A scratching, scraping sound crawled across the dirt towards Kosumi’s campfire. He couldn’t see through the darkness and rose on bended knee, drawing his tribal bow towards the empty wilderness. His heart raced and his arms ached with intensity. His village had abandoned the dry plains of Wuskama without him. He had to survive the hardships of the wild or he would never find his tribe again. And if he died here tonight, he would never learn the mystery of why they left.

The scraping stopped just outside the boundary of the campfire’s light. He called out in his native passamaquoddy language but there was no response. Kosumi knew from experience that if he was to fight this predator he would need to attack first. He sent an arrow into the shadows. The arrow made a soft thud as it hit the dirt, and nothing more. Based on the sound the predator must have been the size of a cougar but wild cats never made such noise.

A clacking caused Kosumi to turn. He notched another feathered arrow and closed his right eye to fire again. The clacking came in rhythmic waves as if someone were dancing in full shaman garb. Kosumi shivered but not from the cold. The noise grew louder and louder until the clattering was a few steps away. He ordered the entity to identify itself but nothing else came out of the darkness.

“Wake up, little dog. They are looking for you.” A whisper came to his ear as if someone were standing close by. Kosumi spun around, aiming wildly. The voice continued, “They will feast upon your flesh until only your empty eye sockets remain. You will be cursed to walk the land without a home or peoples.”

Kosumi swung around again, hearing the diabolical whisper so close behind. In that frantic moment he remembered returning home to his tribe and finding them gone, having departed Potuchi Lake. The ghost could not have known that he was abandoned by his people or that he had spent several fortnights looking for them. His people had completely departed the land.

“I am not afraid, dark spirit.” Kosumi spoke loudly with an angry tone. “I have not wronged you or my people.”

“Little dog, little dog, lost, choking, biting, searching, endlessly.” the voice croaked. “Do you really want to find them? We are all running from our past.”

He started to wonder about this himself but shook off the feeling. The spirit was taunting him, trying to fill him with sorrow. He would do anything to return to his tribe, even if it meant going insane by a dark phantom. The gravelly voice, the wooden clattering, the evil whispers, this could only be the lost soul of a witch shaman, the Skudakumooch, a shaman who practiced dark magic and died seeking immortality. It is said that the ghost-witch haunts places of dark omens, places where the fabric of reality was most thin. The realization made Kosumi’s eye twitch. He tried to side step the campfire and stepped on a rock which threw him off balance and into the dirt. The arrow snapped and Kosumi’s head hit the ground hard. When the stars faded from his eyes he looked toward the dry grass and his heart skipped a beat.

The whispers came louder as the ghost-witch’s raggedy face appeared in the dimly lit grass. Flesh marred and burnt by time stared back, through olive-colored eyes. Kosumi held his breath, his neck tightened as he stared into the ghost-witch as its curved lips uttered breathless cackles. “Seek them out if you desire. They will swallow your blood and suck the marrow from your bones. Only an offering of your most prized possession will appease them.”

Blood dripped from the demon’s foul mouth and exposed wounds. Kosumi’s voice escaped him. He tried to speak but could only mutter weakly. “Witch…I have nothing to offer…I did…nothing to wrong you.”

The ghost placed its thin hands on the ground and scratched at the dirt. The hushed whispers were like a club to his heart is it beat faster. “You wrong yourself. It eats at you. The truth borrows under your skin and you are afraid.”

Kosumi closed his eyes, thinking of his tribe. He had searched for weeks, spending more time hunting for food then for his people. Something told him they did not simply abandon their land. He drew his bow and squinted his left eye. The phantom was gone. He listened closely to the night. There was silence.

He awoke the next morning, his mouth dry and his skin parched by the sun. Collecting his bow and knapsack he continued into the canyon beyond, knowing there would be water nearby.

Around midday, after journeying through the rocky crevice, he saw the faint shapes of teepee dwellings down in a valley where the canyon opened up. He couldn’t believe his eyes and nearly turned away when he saw the stains red on the soil and loose belongings scattered throughout the camp. He thought of Kami and her family, of Jaton and Nodin, and how they used to frolic in the open fields of Passamaquoddy.

He walked through the makeshift village and saw signs of violence and struggle. Blood lay around the tents and there were no signs of life anywhere. He found an amulet that had been dropped, of an elk, and picked it up, rubbing it gently through moistened eyes.

There was a commotion in the nearby tent and as Kosumi turned he was shaken with what he saw. His people were not dead but they did not seem alive either. They shambled towards him in torn breechcloth and fur skins. Their faces and flesh were also torn with horrid scars that were festering with flies. Some had their throats cut or their stomachs opened to the hot sun but they still walked with dreadful gaits. Several surrounded him as he backed away. They were a cursed people, walking, shuffling like ancient ancestors searching for the afterlife.

Their arms reached out, bony fingers with marred skin trying to grab at him. Their stances became aggressive, as if what the ghost-witch was saying was true. He pulled an arrow and aimed the bow at the undead tribe, fingers shaking as he tried to focus. This couldn’t be real, the dead returning to life, it couldn’t be. To see his own tribe in such a foul state…To see Kami…with such white eyes. His fingers let loose the arrow that collided with her throat, protruding through the other side. He fired another arrow, hitting another ghoul in the head. It was Iatu. He was a fisherman. Kosumi had traded with the man several times and had always been kind.

A twig caught his leg and Kosumi collapsed to his knees. He dropped the bow and raised his hands to the advancing, hideous mob. He pleaded with the crowd, hands clasped together, and asked them to forgive him. He did not know what for but then guilt struck him. To his right he saw a pistol laying near an unfinished dreamcatcher and remembered. Union soldiers…The day before his tribe vanished, he had spoken to a Union soldier…He had only offered them water and mentioned that his tribe could offer trade in the valley beyond…His heart stopped. He had given the soldiers their location. Tears ran down his cheeks, a fire burned in his eyes. He couldn’t have expected the soldiers were seeking revenge for the Battle of Red Bridge. How could he? It was all his fault. He was to blame for this abomination and he should suffer, for wronging his people, for causing this dark curse, for the soldiers massacring his entire tribe.

As they lurched forward on bent backs Kosumi reached for a knife and knew what he had to do. “I make this offering to appease you, condemned spirits. Please forgive me.” Tears leaked from his eyes as he reached up and drove the knife in his left eye, removing his most prized possession. He choked on the pain and ripped the eye from its socket. He begged and pleaded as he threw the gift on the ground. The agony in his heart swelled, sobbing through the pain, sharing in the dead’s sorrow. Despite his grief he finally felt grateful that he had finally found his people. He opened his arms and hoped they would welcome him home.