Wendigo Quotes

As long as you draw breath anywhere -here or ten thousands miles from here- I will love you. I can't help loving you, so I choose to hate you...to make my love bearable.

Not entirely fair?" His voice became that of the inferno: a rushing, booming howl of icy evil that flew around the great cavern, as swift and cold as the Wendigo on skates. "I am Satan, also called Lucifer the Light Bearer..." Cabal winced. What was it about devils that they always had to give you their whole family history? "I was cast down from the presence of God himself into this dark, sulfurous pit and condemned to spend eternity here-" "Have you tried saying sorry?" interrupted Cabal. "No, I haven't! I was sent down for a sin of pride. It rather undermines my position if I say 'sorry'!

Simple,' Tummeler replied.' Blueberries is one of the great forces o'good in the world.' How do you figure that?' said Charles. Well,' said Tummeler, 'have you ever seen a troll, or a Wendigo, or,' he shuddered, 'a Shadow-Born ever eating a blueberry pie?' No,' Charles admitted. There y'go,' said Tummeler. It's cause they can't stand the goodness in it.' Can't argue with you there,' said Charles. Foods is good and evil, just like people, or badgers, or even scowlers.' Evil food?' said Charles. Parsnips,' said Tummeler, 'Them's as evil as they come.

It was so easy to be wise in the explanation of an experience one has not personally witnessed. ("The Wendigo")

A word of advice, Will Henry. When a person of the female gender says she wants to show you something, run the other way. The odds are it is not something you wish to see.

In the name of all that is holy, tell me why God felt the need to make a hell. It seems so redundant.

Good God, man, what is that smell?" He eyed with disgust the doctor's filthy cloak. "Life," answered the doctor.

Nothing makes us love something more than the loss of it.

There are things that are too terrible to remember, and there are things that are almost too wonderful to recall.

Like many another materialist, that is, he lied cleverly on the basis of insufficient knowledge, because the knowledge supplied seemed to his own particular intelligence inadmissible. ("The Wendigo")

Deep silence fell about the little camp, planted there so audaciously in the jaws of the wilderness. The lake gleamed like a sheet of black glass beneath the stars. The cold air pricked. In the draughts of night that poured their silent tide from the depths of the forest, with messages from distant ridges and from lakes just beginning to freeze, there lay already the faint, bleak odors of coming winter. ("The Wendigo")

The cold stars spun to the ancient rhythm, the august march of an everlasting symphony. They are old, the stars, and their memory is long.

Soon I will fall asleep and I will wake from this terrible dream. The endless night will fall, and I will rise. I long for that night. I do not fear it. I have had my fill of fear. I have stared too long into the abyss, and now the abyss stares back at me.

He gave it the benefit of the doubt; he was Scotch. ("The Wendigo")

I was woefully ignorant in the social graces. I was being raised, after all, by Pellinore Warthrop.

His were the eyes of one who had seen too much suffering to take suffering too seriously.

he settled down in his favorite armchair and read. Soon he was lost to all else but the rhythm of the words talking to him across the centuries.

Let us go then, you and I, like Alice down the rabbit hole, to a time when there still were dark places in the world, and there were men who dared to delve into them. An old man, I am a boy again. And dead, the monstrumologist lives.

And it was in that moment of distress and confusion that the whip of terror laid its most nicely calculated lash about his heart.

Outiko is not hunted; Outiko hunts, the ogimaa had said. You do not call Outiko. Outiko calls you.

I'd walk right up to him and blow his brains out.

I am abroad in the night with my servants. We come to smoke the northern lights, to rape the Wendigo, to melt igloos with streams of hot, bloody piss. To see and see.” “Oh. You’re a bit east.

Soon I will fall asleep and I will wake from this terrible dream. The endless night will fall, and I will rise.

There is beauty that soothes like the warm kiss of the spring sun upon the cheek, and then there is beauty that terrifies, like the cry of Ozymandias, inviting despair.

Love has a way of making us stupid, Will Henry. It blinds us to certain blatant realities, in this case the spectacularly high mortality rate among monstrumologists. Rarely do we live past forty - my father and von Helrung being the exceptions.

For he felt about the whole affair the touch somewhere of a great Outer Horror - and his scattered powers had not as yet had time to collect themselves into a definite attitude of fighting self-control. ("The Wendigo")

If I wanted to shoot someone’s face, they’d know it.

Force should be right; or rather, right and wrong, between whose endless jar justice resides, should lose their names, and so should justice too. Then everything includes itself in power, power into will, will into appetite; and appetite, an universal wolf, so doubly seconded with will and power, must make perforce an universal prey and at last eat up himself.

