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A hard look came across her face in the light of my beam, and her eyes narrowed behind her glasses. “The footprints just stopped…” Her voice had gone as chilly as the air. “These wolf prints?” She questioned, flicking her beam towards the ground, and then back up at my face.
My mother was raised on the Navajo reservation by her grandfather (a Navajo medicine man) and would always tell me stories about her childhood. However, most fascinating to me were her stories of skinwalkers, which she was always very hesitant to talk about — let alone write about.