The Penciller's Lament by George Larson

A comic-book artist lands a dream assignment to draw a terrifying Wendigo for a horror anthology, but as the creature takes shape on the page, his work begins to affect him in ways he can't explain. “The Penciller’s Lament” by George Larson is a supernatural horror story about artistic obsession.

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The Penciller's Lament

The long afternoon sunlight catches my eye. Blinking and turning away from the strong glare, I draw the dining room shades of my ersatz studio and return my focus to my work. The 11x17 inch Bristol Boards in various stages of progress clutter the room. I’d propped up several around me so I could easily move from one to another at will, like working in an assembly line fashion. 

As a freelance penciller for comic books, web comics, and graphic novels, I’m the first guy in the illustration process. The one who draws the characters and backgrounds of the panels of the storyline. All I have to work with are several words and a general idea where the text will go on a page. The rest is up to me to fill in the blanks with my caricatures, scenery, and whatever else comes to mind. I’m starting off with a blank page. My artistic skills and imagination do the rest. 

Not to boast, but I’m damn proud of what I’ve accomplished in my short career. It has been going on for three years, since graduating with a BFA degree from Columbia College in the Loop. I guess the proper title for my craft is illustrator. Certainly NOT a graphic designer who makes a living from computer-generated images using the right algorithms. I always thought that kind of work was more akin to that of a computer jock and little more. Okay, maybe I was being an effete snob, but I really believed that of the two disciplines, I was the one with true artistic talent.

I still live in the small, one-bedroom apartment, a short bus ride from the college. It was all I could afford with student loans that financed my education and lifestyle. But I’d done well in advancing my career over the past couple of years. I now have prestigious clients like DC and Marvel comics, plus excellent relationships with other similarly minded magazines. I've slowly made a name for myself. Mostly, I marketed myself by word of mouth and by attending the various COM CON exhibitions held throughout the year. I would go to the events with a portfolio of my work and network with those who could help advance me in the biz. I’d been successful so far but was always on the make for more clients. 

And I just landed a big contract with Dark Horse Publishing out of Portland, Oregon, a large publisher of graphic novels. The job would keep me busy for several weeks, and it involved my favorite caricatures, horror creatures of several types and stripes. I’d be the one who would create them from scratch and bring them to life with my sketches. The macabre, ghoulishly, delicious villains was the best material to draw. Since they could take any number of scary, creepy shapes, I would have a free hand to explore and draw what I saw fit. 

My first assignment from Dark Horse had me create a horrific creature called a Wendigo for its annual horror anthology. I was vaguely familiar with the creature, having read about it while researching monsters for some of my earlier artwork. As I recalled, it was part of the Native American lore of the tribes living in Wisconsin, Eastern Minnesota, and the lower part of Ontario. I had to go to Wikipedia to refresh my memory.  

In Indian folklore and mythology, a Wendigo or Windigo is a cannibal monster or evil spirit native to the northern forests of the Great Lakes Region of both the United States and Canada. The Wendigo may appear as a monster with some characteristics of a human, or as a spirit who has possessed a human being and made them become monstrous. It is historically associated with cannibalism, murder, insatiable greed, and the cultural taboos against such behaviors. The legend lends its name to the disputed modern medical term Wendigo psychosis, which is considered by psychiatrists to be a form of culture-bound syndrome with symptoms such as an intense craving for human flesh and a fear of becoming a cannibal.
  
So, that was a Wendigo, a Native American, mythical monster whose supposed existence was handed down generation to generation in the tribal oral tradition. I got some clues from the entry that I would apply to my caricature.  
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It was date night or that’s what Brit called our once-a-week wine and sex get-together. She’d been my sometimes girlfriend for the past four years, having first met and dated in Columbia. Brit had just graduated, and she was now constantly auditioning for parts in the Chicago theaters. That was only when she could take time off from waitressing. She had, in fact, landed a couple of small, non-speaking roles, but not enough money to pay her share of her apartment’s rent. So, she relied heavily on the bank of mommy & daddy to get by. 