We have gone far in our public places to push death aside, to consign it to a dusty corner, but in the wilderness it is ever present. It is the lover who makes life. The sensuous, entwined limbs of of predator and prey, the orgasmic death cry, the final spasmodic rush of blood, and even the soundless insemination of the earth by the fallen tree and crumbling leaf; these are the caresses of life's beloved, the indispensable other.

The dusk rapidly deepened; the glades grew dark; the crackling of the fire and the wash of little waves along the rocky lake shore were the only sounds audible. The wind had dropped with the sun, and in all that vast world of branches nothing stirred. Any moment, it seemed, the woodland gods, who are to be worshipped in silence and loneliness, might stretch their mighty and terrific outlines among the trees.

The bleak splendors of these remote and lonely forests rather overwhelmed him with the sense of his own littleness. That stern quality of the tangled backwoods which can only be described as merciless and terrible, rose out of these far blue woods swimming upon the horizon, and revealed itself. He understood the silent warning. He realized his own utter helplessness.

Simpson, the student of divinity, it was who arranged his conclusions probably with the best, though not most scientific, appearance of order. Out there, in the heart of unreclaimed wilderness, they had surely witnessed something crudely and essentially primitive. Something that had survived somehow the advance of humanity had emerged terrifically, betraying a scale of life monstrous and immature. He envisaged it rather as a glimpse into prehistoric ages, when superstitions, gigantic and uncouth, still oppressed the hearts of men: when the forces of nature were still untamed, the Powers that may have haunted a primeval universe not yet withdrawn. To this day he thinks of what he termed years later in a sermon 'savage and formidable Potencies lurking behind the souls of men, not evil perhaps in themselves, yet instinctively hostile to humanity as it exists.' ("The Wendigo")

...savage and formidable Potencies lurking behind the souls of men, not evil perhaps in themselves, yet instinctively hostile to humanity as it exists.

Cora didn't know a whole lot about wendigo, but there were ways in which they were just like people: they wanted above everything to live through the night ("Stay")

Like many another materialist, that is, he lied cleverly on the basis of insufficient knowledge, because the knowledge supplied seemed to his own particular intelligence inadmissible.

My name was in the wind, and the wind was high above the snowbound city. There was no difference between the sound of my name and the sound of the wind. I was in the wind and the wind was in me, and beneath us were the crystalline haloes of golden light wrapped about the streetlamps, and the muffled plops of snow falling from eaves, and the dry rattles of the dead leaves clinging to the indifferent boughs.

And it was in that moment of distress and confusion that the whip of terror laid its most nicely calculated lash about his heart. It dropped with deadly effect upon the sorest spot of all, completely unnerving him. He had been secretly dreading all the time that it would come - and come it did. Far overhead, muted by great height and distance, strangely thinned and wailing, he heard the crying voice of Defago, the guide. The sound dropped upon him out of that still, wintry sky with an effect of dismay and terror unsurpassed. The rifle fell to his feet. He stood motionless an instant, listening as it were with his whole body, then staggered back against the nearest tree for support, disorganized hopelessly in mind and spirit. To him, in that moment, it seemed the most shattering and dislocating experience he had ever known, so that his heart emptied itself of all feeling whatsoever as by a sudden draught. 'Oh! oh! This fiery height! Oh, my feet of fire! My burning feet of fire...' ran in far, beseeching accents of indescribable appeal this voice of anguish down the sky. Once it called - then silence through all the listening wilderness of trees. And Simpson, scarcely knowing what he did, presently found himself running wildly to and fro, searching, calling, tripping over roots and boulders, and flinging himself in a frenzy of undirected pursuit after the Caller. Behind the screen of memory and emotion with which experience veils events, he plunged, distracted and half-deranged, picking up false lights like a ship at sea, terror in his eyes and heart and soul. For the Panic of the Wilderness had called to him in that far voice - the Power of untamed Distance - the Enticement of the Desolation that destroys. He knew in that moment all the pains of someone hopelessly and irretrievably lost, suffering the lust and travail of a soul in the final Loneliness. A vision of Defago, eternally hunted, driven and pursued across the skyey vastness of those ancient forests fled like a flame across the dark ruin of his thoughts... It seemed ages before he could find anything in the chaos of his disorganized sensations to which he could anchor himself steady for a moment, and think... The cry was not repeated; his own hoarse calling brought no response; the inscrutable forces of the Wild had summoned their victim beyond recall - and held him fast. ("The Wendigo")

His entire chest cavity had been opened up. Ice crystals glittered like jewels festooning his ribs, lining the walls of his ripped-open stomach; his lungs looked like two enormous multifaceted diamonds; his frozen viscera shone as brightly as wet marble. It was terrible. And it was beautiful.

