Wendigo

Dear reader,

This novel contains strong violence—violence that does not truly match my usual writing style, nor the cadence of the stories you may have come to expect from me. Yet it is a novel I have been waiting, perhaps even aching, to share. It has lived in the shadows of my mind for years, whispering, gnawing, demanding to be told. To silence it would be to deny the very marrow of my nightmares. And so, I offer it to you, not as entertainment alone, but as a descent into the darker corridors of my imagination.

This novel is of a nightmare-ish nature, adapted by the Wendigo. The Wendigo is not merely a creature of folklore here—it is a presence, a hunger, a mirror of the human soul when stripped of mercy. My writing unfolds through the point of view of Charlie, a character who is both witness and victim, both dreamer and dream. Most of the events you will encounter are drawn directly from my own nightmares, transcribed with trembling hands and a mind that often wonders whether the act of writing is itself a form of exorcism.

Understand this, dear reader: these novels, this one and those that will follow, are not meant to frighten you in the cheap sense of horror. They are not designed to make you jump at shadows or clutch your chest at sudden shocks. Instead, they are meant to give you insight into the landscapes of my dreams and nightmares. They are maps of the subconscious, riddled with symbols, scars, and echoes of silence. They are invitations to walk with me through corridors where memory and myth intertwine.

If you choose to read this novel, I must warn you. You will be tempted to compare it to the works I have already written. You will notice similarities—familiar rhythms, recurring motifs, echoes of voices you have heard before. But there is one difference that will stand out, one element that will not let you rest: the violence. It is not gratuitous, nor is it meant to shock for the sake of spectacle. It is violence as dream, violence as metaphor, violence as the language of nightmares that refuse to be softened.

To you, my dearest readers, I say this with care: be cautious as you descend into this rabbit hole. Do not go too deep without preparing yourself, for the deeper you go, the more you will find yourself feeling exactly as the characters do. Their despair may become your despair. Their hunger may gnaw at your bones. Their silence may echo in your own chest. And when you emerge, if you emerge, you may find yourself changed.

The nightmare has begun. But is it real?

Nightmares are not simply stories told by the unconscious mind; they are truths disguised in grotesque masks. They are the body’s way of speaking when words fail. They are the soul’s way of reminding us of what we fear, what we desire, and what we cannot bear to face in daylight. This novel is stitched together from such truths. Each scene is a fragment of a dream I have lived, each scream a sound I have heard in the silence of sleep.

The Wendigo, in this telling, is not only a monster of the forest. It is hunger incarnate. It is the embodiment of what happens when desire devours restraint, when survival erases morality. It is the shadow that follows us when we pretend we are civilized, when we convince ourselves that we are immune to the primal call. In Charlie’s eyes, you will see the Wendigo not as a beast alone, but as a reflection of humanity’s darkest corners.

I must confess something: writing this novel was not easy. It was not a matter of invention, but of recollection. Each page demanded that I return to the dream, that I relive the nightmare, that I allow the violence to unfold again and again until it was captured in words. There were nights when I woke drenched in sweat, my heart pounding, my breath shallow, and I wondered whether the act of writing was a form of possession. Was I recording the nightmare, or was the nightmare recording me?

You may think of this novel as a rabbit hole, a descent into a world where logic bends and morality fractures. But unlike the whimsical descent of Alice into Wonderland, this rabbit hole is carved from bone and shadow. It is lined with whispers, with echoes of hunger, with the scent of decay. To step into it is to risk losing your footing, to risk forgetting where the dream ends and where reality begins.

I urge you, dear reader, to tread carefully. Do not rush. Do not skim. Allow yourself to feel the weight of each word, the chill of each silence, the tremor of each scream. The deeper you go, the more the novel will demand of you. It will ask you to confront your own fears, your own hungers, your own shadows. And when you reach the bottom, you may find that the rabbit hole does not end—it simply opens into another corridor, another nightmare, another truth.

Violence in this novel is not spectacle. It is not gore for the sake of gore. It is language. It is the way nightmares speak when they cannot be softened. It is the way trauma manifests when it refuses to be silenced. Each violent act is a metaphor, a symbol, a scar carved into the flesh of the dream.

You may recoil. You may wish to turn away. But I ask you to look closer. Ask yourself what the violence means. Ask yourself what it reveals about Charlie, about the Wendigo, about the human soul. Ask yourself whether the violence is external or internal, whether it is inflicted by the monster or by the dreamer himself.

The nightmare has begun. But is it real? That is the question that will haunt you as you read. Is Charlie dreaming, or is he awake? Is the Wendigo a creature of folklore, or is it a manifestation of grief, hunger, and despair? Is the violence happening in the forest, or in the mind?

I cannot answer these questions for you. I can only offer the story, the dream, the nightmare. The rest is yours to decide.

So, dear reader, I invite you to step into the nightmare. Hold a lantern in your hand, but know that its light may flicker. Listen to the whispers, but know that they may not tell the truth. Follow Charlie, but know that he may not lead you to safety.

This is not a story of comfort. It is not a story of resolution. It is a story of descent, of hunger, of silence. It is a story that asks you to confront the Wendigo within yourself.

The nightmare has begun. But is it real? Or is it simply the echo of your own dreams, waiting to be awakened?