Monster Control Inc. 20
A Hell of a time for a camping trip
We reached the DNR station near Ely just after 2 PM. The agent on duty, a woman with a weather-beaten face in her fifties named Amanda Olson, provided us with current trail conditions and weather updates.
"You boys picked a hell of a time for a camping trip," she said, studying our permits. "We've got another storm system moving in from the west. Could dump another foot of snow before morning."
"We're looking for two men who might have come through here earlier this week," Carl said, showing her photos of Khang and Swanson. "They were heading toward Burntside Lake."
The DNR lady examined the photos carefully. "Yeah, I remember them. Asian fellow and a younger guy with a man-bun. They came through Tuesday morning, said they were doing some kind of wildlife survey."
"Were they adequately geared up for the weather?" I asked.
"Better than most, I’d say. Quality equipment, seemed to know what they were doing. The older one asked me some questions about recent predator activity in the area." She paused. "I did warn them about the missing hikers. Three folks went missing near Bass Lake last month. Never found any trace of them."
Carl and I exchanged glances. That matched what Carlson had told us about the wendigo's hunting pattern.
"Any theories about what happened to the three who went missing?" Carl asked.
"Officially? Death by exposure followed by animal predation," she replied. "Unofficially? I don’t know. There's been some weird reports from that area lately. Campers talking about strange sounds in the night, big bear tracks, that sort of thing."
"What kind of sounds?" I pressed.
"Howling, but not like the usual wolf packs. More like a lone wolf, if that makes sense. And there was one report of someone hearing what sounded like human voices calling for help, but when the campers investigated, they couldn't find anyone out there."
That definitely sounded like wendigo behavior. The bastards were known to mimic human voices in order to lure their prey closer.
"We appreciate the information," Carl said. "If we're not back within 48 hours, please contact the Saint Louis County Sheriff's Department and have them call this number." He handed her one of Carlson's business cards.
"You boys be careful out there," the DNR agent said as we prepared to leave. "This may sound a little nutty to you, but whatever's in those woods, I don’t think it’s natural."
"We sure will," I told her. And I meant it, although I didn’t tell her how right she was.
The final stretch to Burntside Lake took us onto increasingly primitive roads, then finally onto what was barely more than a snow-covered dirt road. The Suburban's four-wheel drive earned its keep as we navigated through drifts and around fallen trees.
"There," I said, pointing to a small clearing ahead. "GPS says this is where Khang and Swanson sent their last transmission."
Carl pulled the Suburban into the clearing and shut off the engine. The sudden silence was profound—no traffic, no city sounds, just the whisper of wind through pine trees and the soft patter of falling snow.
We climbed out and began examining the area. It didn't take long to find signs of our missing colleagues. Snowshoe tracks led from where they'd parked toward the tree line, and I could see the remains of what had probably been a temporary camp near a large boulder.
"They set up here," I observed, pointing to depression in the snow where a tent had been pitched. "Looks like they stayed at least one night."
Carl was examining the ground near the tree line. "Found something," he called.
I joined him at the edge of the clearing. The tracks were clear in the snow—two sets of human prints from snowshoes, heading northeast into the forest. But there was also something else. The elongated, inhuman prints that we'd seen in the photos.
"Wendigo was tracking them," Carl said grimly. "See how the prints follow the same path? It was stalking them."
"How long ago?"
Carl knelt and examined the tracks more closely. "Hard to say, but I'd guess Thursday night or Friday morning. Which means..."
"Which means it caught up to them somewhere in there," I finished, pointing into the dark forest.
Why do you torture us with only one of those a week?? 😭
Looks like Horace and Carl actually do work well together.