Witnessing a human being, a friend, a young gentleman with a wife and children being overtaken by the horror the wendigo spirit embodies is a terrifying thing. My hunting party had found itself stranded in the northern Rockies as winter fell back in 83, and we knew things would be grim, but watching Stevensen go mad like he did, running off into the tall pines, driven by hunger, the endless cold and snow, the isolation, to what we believed was his death nearly drove us to despair. However, when he started hunting us, when we saw O’Grady’s bones stripped of flesh in that clearing, with the gnaw marks of human teeth on them, when we saw him fall upon Clemens and begin ripping and tearing like a savage animal, it was beyond despair, beyond terror.
In the end there were only two of the ten of us left, just Giovanni and I, and putting the monster that was wearing Stevensen’s flesh down, like a rabid dog, remembering who he had been… I’m sorry, I cannot speak of this anymore.
Coney Island is a fragrance that tastes nothing like it smells. It is bitter, foul to the mouth. It also burns when applied to the eyes. I strongly advise against doing so, and instead recommend that it be sprayed upon skin or clothing, for its scent, or the marvelous sound the sprayer makes when it sprays.