I kept telling her that it was highly improbable she would ever become a serious, earning actor. The odds were against her, in my very self-righteous opinion. She’d respond by saying it was time for me to grow up and get a real job instead of just doodling on paper all day long. She told me she despised the drawings of the creepy creatures and my unhealthy obsession with them. Yes, she used the word obsession to describe my intense, almost manic, interest in these subject matters. She then twisted the knife, adding that I needed to get a real life, not one drawn from my own imagination. That’s how most of our conversations went for hours on end. Back and forth went the never-ending, accusatory slings and arrows. We both were so exhausted by the end of the night and usually too drunk that we often skipped sex. That pretty well summed up our relationship.
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The Dark Horse commission called for three full-page sketches of a Wendigo. For this project, I decided that I would do a larger rendering of the creature and ordered a large Gator Foam board of 96 x 48 inches for the job. I affixed a clamp light to the top of the easel for better illumination. I also decided on something else, something I’d never done before. I would complete the drawings myself, acting as inker and colorist as well. There was something about this project which piqued my interest, my curiosity, for reasons I could not understand. This was to be no run-of-the-mill project, but my masterpiece, something that I alone could take credit for. I would be solely responsible for the creature coming to life before my eyes. I was enthralled about the prospect of my creations. And yes, I’m a bit obsessed too.   

So, how to start? That was the question before me, and it was one I always grappled with before starting a new project. I had to first conceptualize what and how I was going to draw the creature. In this case, the “what” was difficult to determine. What does a Wendigo look like? I had a few clues drawn from Wikipedia, but little more to go on. First, it had to be scary, grotesque in appearance. That was a given. It next had to appear as menacing, threatening. Okay, that was a small beginning. I’d have to let my mind wander and fill in the rest as I went along. The “how” part of the question was less problematic. I would pose the creature in three different perspectives: standing on its hind legs, running on all fours, and then in a crouching position ready to pounce on its prey. I could easily fill in the background settings with a copse of trees or whatever. I still had time to fill in the blank spaces.   

I picked up a soft #4 pencil and began to draw, starting with a rough outline. As the creature began to take on form and substance, I switched to a mechanical pencil to firm up the lines to better define the sketch. Later, I had a genuinely nice facsimile of a Wendigo. Or at least what I thought the creature should look like.

That was when my stomach started rumbling in earnest since I’d forgotten to eat. Many hours had passed since I started working, and I was damn hungry. No problem for me as a bachelor. I simply called for a double order of my favorite Chinese dishes. I then returned to my artwork. Nothing was going to slow me down from creating the quintessential Wendigo.

The first rough drawing was the creature standing upright on two legs. It was standing in a somewhat bent-at-the-knees position as though lurching at something or someone. Its upper body musculature was sinewy yet emaciated in appearance. The same was true of its legs, which also appeared twisted in shape. The chest cavity had a caved-in look to it. I drew cloven hoofs instead of feet. I depicted its hands as more like claws, grasping and gnarling. Oh, and the face was drawn tight on its shriveled head. Some teeth were missing from its massive jaw, and their irregularity added to the grotesquerie. A snout like that of a dog rounded out the shape of the mouth. It had a rapacious, almost sneering look to it. On the forehead, I placed two nubs of horns protruding from the skull. I had to be careful to allow space for the blurbs. 

More work needed to be done to bring the creature fully to life. Yes, it was a good start, and I was pleased with my work, yet my stomach continued reminding me I was still hungry. No not just hungry, but ravenous even after finishing my large Chinese dinner. You know what they say about Chinese food, but it had been only a half hour since I’d eaten. I rummaged through the kitchen looking for more to eat to satisfy my ever-growing hunger.

Next on the agenda was to move on to the inking process. I had taken several classes at college in this art form. While I never considered myself an expert at the craft, I was still proficient enough to execute the task at hand. I used India ink to retrace my penciling to make sure the lines were firm and dark on the paper. It was all about definition with a steady, firm hand. Once that was done, I turned to the most important part of inking: creating the shadow lines and fillers. I used a quill pen for this step. By carefully feathering the caricature, I could shade in spots to various degrees for the desired effect. I had to be especially cautious by not leaving any drops of ink on the paper. And I was pleased with the results.

