The Wendigo – Algernon Blackwood : visiting one of the sources of Pet Sematary

Pet Sematary is one of those books that has many uncommon tropes of the horror genre, penned effortlessly by Stephen King in his drunken rage, only to loosen up the dreary influences he received from multiple source materials. Blackwood’s The Wendigo served as one of the biggest catalysts in the early 1900s to have writers incline towards Native American folklore – and before you knew it, a sub genre was born that dealt with only these legends. In Pet Sematary, arguably King’s finest telling of the Wendigo lore of the Algonquinian tribe, the literature peaked at its best, yet to get to the root of where it all started, we will definitely have to give due credit to Blackwood. Derelith, who wrote the marvelous Ithaqua, drew heavily from this psychological thriller of a short story, and in turn ended up influencing the monster that dwelt in the marshes beyond the Creed’s, one who was barely seen but was often heard, one who walked with the wind.

The premise in itself is pretty barebones : but that gives the narrator plenty of time to spin his web and create an atmosphere that is as vicious as it is visceral. Five people break into groups of two and three in some remote American wilderness, hunting big moose. The obscurity of the forest ensures that the stories inside it also stays intact, and something primal lurks in it that the forest protects fervently. It is no accident that this creature, the Wendigo, masks its presence so well amidst the dense foliage, icy terrain and a placid lake that splits the forest into two. You have a hard time for the most part deciding who is the villain here : is it the monster that feeds on fear, or is it the forest that creates that fear?


There’s a third perpetrator in this tale : the human yearning to jump into things that they don’t comprehend, a sort of answering the call of the wild, feral, the uncharted – that inevitably brings about their doom. Blackwood is quick to point that out in The Wendigo, that even though the monster of the folklore maybe out there, it is the curiousity of the hunters and trackers that ends up being one of the deciding factors in their encounter with the elusive beast, and as much ferocity nature can conjure, it is also the fate of a few inconsiderate people who run chasing every rare chance an obscure wilderness may present : in their callousness they give life to folklore and legends that are best left unseen.

Unsurprisingly enough, it’s the Indian tracker Dévago who bears the brunt of the abuse of senses – in his change of form from a jocund moose-tracker to something else that is most profound here. Blackwood also throws in the possibility of a possession and its fatal aftermath, but the conversation between a newbie Scot and a veteran Dévago constitute the better part of the story. Punk and others chip in and fill the holes in the plot.

In the end, the sparsely heard song is what remains as a crushing reminder :

“Oh! oh! My feet of fire! My burning feet of fire! Oh! oh! This height and fiery speed!”

There is an undeniable Lovecraftian quality in this story that I absolutely adore. The thrusting into the atmosphere horror, the unseen protagonist, the psychological turmoil, the relentless questioning of human psyche elevates this story into a work of art from a simple narration. No wonder it inspired a generation of writers to spin their own twist on this genre.


Stephen King’s Pet Sematary : Foray into the world of primal horror

I vaguely remember the movie ‘Pet Sematary’ that played in HBO back in the days. HBO was particularly kind to it, showing it as a part of their horror weekends, or just randomly airing it to the unsuspecting kid who was recently introduced to the world of foreign movies. The odd spelling caught my eye first, but that wasn’t the reason I had let it creep inside that foggy corner of my mind where creatures of the imagination lurked : the premise was utterly vile.

When I finally decided to read Stephen King, there were many choices in front of me, and most of them came from my viewing of their movie adaptations. ‘Cujo’, ‘Carrie’ and ‘IT’ were instant to-reads, recommended even by the bibliophile friends, but as I was surfing through the entire collection, that buried adolescence thought resurfaced though the quagmire like a Wendigo and commanded that I opened its grave first.

And like a servant of its will, I bought this book and started to read.

This book is much, much scarier than the movie (as almost always), and I am amazed because I know the plot. I know what happens, what is going to happen, yet the way Stephen builds up the ante is unlike anyone else. Being a big fan of Lovecraftian horror stories and their almost absurd way of spreading the veil of mystery, I was immediately taken aback by how leisurely the story started – like it was nothing at all, like King was just narrating a man in midway of his career in the most boring way possible – crafty, yet drab.

There are some highs in that flat narration, the slow raise of hair around your neck when you feel something is not right, but then they are quickly drowned in the problems of the modern life. The real fun however starts after the second half when the story deviously tricks you into falling into a bog of primal forces. Then you are not Jud Crandall – the voice of reason, not the road that kills, not Rachel Creed who is too scarred for her own good, not little Ellie, not Gage, not even Victor ‘Paxcow’ Pascow who has risen from the dead as a sentry, a warning between the worlds of the living and the dead. This is the Pet Sematary I remember from my childhood days, the bone chilling surrender to a power that is ancient and primal yet very much alive in today’s world, the one that is shapeless and formless yet at times manifests itself like a cat, or a child.

Pet Sematary makes you Louis Creed, a man slowly spiraling into madness from the sane world, and that is scarier than anything else.