Blood of Gato

William sat hunched on the gravel, arms locked tight around his knees. The sting of the stones biting into his skin barely registered—his entire body was a knot of fear and despair. It felt as if the night sky itself was pressing down on him with suffocating weight, the darkness thickening in one direction as though something vast was gathering there.

Cold. Not the breath of wind, not common frost—this was a different kind of cold, ancient and predatory. It slid down his spine like the breath of something hunting him, something merciless and close.

And the longer he inhaled that stench, the clearer it became:

he was not alone.

"You feel it, don't you?" The voice coiled up from inside him, low and almost amused. "He's coming. He's coming straight for you."

"Shut up…" William rasped, teeth clenched, eyes pressed shut. His fingers clutched his hair so hard his nails dug into his scalp. "Just… shut your mouth."

The thing inside him chuckled. A deep, velvet laugh, dripping mockery.

"Seal your ears, crush your eyelids—it won't help. You'll still hear it. Every step. The rattle of his bones… the scrape of claws through dirt. He's closer than you dare imagine."

"NO!" William shouted, lurching upright. His cry fractured the silence, came back broken in echoes across the empty lot. The night answered with nothing. Only the wind stirred, rocking the rusted gas station sign until it groaned.

The world itself seemed to hold its breath. Even the cicadas had ceased, leaving him with only the thunder of his own heart and the trembling weakness in his legs.

He staggered back from the store toward the road, whipping his head side to side. Every bush seemed alive, shadows darting faster than the wind.

"Pathetic," the beast hissed. "The more you scream, the faster he comes. He drinks the sound of your terror, William. He tastes the sweat of your fear dripping from you like honey."

"Shut your filthy mouth!!" William pressed his hands over his face, rocking on his heels like a child trying to cradle himself into oblivion. "I don't want to die, do you hear me?! I—I'm not supposed to…"

The laugh inside his skull grew louder, shaking him apart. It wasn't entirely his own voice anymore—deeper, hungrier.

"Do you think the world owes you survival? That someone will save you? That girl? That jackal? They abandoned you long ago. They never cared. But I remain. I'm always here—with you."

Breathing ragged, William forced his trembling hands down, his eyes scouring the emptiness ahead. "You're not me… You're not me!" he barked.

The voice leaned in, intimate, like whispers pressed against the bone.

"Wrong. I am the marrow beneath your flesh. I am what squirms under your tears and whimpering. You fear the Wendigo, but that isn't the truth. The thing you dread most has my voice. And my face."

William's knees quivered. The sound came then—from the right of the roadside. Branches straining under something massive, deliberate. Something moving slow, savoring.

The terror strangled his breath. His fists clenched, but he could no longer tell if the shaking in his arms came from cold—or rage.

Inside, the beast roared, savage and commanding:

"FIGHT, unless you crave a slow death! FIGHT! Unchain me, and I will tear him open! Give me the reins, William—let me drink, let me feast! Just give me blood, and I'll give you power!"

Choking on panic, William stumbled back toward the asphalt, a raw cry ripping out of his throat:

"NO! You will never have me!"

The beast threw itself against the walls of his mind, howling, claws raking through thought like glass. For a moment it felt unstoppable—a wild lion thrashing in a cage, slavering for release.

But William knew with dreadful certainty: if he opened that door—even for a heartbeat—the Wendigo would fall, yes, but so would everything else. His family's faces, his friends' laughter, every fragile thread of his life would be shredded under those claws. Nothing would remain but hunger.

Better to die here—alone in this night—than to live as a monster with their blood warm on his hands.

"If I give you control…" William whispered, chest heaving, strangled by his own fear. "Will you stop—at this creature?"

Across from him, in the warped gleam of the gas station's light, it stood—his reflection, but bent into nightmare shape. Its jaw was a ragged split, blackened maw hung with two glistening rows of fangs. Its eyes burned with a searing yellow flame, each blink oozing dark rivulets as though blood itself had learned how to weep. And the blinking wasn't even human—sluggish, deliberate mockery. And through it all, the reflection smiled.

