Wendigo Drawing Novels & Stories

“But I do need to show you something.” She takes my hand and leads me to her desk. Opening a drawer, she pulls out a small stack of papers. She holds them out to me, and I take the stack. They’re children’s drawings in crayon. “I found those in Bryony’s room,” Willow explains. Our three-year-old daughter's drawing isn’t a concern. It’s the subject matter in her drawings that makes me pause. There are drawings of wolves in cages, a bloody wolf on the ground with a knife sticking out of its neck and a black sun with a smaller blue circle inside of it.

He smiled, “Go for it, babe. I know you’ll make them awesome.” I started on the basement nursery. I drew a dragon surrounding a howling wolf, with a harvest moon in the background. Then I walked to the first-floor nursery and drew a gold dragon flying with a blue sky and the gold sun in the background. In the second-floor nurseries, I drew the Moon Goddess standing over three wolf cubs in one, I drew the Moon Goddess standing over three baby dragons in another, then I drew the Moon Goddess standing over two sleeping baby dragons and one sleeping wolf cub. Aidinth looked at each of the sketches and gasped, “Babe, these are amazing! I almost can’t wait to see what they’re going to look like af

Ever love me. I run until my muscles ache and my lungs burn, the forest swirling around me in a blur. But nothing relieves the pain in my chest. I stop, trying to catch my breath. My paws slump against the forest floor as I keep walking. Exhausted. Broken. Then, a foul stench pierces the night. Dammit… not now. Four massive wendigo creep from the shadows behind the trees. Their skeletal forms are barely visible against the darkness. Their glowing yellow eyes burn with a sinister hunger, their jagged teeth snapping with anticipation.

I promise, knowing how little the promise is worth. She moves the boy behind her. Only then do I see the crude drawings scrawled in the dust near where he sat. Stick figures, drawn with a child's impatience—three of them, all large, triangular heads, each with exaggerated, fanged mouths. Their bodies are wolfish, or what a boy imagines a wolf must be: hunched, heavy at the shoulder, legs that end in claws. One figure holds a stick, or maybe a sword. The last is bigger than the others, looming above a crowd of smaller shapes—people, presumably, but every one drawn with a red X where the heart should be. The mother follows my gaze. "He says the wolves walk upright, like men. They come at night

Wren's whole body goes still. The spoon stops halfway to the pot, water hissing against the burner behind her, and for one full second she forgets to breathe at all. "What pictures, baby?" Fern doesn't answer right away. She opens the sketchbook instead, flips past pages of careful, precise drawings, houses and dogs and one recurring sketch of three stick figures holding hands under a tree, until she lands on a page near the back. It's a face. A rough, five-year-old attempt at a face, dark hair, a hard line for a jaw, done in the same grey pencil Fern uses for everything she isn't sure how to name yet.

Noah, at four years and eleven months old, moved through the preparations for the Chicago trip with the same methodical focus he brought to everything he considered significant. He had been working on something for days, sequestered at the kitchen table with colored pencils and a concentration that brooked no interruption. When he finally revealed it to Sophia, she understood why he'd guarded it so carefully. A cedar waxwing — his best drawing yet, the crest and the sleek brown feathers and the small slash of yellow at the tail rendered with more precision than she'd known his small hands capable of. He'd framed it himself, in a little frame the two of them had chosen together at a craft sho

Something cracked open in my chest quietly, the same way it had in the corridor the first night, without making a sound. “Whenever you want.” I said. She nodded. Went back to drawing. I went back to pretending to read the report. When she left an hour later she showed me the drawing before she went. A wolf, mid stride, heavy lines, asymmetrical the way real wolves were asymmetrical, movement in it. I looked at it. “It’s Midnight.” She said. “But I gave her weight.” She looked at me seriously. “Like mama says. Things look more real when you give them weight.”

Nicole. “Heidi…” my heart softened as I dropped to my knees beside her. “I’m gonna put them back, I promise. I just wanted mum to stay here for a while.” One of her drawings rested ont he table too, almost covered by mum’s scarf. I pulled it from under there. It wasn’t the best picture but I could tell it was two older women with a child in between them. One of the women’s hair was done with a yellow pencil while the other was black, the child had tiny dots around her head to imitate hair, but what they all had in common was the yellow circles hovering over their heads and the triangle wings.

A haze of light burst out from it and condensed thousands of rules. It was the strongest skill the Ancestora's clone had, the skeleton of the most ferocious beasts from ancient times, the Wendigo. The wendigo was also the king of the ferocious beasts. Its strength was equivalent to a half-immortal. Even after it died, its body remained immortal. After Ancestora turned it into a ferocious weapon, the skeleton of Wendigo became even more powerful. The huge Wendigo walked out of the blast mist and slowly raised its arm. Instantly, a terrifying blood aura solidified into a substance on the arm. Even the supreme paragon from many miles away could feel their souls tremble and have difficulty breat

Silver weapons. Decapitation. The specific vulnerabilities of a Wendigo in its transformed state, the weak points in its speed and strength, the ways an experienced hunter approached one without dying. She listened and she asked follow-up questions and she was so relentlessly, magnificently composed that he almost believed she was fine. Then he refilled her whiskey glass and their fingers touched when she reached for it.