Read an Excerpt from the New Anthology, Zegaajimo: Indigenous Horror Fiction

The new and frighteningly good anthology, Zegaajimo: Indigenous Horror Fiction (Kegedonce Press), derives its name from the Ojibwe term meaning "to tell a scary story." And, the author that have been brought together in this gripping collection of short stories are here to do just that, and right in time for Halloween.

Edited by Nathan Niigan Noodin Adler and Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm, the anthology draws upon Traditional Stories that are interpreted into fiction by some of the "deadliest Indigenous writers across Turtle Island and the territories now known as Canada." In these pages, readers will find monsters and beasts, eerie places, and strange wonders that are not the stuff of chilling fantasies, but reminders of true terrors that are with us right now.

With new stories from Waubgeshig Rice, Dawn Dumont, David A. Robertson, Drew Hayden Taylor, Francine Cunningham, Tyler Pennock, Daniel Heath Justice, Karen McBride, and more, this is a beautifully crafted collection of terrifying tales from some of the finest fiction writers out there. 

So, build the campfire high, draw the blankets close, and hunker down amidst the shadows and chill winds as you read this excerpt from a featured story from celebrated Tłı̨chǫ Dene author Richard Van Camp.

An Excerpt from Zegaajimo: Indigenous Horror Fiction

From “Mouthless” by Richard Van Camp

The rash flared when we were camping. “No,” I heard myself say in a hiss. It was the voice I used whenever I burned myself. “Shit.” Then it started to pulse with its own heartbeat and I knew. Goddammit, I knew: The Rotting had me. 

We’d been “camping.” That’s what we called fleeing the city: “camping” so we didn’t scare our daughter, Starla. Camping felt safe. It was pretend. Families gave each other a lot of space and the playgrounds had all been taped off and we made our own fun with our paddleboard and swimming. Five weeks away and it found me on our last day at Long Lake, Alberta. Maybe this was Hay Fever. I had Hay Fever years ago before the spread when we were in Australia. Maybe this wasn’t “It”, but then I could feel something unfolding, spreading, reaching with invisible fingers, as we hiked back to our camp. Or was I imagining it? Then my fingers curled on my left hand into a claw.  

“Oh no,” I heard myself whisper. I was infected. I’d seen this: what they called “the bite.” Stage 1: Infection site. I did not want to scare my wife or Starla so I kept busy with camp duties but pulled my mask up: packing up the hammock, folding up the chairs (wearing gloves), tidying up the car for what was supposed to be our drive home. I started dividing things with my good hand: my pack placed outside of the car. I’d need the ax, the kindling. They’d have to burn the tent and everything mine. Maybe I was contagious yesterday? Shit. Shit. Shit! I’d had slow covid for the past eight months and I wasn’t 100 percent. 

“Maybe we should mask up,” I said without thinking. Rachel was reading to Starla in a hammock. Maybe it was my tone. Maybe it was me rubbing my tummy with my gimp hand as I felt something ripple under my skin. Then, something like a horde of sandflies began to burrow and tunnel their way under my skin towards my heart before folding themselves into a fist before locking and tightening my muscle fibers, ligaments, sinew and bones together, deepening with something--a pulse--until I felt it in my marrow. I became so suddenly cold. Then numb.  I’d been taken over and I wasn’t me--alone--anymore. “Oh no,” I said again and my leg gave out and I leaned against the car. Fuck. Was the virus spread through the water? Was it floating in the breeze? What if it wasn’t from our mouths? What if it was living in the air now hunting for our eyes and mouths and noses for entry? Was that what everyone had missed? We’d been swimming with other families at what we thought was a safe distance, but we were downstream. 

“You okay, Babe?” Rache asked me sitting up--completely alert to what was happening--putting the book down. Then she saw my mask and my hooked hand, and she knew. 

Starla pointed to the trees: “Momma. Birds.” 

We looked. 

Hundreds of crows, ravens and magpies watched me. Only me. Just me. They knew. 

“Oh no, honey,” Rachel said and she stood, her eyes wide with fear, putting Starla down. They’d have to leave me. They couldn’t hug or approach me. I was already sporing. That’s what they called it. How long I’ve been sick determined the reach of the spores funneling out of me, reaching out to grab them, too. “Oh no,” Rachel repeated as she covered her mouth and fell back into her hammock and started to weep. 

“What is it, Mommy?” Starla asked, looking up to her. 

“Daddy’s hurt,” she said. 

“It’s okay, Baby,” I said, fumbling to tighten my mask and stepping back. The more I spoke, the more the rotting spread. My lower jaw felt heavy.  “Daddy’s okay. I’m just…hurt,” I managed. Distance, I thought. I needed to distance myself from my family.

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Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm is a member of the Saugeen Ojibway Nation, Chippewas of Nawash Unceded First Nation, on the Saugeen Peninsula in Ontario. Kateri is an Assistant Professor, teaching Creative Writing, Indigenous Literatures and Oral Traditions in the English Department at the University of Toronto, Scarborough. She has taught creative writing and Indigenous literatures at the University of Manitoba, the Banff Centre’s Aboriginal Arts Program, and the En’owkin International School of Writing in partnership with the University of Victoria. Her publications encompass poetry, fiction, non-fiction, radio plays, television and film, libretti, graphic novels, and spoken word. Her teaching and creative work is firmly decolonial, a practice of cultural resurgence, affirmation and survivance. She is a recipient of a REVEAL Indigenous Arts Award for writing, her 2015 book of short stories, The Stone Collection, was a finalist for the Sarton Literary Book Awards, and her collaborative recording A Constellation of Bones was a nominee for a 2008 Canadian Aboriginal Music Award. Kateri was the 2011-2012 Poet Laureate for Owen Sound and North Grey. She founded and coordinated the first Honouring Words: International Indigenous Authors Celebration Tour in 2003 and initiated and was a co-organizer for the first Indigenous Comics Symposium in 2021. She is the founder, publisher, and art director for Kegedonce Press. (Re)Generation: The Poetry of Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm, selected and edited by Dallas Hunt, will be released in August 2021. She is currently completing work on a new collection of poetry and a collection of humourous short stories.

Nathan Niigan Noodin Adler is author of Ghost Lake, which won the 2021 Indigenous Voices Award in Published English Fiction, and of Wrist, an Indigenous monster story written from the monster's perspective (both from Kegedonce Press). He is co-editor of Bawaajigan – Stories of Power, a dream-themed anthology of Indigenous writers (Exile Editions). He is an artist and filmmaker who works in a variety of mediums including audio and video, and drawing and painting. Nathan is first-place winner of an Aboriginal Writing Challenge, and recipient of a Hnatyshyn Reveal award for literature, he has an MFA in Creative Writing (UBC), BFA in Integrated Media (OCAD), and BA in English Literature and Native Studies (Trent). His writing is published in various magazines, blogs, and anthologies. He is two-spirit, Jewish, Anishinaabe, and member of Lac Des Mille Lacs First Nation. Originally from Ontario, he currently resides in Vancouver.