"That depends only on you," the thing purred, dragging its tongue across serrated teeth. Its voice rasped like steel across glass, soft yet chilling enough to lock his chest in ice.

William's jaw tightened. He knew, with perfect clarity: once the beast broke free, even for a heartbeat, it would never go back in.

"No," he said, steady this time. "You're not getting out. Not for this. You're not worth it."

The monster in the reflection laughed—slow, hollow, savoring his defiance the way carrion birds savor rot.

"Then rot in kind. I hope the Wendigo tears your head from your spine, William. And maybe, when it's finished, it will take your mother and sister for dessert." Its mouth peeled into something too wide to be called a grin, while beads of black saliva clung to its fangs. "Picture it—oh, what a feast their screams will make."

William's stomach knotted, a wave of nausea striking him, but he forced words through gritted teeth:

"You're scared too, aren't you?" His voice cracked, hoarse—but carried a strange tremor of defiant certainty.

The reflection paused, eyes narrowing as it lowered its gaze. When it spoke again, its tone was unnervingly calm, even… reflective.

"Fear? No. Not fear. Resentment. You're pathetic—and you'll die like prey. But there's something almost poetic in that, don't you think? Hyenas gnaw lions' cubs to the bone. So let's call your trembling… a gift. A parting gift between us."

William's hands spasmed. His nails—no, his claws—dug into his palm until hot blood surged between his fingers.

"Maybe I do die tonight," he growled, voice breaking on pain. "But maybe that's good. No more of your rotting voice whispering in my skull every goddamn night." He raked the claws across his own chest, tearing cloth, skin, as though unshackling himself. His shout tore free, shaking the air: "And you know what? I don't even care that they left me! They saved themselves. I'd probably have done the same, and I don't blame them!"

The scream echoed through the hushed forest, and for the first time there was no fear in it. Something else seethed in his chest now—boiling hot, sharpened, focused. Rage.

"Leticia said only the strong survive," he spat, lips curling back. "Then I'll be stronger than this thing. I'll tear its throat out with my own hands!" He grinned through the blood, feeling power coil beneath his skin, fleeting yet real.

The reflection blinked once, slow, reptilian. Then, as though flipping a mask, its expression softened into wide-eyed, almost gentle surprise.

"William…" the beast murmured, voice dipped in sweetness.

"What now, bastard?" William snapped, brow arched in defiance.

"Shut your mouth… and turn around."

The reflection lifted one finger, pointing past his shoulder, still wearing that serene and appallingly kind smile.

William didn't have time to think. Only to feel it—the gust of air colder than the grave, spearing down his spine. He spun—his breath nailed in his throat.

And there it loomed.

The Wendigo.

It towered, grotesquely elongated, no less than seven feet tall. Its body was stretched thin to inhuman proportions, pale skin pulled tight over the scaffolding of bone, gleaming like dead snow in moonlight. Its ribs jutted through the flesh in cruel outlines, scored with old wounds. Its arms, grotesquely long, hung nearly to its knees, each fingertip ending in claws like jagged shards of obsidian. Its hair, black and matted, streamed across its face like a shroud—and from behind that curtain breathed a cold so savage, frost crystallized across the ground beneath its bare feet.

The sound it made was no roar, no growl—just a rattling, drawn-out rasp. Like nails dragging down rusted metal, long enough to scrape sanity raw.

"...Shit," William breathed.

And then it moved.

The Wendigo's arm lashed out. The force split the air with a crack like thunder.

William didn't see the strike so much as feel it—his body hurled like a ragdoll, breath blasted out, before he even understood he was airborne. The impact slammed him into the trunk of an ancient oak, bark exploding into shards. Pain detonated through every vein as copper flooded his mouth.

His vision reeled. The world pitched sideways, awash in red.

Somewhere behind him—in the gleam of the gas pump's cracked glass—the beast inside William was laughing. Laughing so violently that even the forest seemed to echo its madness.

