rattled my bones. I lifted my rifle and swiveled from side to side. “That ain’t no mountain lion. I say we go back. Wait for daylight.”

Roosevelt nudged an item in our path with the end of his shotgun—a pile of bones licked clean, human remains mixed with cattle, skeletons tossed together in a heap. As my eyes adjusted, I spied torn clothing, discarded boots, and the squashed frames of sloped hats. Could these belong to the cattle thieves we hunted?

Roosevelt studied the scene like a doctor estimating a diagnosis. He traced his gloved finger across the smooth skull of an unfortunate victim. “Whatever did this… it’s here. And it won’t let us wait for daybreak.”

The diabolical yowl returned, reverberating across the buttes and rocky formations of the badlands, decaying into the pass ahead where rocky walls enclosed us from both sides.

Silhouetted in the moonlight, a figure slithered from the shadows with hunched shoulders and an emaciated frame, starved ribs crowning a shallow gut. Twisting horns decorated a bald skull as red eyes glowed above bony cheekbones. A sadistic leer spread across its lipless face, revealing jagged teeth that glinted in the moonlight. It reached for us with a relentless hunger, extending long fingers equipped with pointed nails.

As the fiend tottered forward, a wretched stench clung to my nose—rotting flesh and soiled meat.

Roosevelt braced himself. “Wendigo.”

My knees started quivering.

The rancher aimed his weapon and pulled the triggers. An orange flash from both barrels released the acrid scent of gunpowder. Buckshot punched the ghoul’s chest.

Unaffected, the Wendigo continued toward us with ravenous growling.

My hands shook and teeth chattered. I couldn’t aim my rifle let alone pull a trigger. Roosevelt exhaled slow and reloaded his shotgun.

He delivered another serving of buckshot, but still the monster edged closer with claws extended and jaws dripping famished saliva.

To my shame, I dropped my rifle and started to back away as Roosevelt advanced. When the rest of his ammunition failed to kill the beast, the ghoulish brute swiped its long arm and knocked him against the rock wall. Roosevelt crashed to the earth with a thud. Bones crunched. He grasped a wounded leg, wincing with gritted teeth.

The Wendigo howled. I scampered to Roosevelt’s side. He braced my arm as if he might shake the cowardice from my veins. “The devil wants us afraid, Bill. That’s its power.” Before I could answer, he reached into his belt, unsheathed a silver-coated hunting knife, and handed me the weapon. “Pure blade in the heart. That’ll do the trick. My leg’s no good. Stand your ground, and the bully will fail. Stand for both of us.”

I started to protest, but Roosevelt squeezed my arm once more. “Courage! It’s the only way.”

With my fingers tightening around the knife handle, a sobering realization clicked within my mind. If I didn’t fight, we wouldn’t live to see the sunrise. When I met the Wendigo’s hellish glare, a simmering fury ignited within my gut—a primal instinct to survive and defend one’s friends. Absorbing as much of Roosevelt’s mettle as I could muster, I crouched between the rancher and the fiend, knife ready.

In response, the Wendigo gnashed pointed fangs with a taunting snarl.

I ducked as the demon’s outstretched arm whooshed above my head.

“That’s it, Bill,” Roosevelt coached from behind. “Look for an opening—”

The Wendigo’s claw gashed my left arm. Warm blood trickled and stained my shirt. With adrenaline pumping, the wound didn’t sting as bad as it looked.

I switched the knife to my right hand and started a slow circle with the Wendigo. It slashed outward. Growled. Champed its teeth.

I dodged and sidestepped below each attack until I stumbled on a loose stone.

“Bill, look out!”

Capitalizing on my misstep, the Wendigo snatched my neck and hoisted me off the ground. Its hot breath bristled my cheeks as gooey saliva dripped onto my nose.

I gasped and struggled. My feet dangled.

The fiend’s jaws spread wide, ready to bite into my head.

“Now, Bill!” Roosevelt called. “Below his arms!”

Coming to my senses, I plunged the knife blade into the Wendigo’s bony chest until I pierced its icy heart.

The demon’s vice grip loosed, and I plummeted into the pile of bones.

The Wendigo hunched like a wounded animal as I sprang to my feet, wielding a jawbone like a club. At my charge, the wraith retreated deeper into the pass until consumed by the shadows—its shrill cries fading into the stoic terrain.

When the foe disappeared, I caught my breath, my heart thundering like a locomotive. I helped Roosevelt to his feet and allowed him to lean on me as we exited the pass, descending into the ravine where we had left our horses. After I assisted him into his saddle, I climbed atop my steed and wiped cold sweat from my brow. “You think it’s dead?”

Roosevelt grimaced. “Good riddance.”

Despite Roosevelt’s injury, we rode all night and traveled three days until reaching his ranch. After a doctor set his broken leg, Roosevelt invited me to sit with him by the hearth and enjoy a cup of coffee.

“Takes good men to stop evil, Bill. And you proved your courage. I’m in your debt.” Roosevelt gazed into the fire, spacing his words between slow sips. “There may be others. Let’s pray they don’t follow us home.”

I slurped from my mug, relishing the warm drink as I shared a look with my friend, renewed courage growing in my chest. “Let them try. We’ll be ready.”

Roosevelt glanced at me with a knowing wink. “We’ll make a man out of you yet.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lincoln Reed is a writer, filmmaker, and professor. He holds an MFA in creative writing from Miami University (OH). More than 50 of his short stories are featured in online publications and print anthologies. The short film adaptation of his Havok story Tritanopia is currently in its film festival run.

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