See him now, his face lit up with delight at the parade advancing on every side, of cart and carriage, delivery truck and spacious brougham, of ladies in their colorful crinoline and dandies dandier than the foppish fop astride boneshaker bicycles weaving between the vendors’ carts as expertly as rodeo barrel racers. Sunset was still almost two hours hence, but the buildings on the western side cast long engulfing shadows, between which the granite pavement glowed honey gold in smoky shafts of slanting light, the light painting the facades along the eastern side the same Hyblaean hue.

Punk had in him still the instincts of his dying race; his taciturn silence and his endurance survived; also his superstition.

She had the heart of a monstrumologist, that was certain; it just so happened that that heart belonged to a girl.

Annie refused to believe in nightmares. Anything she feared at night, she knew she could kill once awake.

Nothing like gunpowder to get a girl going.

Oh, oh! This fiery height! Oh, oh! My feet of fire! My burning feet of fire!

In spite of his exceeding mental perturbation, Simpson struggled hard to detect its nature, and define it, but the ascertaining of an elusive scent, not recognized subconsciously and at once, is a very subtle operation of the mind. And he failed. It was gone before he could properly seize or name it. Approximate description, even, seems to have been difficult, for it was unlike any smell he knew. Acrid rather, not unlike the odor of a lion, he thinks, yet softer and not wholly unpleasing, with something almost sweet in it that reminded him of the scent of decaying garden leaves, earth, and the myriad, nameless perfumes that make up the odor of a big forest. Yet the 'odor of lions' is the phrase with which he usually sums it all up. ("The Wendigo")

All the same I wouldn’t laugh about it, if I was you,” Défago added, looking over Simpson’s shoulder into the shadows. “There’s places in there nobody won’t never see into — nobody knows what lives in there either.

There is no future in it, Will Henry,” he said pensively. “The future belongs to science. The fate of our species will be determined by the likes of Edison and Tesla, not Wordsworth or Whitman. The poets will lie upon the shores of Babylon and weep, poisoned by the fruit that grows from the ground where the Muses’ corpses rot. The poets’ voices will be drowned out by the gears of progress. I foresee the day when all sentiment is reduced to a chemical equation in our brains—hope, faith, even love—their exact locations pinned down and mapped out, so we may point to it and say, ‘Here, in this region of our cerebral cortex, lies the soul.’ 

His most vulnerable points, moreover, are said to be the feet and the eyes; the feet, you see, for the lust of wandering, and the eyes for the lust of beauty. The poor beggar goes at such a dreadful speed that he bleeds beneath the eyes, and his feet burn.

Hey!  Over here!” The revenant turned towards him. “Death!  Revenge!” “Yes,” Errol answered. “I know you were wronged, but you’re harming innocents.” “Death!  Revenge!” “I understand that, but–” “Death!  Revenge!” Errol sighed. Revenants were perversely single-minded

I quit.” “You’re okay. It’s shock.” “No. I’m done.” He waved his sword at me. “She swallowed me! I was inside her!” Ascanio cracked up, showing way too many hyena teeth. I gave him the look of death and he clamped his mouth shut. “I quit!” Holland threat his sword down. “Okay,” Derek said. “Look, be reasonable,” Ascanio said. “We’ve all been there. One time there was this hungry wendigo . . .” “Redundant,” Derek said. Ascanio rolled his eyes. “The point is, weird shit happened. Weird shit happens a lot. It’s traumatic. Look, she rolled onto me. You don’t even want to know what gross things were pressed against my face.” Holland’s face jerked. “Too soon,” Derek said.

As long as they are carnivorous and/or humanoid, the monster's form matters little. Whether it is Tyrannosaurus rex, saber toothed tiger, grizzly bear, werewolf, bogeyman, vampire, Wendigo, Rangda, Grendel, Moby-Dick, Joseph Stalin, the Devil, or any other manifestation of the Beast, all are objects of dark fascination, in large part because of their capacity to consciously, willfully destroy us. What unites these creatures--ancient or modern, real or imagined, beautiful or repulsive, animal, human, or god--is their superhuman strength, malevolent cunning, and, above all, their capricious, often vengeful appetite--for us. This, in fact, is our expectation of them; it's a kind of contract we have. In this capacity, the seemingly inexhaustible power of predators to fascinate us--to "capture attention"--fulfills a need far beyond morbid titillation. It has a practical application. Over time, these creatures or, more specifically, the dangers they represent, have found their way into our consciousness and taken up permanent residence there. In return, we have shown extraordinary loyalty to them--to the point that we re-create them over and over in every medium, through every era and culture, tuning and adapting them to suit changing times and needs. It seems they are a key ingredient in the glue that binds us to ourselves and to each other.

