Matt didn’t believe the story, not really.

He’d read it online—some creepy blog post from early November, told in an old-timey voice. Trappers in Colorado. Cabin fever. Something scratching on the walls. It had the whole eerie vibe, sure. But it was fiction. Campfire fuel.

Still, the name stuck with him: Wendigo.

It echoed in his head like a dare. A myth too sharp to forget.

So when Matt booked his winter solitude retreat—just a few days alone in the forests near the Montana-Idaho border—he told himself it was coincidence. He wasn’t looking for it. He wasn’t that stupid.

But something was looking for him.

It started on the solstice. Longest night of the year.

The trail froze fast behind him. The pine needles stiffened like knives. Then came the smell—like rot in a meat locker.

And then the footprints.

Not human. Not animal. Deep. Dragging. And circling his tent.

When he heard the breathing—raspy, rattling, like someone freezing from the inside—he remembered a line from that old story.

“The Wendigo didn’t need to break in. It was already there.”

Matt tried to run.

The forest didn’t let him.