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Summary
The wendigo slowly pulls himself out from under the bed, a mess of shadows and darkness. Will’s eyes widen considerably as they fall on the beast. Long majestic horns sprout from an ovular head. The head is attached to a skeletal torso, each visible rib protruding out from the blackened skin. Hannibal’s jaw ticks tensely, waiting for the little boy to react accordingly: to burst into sobs or run for safety or, most commonly, both.
“Cool.” Will breathes in awe.
“Pardon me?” Hannibal blinks. The wendigo has had many words thrown at him from people blinded by terror but “cool” is not one he is familiar with.
Or,
Bill Graham really should have listened to his son when he told him about the monster lurking underneath his bed. It would have saved a lot of lives.