The Wendigo

Step into the frozen wilderness and uncover the terrifying truth behind one of North America’s most haunting legends—the eternally starving Wendigo. Join us as we blend folklore and fiction in a chilling investigative story that will make your skin crawl. With a tale inspired by real-life encounters and traditional Algonquian beliefs, this episode takes you deep into the dark woods where the Wendigo waits. Do you dare listen?

Episode Transcript

Unknown (00:00):
Welcome to Beasts of Legend, the podcast that delves deep into the shadows of myth, the whispers of folklore, and the mysteries of creatures that have haunted human imagination for centuries. From the dark forests where cryptids lurk to ancient lands where dragons once soared and waters where yokai stir beneath the surface. We bring you stories that blur the line between legend and reality. I'm JB, your guide on this journey through forgotten tales, spine-tingling encounters, and timeless legends. Each week we'll explore the fascinating histories, chilling sightings, and cultural impact of the world's most captivating creatures. So, are you ready to step into the unknown to discover what lies beyond the myths? Stay close and keep your eyes open. Not everything you hear is just a story. This is Beasts of Legend. Welcome, dear listeners, to another tale of darkness and mystery. Tonight, we venture into the frozen wilderness of North America, where an ancient evil lurks. A legend whispered by the indigenous Algonquian tribes. A creature that is both nightmare and warning. The Wendigo. So, pull your blankets close, dim the lights, and whatever you do, don't listen to the wind too closely. Because it might be whispering your name. The Wendigo isn't just a monster. It's hunger incarnate. It's what happens when a soul is consumed by greed, by desperation, by an unspeakable need to devour. The Algonquian peoples including the Cree, Ojibwe, and Innu have told stories of it for centuries. Imagine a creature, tall as a tree, emaciated with skin stretched thin over protruding bones. Its eyes sunken, glowing like embers in the dark. Its lips torn, pulled back over jagged teeth as if in a perpetual agonized grin. And the stench, rotting meat decay the very breath of death itself. They say the Wendigo was once human, that it was a man or woman who, in the depths of a brutal winter, turned to cannibalism. And the moment they did, they were lost. The Wendigo took them. Twisting their bodies, elongating their limbs, sharpening their hunger until it was never-ending. A never-ending and insatiable hunger. But this isn't just folklore, dear listeners. Tonight, I have a story for you, a first-hand account. One that, well, let's just say it changed the way I see the world. A few years ago, I was working on an investigative report for a podcast just like this one. We were tracking reports of missing hikers in northern Minnesota. The police dismissed them. Wild animals, exposure, the usual explanations. But the locals didn't buy any of it. So they found me through a friend and asked me to investigate. They said people needed to know the truth. They said what was happening had nothing to do with wild animals. It was something else. They said something old had woken up. So how could I resist? After a long plane ride and an even longer trip by road, we arrived. I was introduced to a man named Hank, an old trapper who lived in the woods. This nominated spokesperson, I learned later, was the only local who would agree to talk to me. But it was under conditions. If we were going to talk it was to be before the sun had set, beside a roaring fire, and only if we all face the trees. It was approaching dusk by the time I got to Hank's cabin, and sure enough he was outside beside an open campfire, and on his back he had slung the biggest rifle I've ever seen. He didn't move or glance around as the car approached. He didn't move or glance around when I slammed the car door shut. He didn't move or glance around when the car that had delivered me drove off back down the trail. I was now wondering whether I had made a terrible mistake. But, having waved my driver off into the freezing winter's night, I walked slowly and, I must admit, hesitantly towards the heat of the fire and the old man with the huge rifle. It's awake again, he said. Voice raw from years of drinking and smoke. We felt it in December. The cold snap, it was like the air itself had teeth. I asked what it was, already knowing the answer I would be given. And sure enough, he didn't give me its name. The old timers never do. I knew the creature he would not speak of. The couple who picked me up from the airport had spoken of nothing else on the long journey