The Wendigo

Sleet-like bullets fired through the driven snow,

While wispy banshees persistently played their mournful moans,

The sky became a palette white,

As temperatures descend, a mercurial kiss does the thermometer take,

We were out of luck and wandering, searching for something just enough,

To get us by until forgiveness rescinds our unfortunate remiss

Our fingers, numb from doorbells rang,

Growing brittle from the coldness of the weather

And from those who refused to listen to the call of our ringing bells,

Suddenly we saw, through a passing clearing in the sky,

Snow so high yet forlorn weeds stood tall still,

A wrought iron gate creaked and cried,

A crippled pathway we followed some ways back,

Where a decrepit old mansion we were faced with,

No intent of staying long, we broached the darkness swift and fast,

 A key crafted from cloth and arm, breached the door, allowed us in,

As intruders met we were, with sickly odors a warning flared,

With paralysis and nausea calling, a foul something filled the air,

What once was locked and forever bound, is now unchained without boundary,

Through broken seal, a sickness grows, mingling with the sleet and snow,

This darkness had been caged away, perhaps for centuries it remained this way,

And then comes this darkened eve, by a curse reprieved,

The Wendigo sleeps no longer.