Her eyes enlarged. She wasn’t alone. A howl, a growl, she wasn’t sure which, stopped her in her tracks. This time she saw glowing, almost owl-like eyes watching her. A crack—a snap—her ears twitched. Something else was closing in. Scents in the air muddled: fear, pride, sport, survival. A gun fired.
Who was the hunter and who was the prey? She glanced down at her hands stained red with blood.
Clara gasped, bolting upright, hands clasped over her chest. Her heart raced faster than ever before. Not sleeping would have been better than a nightmare. One hand wiped the cold sweat from the back of her neck. That face... those eyes... there was no doubt she’d dreamed of the Wendigo, probably a direct result of glancing through images on the Internet prior to falling asleep.
There was only one problem with that theory: she’d had the same dream nights before she knew anything about those crazy creatures. This one had more details, but they were the same nonetheless. There’d been blood on her hands. Whose was it?
“Huh.” It was a mere flicker, but in that time she actually believed something bad was going to happen. That in itself was really odd. For all intents and purposes, she was a completely normal girl. She didn’t stand out, had no redeeming qualities to speak of, and certainly wasn’t able to predict the future through dreams. Her quirks about headaches were merely superstitious—a game she played with Mr. Fluffunny to take the edge off constantly moving.
Dreams were a gift no one asked for or wanted. From a logical standpoint, they were the brain attempting to make sense out of the thousands of images it was bombarded with daily. Of course, when they were good, no one noticed. It was the blackness of despair that managed to stand out. That was nothing new. A hundred people could pay a compliment, but one negative comment could override them all. She chalked that up to human nature.
Clara chuckled. Perhaps a future career in psychology wasn’t a bad idea. With the amount of thought she already put into these scenarios, the subject was bound to be an easy pass. Self-psychoanalysis for the win. If biology wasn’t necessary she was in. Of course, with any science, she’d be required to take at least one year of the subject. If dissections were involved, she’d be facing an immediate fail.
She flopped back down, side-eyeing the clock: It was almost four in the morning. Her mouth opened, making way for an extra-large yawn. There were only a couple of hours left before the alarm went off. She’d be grumpy all day if she didn’t make the most of them. If only the backs of her eyelids weren’t stamped with the image of the Wendigo, sleep would have been much easier. Hank was much better looking.
Chapter 11
The bell rang. She’d made it through the entire day without having one person question her about the impending decision. If she could sneak out quietly, she’d buy a bit of time—enough to make heads or tails of the situation she was being forced into. The strange initiation was daunting in itself. When the possibility of actual danger was thrown in, the whole idea of camping seemed much worse. Her parents were right: she had no experience dealing with wild animals or anything else for that matter. She’d been sheltered through most of her life.
Her fists balled at her sides. There came a time when all children stepped outside the umbrella their parents provided. Getting a little wet wasn’t going to cause the end of the world. She wasn’t a wicked witch who melted on the spot. Besides, the other teens were probably only trying to frighten her.
While it was an undeniable fact cannibals existed in the world, odds were she’d never actually meet one. On top of that, it was unlikely there were any, whose appearance resembled a cross between a stag and a man, residing in a nearby forest. Either way, implanting such a thought in her mind was an effective tactic. Scaring the pants off of her was probably the goal. If that was true, forcing her to spend an entire night in the forest alone was going way overboard. A classic horror movie would have sufficed.
There were only a few slasher flicks she’d bothered to watch. Even then, they were reduced to selective bits and pieces with her eyes clenched shut through most of the gory scenes. The sight of blood, real or fake, made her fingertips go numb.
There’d been blood on her hands. It hadn’t affected her. Clara shook her head. There was no reason to be thinking about her dream, even if the sight of blood should have left her feeling squeamish.
She ducked down a side street. A small town wasn’t the easiest place to remain out of sight in. With the streets and sidewalks almost always bare; she stuck out. A pink sweater and designer jeans weren’t normally considered flashy, at least not at her previous residence. Here, however, her choice of clothes screamed superstar to the locals. Eyes followed her wherever she went. It was creepy, but then everything was since she’d been asked to go camping alone.
Footsteps. Someone was behind her. Her pace quickened, heart racing into her throat. She tried to gulp it back down, but saliva wouldn’t form. Her mouth was bone-dry. Walking—jogging—being an athlete wasn’t a requirement when being pursued. Survival mode meant ignoring screaming muscles. Short shaky breaths were all she could manage. This was worse than any horror movie chase. Even shadows overtook her pace, closing in quickly.
Perspiration beaded on her forehead and neck. Flashes from her dream prevented her from glancing back. Straight ahead was their house. If she made it there—to her parents—she’d be safe.
She was full