For nothing could explain away the livid terror that had dropped over his face while he stood there sniffing the air. And nothing — no amount of blazing fire, or chatting on ordinary subjects — could make that camp exactly as it had been before. The shadow of an unknown horror, naked if unguessed, that had flashed for an instant in the face and gestures of the guide, had also communicated itself, vaguely and therefore more potently, to his companion.

Between the two lonely figures within, however, there pressed another shadow that was not a shadow from the night. It was the Shadow cast by the strange Fear, never wholly exorcised, that had leaped suddenly upon Défago in the middle of his singing. And Simpson, as he lay there, watching the darkness through the open flap of the tent, ready to plunge into the fragrant abyss of sleep, knew first that unique and profound stillness of a primeval forest when no wind stirs... and when the night has weight and substance that enters into the soul to bind a veil about it... Then sleep took him...

Turns out that when something gets cheaper, or more efficient, we just end up using so much more of the stuff that the savings disappear under a wave of increased consumption. They call it the “Jevons Paradox”, and it applies to pretty much any human resource. Halve the price of computer memory, we'll increase demand by a factor of four. Increase solar efficiency by ten times, we'll suck back twenty times as much of the stuff. And you just know that if we resort to geoengineering to buy time—use stratospheric sulfates to compensate for ongoing carbon emissions, for example—people will just be that much less inclined to cut those emissions any time soon. We are not wired for restraint; let us off the leash, and we will devour whatever is available.

Tom was quite rare in having the talent to actually summon them.  (Errol, however, saw little value in a skill that allowed you to beckon things that only wanted to eat you.)

When Errol finally fell asleep, his dreams were filled with images of bodies torn asunder and blood covering everything he could see. ********** Errol woke up well before dawn to the sound of a bloodcurdling scream. 

His gaze slid from her headscarf to her glass of club soda. “Still pretending to be a Muslim?” “Hey, Damien,” Freddie said, “still pretending to be a man?” “Dances-with-Knives, a pleasure as always.” He lowered his voice. “I could ask you a similar question, wendigo.” “I was commenting on your lack of genitals.” Freddie leaned closer to me, cupped one hand to the side of her mouth and stage-whispered, “Nothing down there. Smooth like a Ken doll.

Harsh burn. Shot down by Bigfoot.

Wendigo snarled and threw a handful of gravel up at Nello that clattered musically against her chest plate, but he made no effort to stand. He closed his eyes then and lay there laughing like a man insane. “Mara's out there! Your daddy's gonna burn! You're all going to burn beneath the shadow of her wings!

In this Choose Your Own Story book, you make the decisions, and you get to go to Wendigo’s Academy for young witches and wizards. If you have always dreamed of receiving an invitation for a mysterious school of witchcraft and wizardry, this book is your dream come true. Your decisions will influence the house that you are sorted into and the friends you make. If you’re smart enough and brave enough, you can save the school, and maybe the world. Or maybe you’ll decide to join the other side and rise to power in the shadow of evil. Or forget all that serious stuff and prove your skills on a broom. The important thing is that in this book, it’s all up to you. There are 53 endings to choose from and hundreds of stories to tell! Wendigo’s Wizarding Academy is the premiere school of wizardry in North America. Nestled in the Rocky Mountains, the crooked, old castle is only accessible by airship. The ancient school has three houses named after the mythological creatures that live in and around the castle: the free-spirited Satyrs, the loving Unicorns, and the prodigious Jackalopes. It’s magic-soaked halls are full of adventure and treasures to find. Students can always be seen on the fields outside, playing Zithur, the school’s favourite game. To play it, one needs three teams, a full set of broomsticks, a winged toad, four flying ferrets and one mysterious golden box, called the Zithur. READ IT NOW! Get a free Choose Your Own Story book by signing up here! To get the latest news about when my next book comes out, free stories, and

Lothaire traced in front of her, clenching his fists so hard blood began to drip from them. “The sorceress had a dozen Wendigo guards that I defeated.” “I don’t know what a Wendigo is. Could be a Lore bunny. But it sounds like you consider that feat a big deal.

We have glacier goblins and frost giants. Ice serpents. Polar tempests, a sort of living winter tornado. The occasional wendigo, an absolutely terrifying creature that lived in the most secluded depths of the polar forests.

