Free That Which Should Not Be by Brett J. Talley Page A

thrust to the side.  It let out an almost pitiful yelp, like a dog kicked in the gut by an angry master.  I sat there frozen, staring at the ax blade protruding from the side of Andy’s contorted and barely recognizable face.  I looked to the side to see Tom standing next to the fire, a flaming log in one hand and another ax in the other. 
    “Don’t just sit there, kid!  Find it!”
    I jerked back into action, feeling madly for the mirror.  The Wendigo lay still for a moment, but then it began to push itself up.  I began to give up hope.  What if I had moved it?  What if it were somewhere else in the wrecked camp?  Panic set in.  My vision became blurry.  Tom’s cries as the Wendigo righted itself and ripped the ax from its head began to seem more and more distant.  It was as if I was falling into a deep well, far from the world around me. 
    I was shocked back to reality by a sharp pain that shot through my hand.  In any other situation, I would have jerked it out, and all hope might have been lost.  But I was so close to being gone that I just sat there, wondering what it could mean.  Then it struck me — my razor!  I had cut my hand, and that meant the mirror was close. 
    The Wendigo was up now, advancing on Tom.  He held his ground, swinging the flaming log, but he couldn’t hold the beast long.  Then, salvation.  My hand felt smooth, polished glass and the cold kiss of metal.  I grabbed the mirror and pulled it out.  I leapt to my feet, running towards the spot where the man and the beast were circling each other.  But I was too late.  With a brutal strike, the Wendigo, avoiding the torch, ripped open Tom’s leg with a quick slice of his claws.  Tom fell to the ground with a cry.  The Wendigo poised itself over him, ready to make the killing blow.  But at that moment, I jumped on his back, thrusting the mirror in his face. 
    I felt the demon shudder beneath me.  Then, it let out a cry unlike the ones before, for this was a howl of pain.  I fell backwards off of him, and he fell to his knees, hands clasping his face.  Tom, despite his injury, looked at me with a face beaming in triumph.  But then, from where the Wendigo lay, came an unexpected sound.  He was laughing.
    It was a guttural laugh, a courage-stealing, soul-crushing laugh.  It was a laugh that seemed to come from Andy’s broken body and all around at the same time.  It was a cruel, cold laugh, a rumbling, rolling laugh.  The Wendigo lifted itself from the ground.  It turned around, not even noticing Tom lying not more than a few feet from him.  It turned and glared at me, and Andy’s split face seemed to smile. 
    “Pitiful child,” it said, in a voice that was not Andy’s, one I seemed to hear in my mind rather than in my ears.  “Superstitions and petty tricks do not harm me.”
    I stumbled backwards, nearly falling over a burning log.  I stooped down and picked it up, swinging it wildly at the loping beast before me.  It laughed again.
    “I do not fear fire or flame, the gift of my race to your primitive fathers.  We, who walked among the stars and will again.  The ancients are not dead.  No, they sleep only, but the time is coming of their waking.  What is your life against ours?  A blink, a whisper in the night, a flash that fades into darkness.  So, do not fear your death.  You will serve a grander purpose.”
    I continued to fall back, but he matched me step for step. 
    “Do not run.  Your pain will feed me, your flesh will be my sustenance, and in your death, I will live. What is your end?  Will you feed the worm?  Or a god?”
    It hit me, then.  I would not survive.  I could not run.  There was simply nowhere to go.  I stopped backing up.  If he was to take me, I would face him.  He took another step towards me and another.  And then, I felt myself transported back, back to something my father once told me.  I was a young boy of twelve.  My father had taken me