A howling wind whipped through the pine trees, blowing icy crystals from snow-heavy branches.

In a small clearing, a thin curl of smoke rose from the roof of a dome-shaped dwelling made from tree branches, covered with

rush matting and a dusting of fresh snow. Inside, a family lay as close as possible to the meagre fire and its hot stones, too

tired and famished to move.

There were occasional whimpers from the small children as the mother weakly stroked their hair.

Three other adults were listlessly sleeping, her mother and brother-in-law, and her husband, scraps from their last meal, fragments of

the skin and bone of a beaver, and a snowshoe hair stripped of every last morsel of flesh and several days old lay scattered

near the hearth.

The husband, empty whiskey bottles at his feet, had fallen into a fitful sleep. Somewhere deep in his

mind, the sound of the gusty wind howling around the wigwam morphed first into a semi-human howl and then into an insistent

rasping whisper that sounded like, scraping on bone.

Then he found himself staring out into a snowstorm, and through a white mist the shape of an

impossibly tall figure, gaunt and skeletal, emerged in the

distance.

He could see it hiding in the trees, deathly ash and grey, with desiccated skin pulled tightly

over its bones.

It had only sockets for eyes, and in place of lips, there was only tattered bloody flesh. Stinking of

decay and decomposition, the creature raised one emaciated, claw-like hand, beckoning Cacixie-Cuchin closer.

But the man stayed still, too terrified to move. He could see then that the creature was

chewing on what looked like raw pink flesh, the blood dripping from its mouth.

Karkisi Kuchin woke suddenly from the nightmare, drenched in cold sweat.

Shaking it off, he rose weakly to his feet and staggered outside to relieve himself.

...