He was deeply susceptible, moreover, to that singular spell which the wilderness lays upon certain lonely natures, and he loved the wild solitudes with a kind of romantic passion that amounted almost to an obsession. The life of the backwoods fascinated him—whence, doubtless, his surpassing efficiency in dealing with their mysteries

There is a good and healthy fear and then there is the negative fear. The good and health fear is just a boo, like creepypasta or horror or ghost stories. The negative fear resides in the news with war and terrorism….avoid the news.

Fidelity Bravery and Integrity isn’t just about the fbi but also about life in general

Love breeds love Hate breeds hate Disease spreads disease Let’s spreed love. Thank you.

You should be able to write your story on your body through tattoos and piercings I wouldn’t suggest letting the coroner right the story for you. Write your biography through tattoos and piercings while you still can live the good life and live the good life without money do things not for money safer because you enjoy them.

I find that death or the middle finger go hand-in-hand another words giving death or the Grim Reaper the middle finger go about your life and forgot the Grim Reaper even exist. Excuse my French but fuck the Grim Reaper but he needs to know that he is worthless

Why do you think it is still legal to sacrifice the unborn to Molech in your nation? It feeds his power, so your political class have ensured it is both legal and plentiful.

The Apparition by Stewart Stafford The Indian burial ground, Lay beyond the tree steeples, Wind murmured in the branches, Of lost lands and wounded ancestors. A new tenant's first night at home, A Wendigo came in a pandemic fugue, The head, neck and shoulders visible, Jittery, contorted shapes on blinds. Wild dawn packing, screeching tyres, Home sweet home, still beyond reach, Out of the driveway at top speed then, Flight from an entity that won't leave you. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.

When we talk about demonizing or dehumanizing people as part of that destroy-and-replace process, we can take another important lesson from the wendigo. Although he sees beavers instead of people—as something he could consume rather than as humans, like him—the people are unchanged. They may appear to be beavers to the wendigo, but in the stories they remain human. It is the man who consumes them who is transformed. It is the man who consumes them who is dehumanized.

He remembered suddenly how his uncle had told him that men were sometimes stricken with a strange fever of the wilderness, when the seduction of the uninhabited wastes caught them so fiercely that they went forth, half fascinated, half deluded, to their death.

Graham’s

Can’t help it,” Steve replied on a shrug. “I woke up being me this morning. It comes and it goes. Maybe in ten minutes I’ll be someone else.

Fear, to put it plainly, hovered close about that little camp, and though all three would have been glad to speak of other matters, the only thing they seemed able to discuss was this—the source of their fear. They tried other subjects in vain; there was nothing to say about them.

WENDIGO In Canadian folklore, a wendigo has animal-like ears, a horn protruding from its head, and has herculean strength.

I didn’t know it was a Wendigo,” Nellie admitted. “I’ve learned that most things die when you chop off their heads, though. Well, except for cockroaches. He didn’t look like a giant bug so I figured I was safe.

A man must follow his true nature, although a man I am not. My true being is something rougher, something deep and damp and dark as an unlit root cellar, a hole in the ground, a grave. I am a ferocious killing machine, barely held together by the deceptive skin of civilization which I show the world by day. As the Fiend below takes mad glee from imitating Heaven above, I walk the earth in the guise of a Holy man...by sunlight, anyhow. Ah, but when the moon takes me, the skin tears away--and I am golden and beautiful, my mouth deep with teeth, my throat filled with eerie song. I cry to the night sky in my hunger and my rage as I follow the call of the hunt, first on two legs, then four. My claws are as razors, churning the ground below me...and I strike...

Always asking me to fix things, like I don’t have anything better to do. Needlessly complicating my life with their problems. I must have some kind of invisible sign hanging over my head that says, Sucker Here, Please Ruin My Day.

It’s a specialty item, handcrafted by the Dökkálfar and acid etched with runes of power—think the ill-behaved-Frankenstein-spawn of Dirty Harry’s .44 Magnum Smith & Wesson.

This matchup felt about as lopsided as they came. Like pitting a handful of adorable kittens, romping through a pile of yarn, against a pack of rabid, genetically engineered Rottweilers wielding chainsaws.

The last wendigo died in 1962, or so the story goes. Reputedly, he (it?) stood in front of the train to Churchill, Manitoba, believing that the train would stop for him, a supernatural being, and then he would be able to eat the passengers. The train ran him over. Sic transit gloria mundi.

It never settled her stomach to leave any kill behind.

I will always look for what my eyes cain’t see.

After spending years in an asylum, admitting what she knew out loud seemed terrifying and dangerous.