I worked all day and much of the night, nonstop. I was physically exhausted, but my mind was still racing. The heat from the radiator in the room felt stifling, and I began sweating profusely, maybe because of my feverous thoughts and burning desire to perfect my project. I opened all the apartment’s windows to let in the winter’s chilly air. I finally fell into a restless sleep and awoke in the early morning to start again, again with a hunger that couldn’t be sated. It was a hunger to finish my artwork and more. I was a bit worried that my appetite was out of control but saw no reason to be outright concerned.
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I groggily walked to the neighborhood grocers to stock up on food for what looked like to be a long and dreary Chicago winter season. Among my haul was a selection of assorted meats such as a couple of Porterhouse steaks, ten pounds of ground chuck, and more. The more consisted of things that I couldn’t stand before, but now seemed to crave, namely calves’ brains, livers and tripe. It was offal that I wouldn’t have considered eating in a million years.

Returning to my project, it was time for the last step in the process, the coloration. I chose the colors very carefully, wanting to remain true to the viciousness, the ultimate nature of the caricature. I used ochre to shade in the protruding eyes and a blend of greenish blue pigment for its hairless body with mottled skin. And best of all, its countenance was now truly repulsive.

All I needed to finish and preserve the Wendigo portrait was to fill in the background scenery. For that, I used a North Woods motif with the monster standing upright by a small stream in a copse of evergreen trees. I debated whether to up the horror a notch or two by having a Native American child caught in the talons of the creature but thought better and didn’t do it. Too much gore.
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I was ceaselessly hungry. It was a new sensation to me and one I considered puzzling. Pulling the brains and livers out of the fridge, I loaded them onto a large platter. I nibbled on them raw while at the same time finishing the miscellaneous items of my sketch. The blood from these delicacies ran down my fingers, and I had to be careful not to leave any of it on the poster board. My manners had deteriorated just as my appetite had increased. Brit would not be pleased.

Speaking of Brit, this was our date night. I didn’t especially look forward to it because it would involve more verbal brawls. I wasn’t sure if we would stay together much longer since we no longer had much in common except drinking, dissing each other, and sex. The sex part, when it happened, was surprisingly good, but the other aspects of our relationship had deteriorated to the point it wasn’t worth seeing each other. Tonight, I’d tell her it was over, but only after we had sex. No reason to spoil a good thing. I was running late from doing a few errands, but Brit had a spare key to my apartment and knew how to use it. No worries there.

I unlocked the door. If Brit were home, she must have locked the door behind her. I set down the packages I’d brought home and uncorked a bottle of cheap wine. I called out Brit’s name with no answer. Oh well, I’d have to wait another week or so to tell her about splitting up. She’d be hurt, but there was nothing I could do to ease her pain. We’d stay friends, then again, maybe not. Who knew?

Sipping my wine, I took another long look at my artistry, my creation, my Wendigo. I thought my work was superb, well executed piece of illustration in all respects. Pride aside, I had created a magnificent artwork. Perhaps a low-brow type of art, but spectacular just the same. I checked the phone for messages from Brit that she was running late or not coming over at all. There were none.

I went to the bedroom to change clothes and that is when I saw her. My God what had happened to her? Her lifeless body was lying on its back and most of her clothing had been shredded. She was lying in a large pool of blood, and she was obviously dead. My mind reeled at the horrific sight and damage to her once attractive body. She’d been mutilated beyond description and recognition. Oh God, who or what could have done this to her? My senses were frozen to the point that went beyond any reasoning or rationality. I was barely able to hold back the bile forming in my throat. I was stunned by this horrible event. Brit was no more. 