When William tried to stand, his ribs screamed like shattered glass, every breath a jagged groan. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth—warm, metallic-sweet.

The Wendigo stepped forward. Its long legs moved with the jerky precision of a puppet pulled by broken strings. Each stride cracked frost beneath its feet, each shift of its skeletal frame singing like twisting bone.

The wet strands of its tangled hair shifted as the wind caught them—revealing, just for an instant, the ruin of a face. A withered skull sheathed in thin, sweating skin, and eyes like burning coals sunk deep in their hollows. They gleamed with hunger—the type of hunger that had waited for centuries and never diminished. The sight made gooseflesh crawl across William's skin in waves.

"You feel it, don't you? You know this is your end." The beast's voice slithered through his skull, oily and triumphant. "My favorite show. A foolish boy pretending to be a hero… about to be torn apart like a rabbit in the jaws of a wolf."

William staggered upright, wiping the blood from his chin. His fists trembled, curling until nails bit deep into flesh.

"I'll rip him apart…" he croaked.

The beast erupted in laughter so deafening it made William's skull throb.

"Look at him! A pitiful rag doll standing before the demon of the woods! You think you're worthy prey? You've always been worthless—weak son, weak friend, weak brother."

The Wendigo bent double suddenly, its spine cracking like timber splintering. On all fours it darted forward in a blur too fast for breath. In the span of a blink, claws were buried in William's chest, ripping hot flesh apart in a line from shoulder to ribs. Warm blood poured down, and before agony reached his nerves, his body was flung aside like a broken toy.

The pain detonated through him, white-hot and endless. His scream tore the stillness, blurred vision swimming red. Yet adrenaline yanked him to his feet.

"You feel that, don't you?" The beast whispered now, almost tender. "I can take the pain away. Let me in. One moment, William—just one—and I'll scatter this carrion across the trees. You won't even have to fight. I am your strength. You are nothing but a shell. A shell made of weakness."

The Wendigo slowed, eerie in its precision, crouched on all fours in a wreath of frost. It gazed into William's soul with unblinking coals. Then its jaw yawned wide—too wide, as if bone had no limits.

What came out was not merely a roar. It was hunger itself. A cacophony of voices shrieking, wailing, begging for food, for release. It was endless starvation given sound. The ground trembled under its bellow.

William's whole body convulsed. His hands shook, his heart slammed like a war drum trying to burst from his chest.

"You really believe… you can win without me?" hissed the beast within.

William staggered forward, slashing with extended claws, driving all the strength he had left into one savage strike. His blow tore flesh—but the Wendigo laughed, a guttural, rattling chuckle that stank of cruelty. It lifted its head, ember eyes locking onto him with delight. Its smile promised not death—but torture.

An instant later burning claws punched through William's thigh, slicing straight through muscle and bone. His body buckled, collapsing onto one knee as the lightning-bolt shock left the world a blank canvas of white. His breath was shredded sobs, his chest heaving shallowly.

Inside his skull, the beast roared:

"Look at you! Bleeding in the dirt! Dying like a weakling! You'll hand your body over—hand your mother and sister over—to this wretched abomination?! You'll let them feed on your loved ones because you were too weak to break your own chains?!"

The world warped under the screaming in his head. The forest faded. All William heard was the Wendigo's labored breathing and the hysterical laughter inside him. And claws—claws gnawing deeper into his flesh.

"Give me freedom… or die a worm," the voice rasped, venom dripping from every word.

The Wendigo slammed him into the frozen dirt, burying him in ice-burn. One massive claw pressed against his throat. William gagged blood, red froth spilling. The cold raced down his spine like liquid death.

His vision collapsed to a blur. Shadow and frost smearing into nothingness.

And in the chaos, the beast's voice rose—no longer a whisper, no longer silk, but a thunderous roar shaking the walls of his dying mind:

"If you don't open the cage… I'll break it myself!"