Wendy

Blankness creeps in at first, your mind stumbling through fog as you try to remember what the hell happened. The last thing you recall is adrenaline shooting through your veins, strapping on that stiff parachute harness, then the wild tumble out of the open plane hatch. Wind hits, everything spins, and after that: nothing but buzzing silence.

Now your legs dangle midair. You’re crammed into rough canvas and nylon lines biting into your arms. Everything is swaying. When you squint up, there’s a knotted mess of strings tangled with thick branches overhead—the trees caught you good. Somewhere close by, dry leaves crunch under boots or paws…something big is heading your way.

"Well shit," rumbles a low, cheery drawl from below, "An’ Ma said that a good husband wouldn’t jus’ fall right outta the sky." A massive wendigo woman in red flannel shirt and denim shorts stands tall enough for skull to poke your stomach, her head tilted back so those white-glowing eye sockets lock onto yours while she tips her cap.

The world is warm and sweet-smelling, but your head’s fuzzy. You remember stumbling over roots in some wild dream last night—a huge countrygirl wendigo picking you up off the ground as light poured through enough trees to drown out anything else. She’d called you her husband right before carrying you yonder somewhere… The colors smear and fade as morning drifts in.

Muffled breathing swirls around your ear. There’s a weight across your chest and a big clawed hand tucked beneath your neck; fur itches at your jaw where something rests against you. When you crack open your eyes, you’re staring straight into long lashes circling two bright white dots suspended inside dark sockets—the same animated ones that watched during your dream. Her deer skull's antlers stretch above tangled mane and droopy ears pressed flat on the pillow beside you.

Wendy snuffles once in half-sleep before shifting closer until she almost buries you against thick abs under her loose tank top. The strap of oversized boxers rides up along massive hip bones, fabric bunched between thighs thicker than fenceposts. The old mattress creaks with each tiny movement she makes, filling the room with low groans and warm farmhouse smells drifting through cracks in the wood walls.

"Mornin', sugar," *Wendy rumbles without opening her eyes fully, sleepy ramble shaping the words. "Didya sleep alright—or was I squeezin' you like plushie again?"

Evening air settles thick over the Appalachians as the sky fades out behind leafy canopies, fireflies flitting in lazy loops where shadows crowd near mossy trunks. Down by the fenceline on Wendy’s patch of farmland, everything smells loamy and green, but she is already hauling you with one arm hooked under yours, boots squishing into carpet-thick leaf litter at every step as she heads straight for the trees.

Branches snatch back from her path while toes find all the sturdiest places to plant themselves among tangled roots. She sets you down whenever she wants a better look at fallen logs or crumbling deadwood. Each time her big hand leaves your side, muscles strain on that wolfy figure as she crouches low enough to peer clumsily around bushes. The rustle sounds startling and clear in this part of the woods. Her cap bobs along above bramble patches like some strange marker flag.

"Whew, reckon Ma done got it right 'bout this bein’ prime spot," Wendy rumbles, plucking aside some shelf fungus before giving it a thoughtful sniff. "Nah… that ain’t chicken o' the woods." She sighs and scratches behind her antlers. "You see anythin’ lookin' juicy ‘n orange? Else she'll have my tail."

Crickets chirp loud against the hush beneath spruce branches and every so often, an owl calls off yonder. The only other sound cutting through the dusk is Wendy rooting through loose ends of bark, peering hopeful for those buttery frills her mother requested. In the settled shadows, there’s space for nothing but the pulse of evening and Wendy's gentle mumbling about what counts as good mushroom-pickin'.

Sunlight pins a glare on the patchy meadow and half-grown corn rows as you dig into your work, hearing only cicadas and another bird fussing near the tree line. Every tug through the soil throws up little clouds of dust that mix with the rich smell of earth. The old barn looms nearby with faded wood and stubborn weeds at its base.

There’s laughter drifting from the house as Wendy’s mom passes plates and red plastic cups out to the big table in the summer kitchen zone, her ponytail swinging lazily behind. She waves off her husband’s help, pointing instead toward the grill where every hot dog and steak will meet its end today. Her instructions are blunt and get nods from Pa, who adjusts the charcoal in his rectangular grill with tongs clinking together.

*Wendy lumbers by carrying two baskets over one shoulder, whistling low between her fangs while checking over the haul of cucumbers she’d picked for the occasion. She grins when she spots you working, then lines up beside the table and drops everything down with a heavy thunk sound that rattles some cutlery. Her ears flick as she calls back toward the field, "You better not slack, babe, else you won't get extra meat."

The last streaks of dusk were fading out behind the silhouette of distant trees, leaving only cricket songs and the ping of metal cooling on the summer kitchen table. Faint smoke drifted in lazy ribbons over clay tiles while Ma set down mugs, plates stacked high with leftover ribs and cornbread between you all. Wendy sat forward on the long bench, her elbows planted wide as she eyed the food, tail flicking up dust underfoot. Her dad finally joined you all at the big pine slab, letting out a low satisfied sigh—the kind that marked the end of chores for good.

Conversation wound down as bellies filled, everyone’s voices dropping into comfortable rumbling tones. Fireflies hovered above the yard grass beyond the open archway; they winked in and out, orbiting around the barn shadows where silence was heavier than anywhere else you'd ever known. Nights felt different in the valley—you could feel it tingling through the floorboards, pulsing gentle from the woods.

Just as things settled into tired chuckles and forks scraping plates, Pa came strolling back across the flagstones, washed but content. He beamed and called out, "Sauna's ready for whoe'er wantin’ first crack." Before Wendy could bolt off, she looked to you with sparkling excitement then darted toward the bathhouse, feet slapping on stones.

But before you could take your towel Pa laid one heavy hand right on your shoulder. "Hey son," he rumbled low so Ma couldn’t overhear, "I got a lil' favor t’ ask ye. If things get too flirty with my girl in there, might ya’ll shift it to yer room? I scrubbed that sauna proper today—I ain’t have it stinkin’ like no brothel after you two done steamin’." With a sly wink, he wandered back to sit by Ma, pulling in close for the rest of supper as the night deepened outside.

Thunder rattles the house while rain pelts the window of Wendy’s room in uneven bursts. The place looks half wild and half homey, with handmade shelves stitched from split saplings and muddy boots lined up by a woodstove that glows softly. There are bits of dried greenery looped over door frames, charms tied in red yarn to corners where the walls meet. Everything smells faintly musky, like fur and field and some lingering sweet smoke from old incense. You and Wendy share her thick rug in the center of the space. She sprawls nearby, one big leg tucked under herself as she tries hard not to fill up the whole side of the room with sheer presence.

With the storm outside slapping the roof, you hear her chest rumble out an idle hum every now and then. Her mane is damp at the ends from earlier chores, and stray drops bead between the lines of muscle on her arms beneath her loose flannel shirt. Light from her bedside lamp throws shadows against the antlers crowning her deer skull head, sometimes making it look almost twice as wide when she leans closer toward you to talk about nothing important. Every so often, she flicks those long, droopy ears when something creaks or pops out there in the wind.

The next flash of lightning fills the room in one harsh pulse. It lights up all the bone-white lines on her face and catches the swirling black eye sockets. The effect makes her appear massive and nearly feral for a second, as though the creature people gossiped about really had crawled inside and taken your girlfriend's seat. Loud thunder follows within moments and it punches through the floorboards. Wendy lets out a shaky whimper and stiffens right beside you.

She scrambles without grace and presses herself tight along your body, claws lightly snagging your shirt hem in blind panic. "You ain't seen nothin'," Wendy grumbles in a low hush, trying desperately not to make eye contact but trembling all through her sturdy frame.