It took me a while to regain my composure and to finally stifle the urge to vomit. I sat next to her body for a few minutes, waiting and thinking about what had transpired. I couldn’t imagine such a bloody, horrible scene in my dreams or worst nightmares. It was too much to comprehend. As my senses returned, I thought about the deadbolt lock on the front door. It was a solid one, a high-quality Schlage model no less. There was no other access to my third-floor apartment, so how did the intruder get inside with the door securely locked? There had been some instances of violent crime in the area, but everything paled in comparison to Brit’s murder. 

As I once again winced looking at Brit’s body, I noticed something unusual, strange on her right-hand fingers and the butt of her palm: greenish blue pigment, the same color I used on my sketch. Could it be? Was it possible? Could my art piece have caused her death? I’d have to suspend my incredulity to believe that’s what happened. But maybe that’s exactly what occurred; a mythical Wendigo was responsible. 

I was loath to believe in this theory of the crime, but the facts clearly pointed in that direction. I then screwed up my courage to confront the abominable, damnable creature. I could destroy what I created. I marched into the living room and stood close, directly in front of the easel holding what I thought was a masterpiece of fiction. But now I know better. 

The grip light hanging over my drawing was still on and showed brighter than before. I stared into the Wendigo’s devious eyes, and it stared back at mine, neither of us flinching. I had never been afraid of my creation before, but now I was. It had an almost sensate awareness of itself and me as well. We continued to hold the stare for many seconds, and then it spoke, not aloud, but in a mesmerizing, almost telepathic manner. I cringed and recoiled when I heard its words.

“Do not be afraid my friend since we are one and the same spirit. Destiny has brought us together.”

 I was dumbfounded that my sketch was speaking in my mind. I was afraid, afraid that I’d lost my mind. Before I could gather my thoughts, it spoke again.

“I have lived from time immemorial as what you people call a Wendigo. I am a seeker of human flesh. First American tribes such as the Ojibwa, Menominee and Hochuck have revered me as a powerful spirit. I dwell in their lands and minds for all eternity. I care for nothing except feeding off humans, murder, and mayhem I bring into their world.” 

I thought I was suffering from some form of Wendigo Psychosis that I’d read about in Wikipedia. God, what else could it be? I’d even developed a certain fondness for raw red meat. That was certainly some proof that I was acting abnormally. However, I still believed that none of this was real and I’d soon wake up from just a bad dream. 

I had the temerity to ask it a question. “Why did you so brutally murder and savage Brit?” 

It responded by saying she came into my home, touched and mocked the Wendigo drawing, all the while making disparaging remarks about me and my artwork. It said I had put my heart and soul into the project, and she simply demeaned my creation efforts in front of it. So, she had to die a brutal, gory death at its hands. It had no choice but to avenge my honor as its creator. 

It wasn’t too late to dial 911 and tell the cops about this most bizarre circumstance. They wouldn’t believe a word about what I’d tell them and send me to the loony bin, after which I would be tried, convicted, and imprisoned for Brit’s murder. It was a just punishment for my hubris. 

“We are becoming one, one being from two souls. Did you not understand what we are becoming? You had a fanatical rush to complete me and your unrelenting desire for meat. Soon you will turn into a real Wendigo who will savor the meat of human flesh. It has been preordained. There is nothing you can do to stop you from becoming me and from me from becoming you.”

I must be crazy standing here and listening to a two-dimensional Brixton Board with an illustration of a Wendigo. Now I was certain I would destroy the thing and send it back to Hell or wherever. But how would I do it? 

I’d smash the damn thing and then it could no longer murder and cannibalize the population at will. At least that was my plan for the murderous Wendigo! As I reached out to grab the plasterboard, I felt my arms being held by powerful hands. Pulling my arms, the Wendigo dragged me into the sketch, and I was no more. 

And the penciller was now one with his own self.

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George Larson is a retired special agent with the Diplomatic Security service, US Department of State. He's written eight novels (DICK AVERY ADVENTURE STORIES) and twenty-four horror stories. Many of his stories have appeared in print or been podcasted. He holds a BA degree in English.