here. You go missing in the woods here, son. You don't just disappear. Something takes you, and it ain't a bear neither. As I made myself more comfortable and nestled my back closer to the fire, he poured two long shots of whiskey into glasses that looked even older than he was. Handing me one, without once seeming to shift his gaze from the trees, he told me about a trapper named Jed Larson. Back in seventy-three Jed and his partner Dale got caught in an unexpected blizzard. They sheltered in the rocks after finding a cave, which protected them from the freezing weather. However, eventually, their food ran out. They were miles from the nearest camp and they spent four weeks out there. And so one of them made a choice. By the time search teams found Jed, he was alone. Face gaunt, skin stretched tight over his bones, eyes black as coal. He walked out of that forest half dead and different. They should have left him out there, Hank muttered, staring into the fire. But they didn't. Brought him back. Didn't ask him where Dale was or what Jed had done with him. He lasted two weeks, two weeks before he tore out of his cabin one night screaming and wailing. They found him the next morning. Out by those trees sitting beside the body of a young child, or what was left of it. He'd torn that boy apart, bits of him scattered in the snow, half-eaten. And Jed, his face covered in blood, his fingers tearing more flesh, and moaning about being starving. When others arrived, he grabbed that boy, and fast he disappeared into those woods. When we went to follow, we noticed the tracks he had left. They weren't human. At this point I was starting to sense something, and I could tell that Hank could feel it too, a creeping unease, the sensation of something watching from the treeline. Hank looked past me, eyes narrowing. You hear that? I shook my head. Just the wind, I thought. But then, I did. I heard something. A whisper. Not words, not human, just a rasping exhale drifting through the trees. And again just faint and rattly and followed by something that sounded like We left in a hurry, both Hank and I barely speaking on the way back to the car, but that wasn't to be the end of it. As we got to the road, there was no car. The ride I had been told would be waiting wasn't. Thankfully, Hank told me I could stay the night in his cabin and that there was plenty of whiskey, plenty of bullets, and doors that had been fitted with the heaviest locks he could find. Once inside and warmed up, it was hard to imagine the truth in the story I had been told. In the warmth of the fire and the flow of the whiskey it was almost like two old friends catching up after many years. That was until something started to scrape against the outside wall and then the kitchen window. Slow, deliberate, like fingernails dragging over the wood. We didn't look outside, we didn't talk more, we didn't drink more, and I was convinced I would not be able to sleep. However, the next, I knew it was morning and I was being woken by loud knocking on the door. I cautiously opened it to find the couple who had abandoned me. Apologizing profusely and blaming a bad battery, I gave them my small pack and looked around for Hank. When I couldn't find him inside, I yelled to the driver that we needed to find my host so I could thank him. What we found was the snow all around the cabin disturbed, long, deep footprints circling, and leading back into the woods. We called, yelled, whistled, but Hank was gone. His cabin stood empty, food and whiskey still on the table where it had been before I dozed off. Firewood stacked neat by the door. No sign of struggle. He was gone. Just gone. Like the story he had told me. Hank, like the others, was just... gone. The last thing he said to me as we left that fire that night still haunts me. If you ever hear it whisper your name, run. The Wendigo isn't just a story, it's a warning. It's what happens when hunger takes hold, when winter is too long, when men become monsters. Some say it still walks the northern forests, waiting, watching, whispering. So if you ever find yourself deep in the woods and the wind starts to whisper, Don't listen. Don't look back. And for the love of all that is holy, run. Thank you for joining us on this journey into the unknown. I hope you enjoyed uncovering the mysteries behind today's legend. If you enjoyed this episode, don't forget to subscribe, leave a review, and share it with fellow seekers of the strange and mysterious. Your support helps keep the legends alive. Have a creature or legend you'd like us to explore. Reach out to us. We'd love to hear from you. Until next time, stay curious, stay cautious, And remember, sometimes legends are more than just stories.