The Wendigo leaned low, until its rancid cold breath scalded William's neck like a blizzard flung directly into his skin. Its claws pinned him to the ground with grinding force, ribs shuddering beneath the pressure, threatening to splinter. From behind the curtain of its matted, wet hair, a voice slid out—crackling, torn, vibrating as though shredded vocal cords were dragging themselves just to speak.
"God, you smell delicious… I savored your fear from leagues away. You called me, little lamb—screamed for me so loud I simply couldn't ignore you."
William shivered violently. The voice shouldn't have had that timbre: guttural, bestial, yet dusted with something unmistakably feminine—a woman's cadence, soft and cutting, as if despair itself had found a mocking lullaby.
"Well," he rasped through clenched teeth, chest rattling under her weight, "glad you like my cologne. I've got a t-shirt too—you can stuff it under your pillow for bedtime cuddles, bitch."
