A local brewery near my home town recently shared a series of marketing images and social media posts meant to celebrate “cryptid culture” — but their depictions were, to put it frankly, colonizing a culture that is not theirs to depict.

And, if we're talking personally, it just feels...tacky?

This isn’t an isolated mistake. It’s part of a much larger trend on social media and in pop culture: turning Indigenous folklore and sacred spirits into generic horror monsters. Many spirits have suffered this kind of distortion, but none more widely than this one.

For years, Indigenous communities have been asking the horror community to stop using these figures in disrespectful ways. And that plea deserves to be heard- but has seemingly fallen on ears insistent on regurgitating out media that is not theirs to use.

Personally, I’ve always loved cryptid stories and folk horror. Growing up in Appalachia, I have always been surrounded by local superstition — warnings passed down from my grandmother, who’s lived here her whole life, and my grandfather, who learned the rules of the land until it became his home. These stories were part of how my family understood safety, respect, and the unseen world around us.

I’m also Indigenous. Much of my mother’s family is Potawatomi, and my father’s side carries Cherokee heritage. Though I didn’t grow up immersed in traditional culture, those roots still shape my family’s values and the way we live. As I continue learning more about my ancestry, I’ve come to understand how important it is to protect and respect the traditions we come from — not to see them turned into mascots or monsters for marketing.

The spirit in question, for those who may not recognize it, is the w-ndigo (plural: w-ndigoag). It originates from Algonquin traditions and appears throughout other Anishinaabe cultures as well. It holds an important place in the spiritual beliefs and traditions of several Indigenous nations, including the Algonquin, Potawatomi, Ottawa, and Chippewa peoples.

The w-ndigo’s name is considered powerful. Traditionally, it should not be spoken aloud—especially during winter or at night—because doing so is believed to draw its attention. Out of respect, many people choose to censor the name online or use alternate terms when referring to it.

Discussions of the w-ndigo are usually reserved for specific times and contexts; it isn’t a story told casually or a figure meant for entertainment. Even simple acts like whistling outside on winter nights are avoided in many communities, since it’s said to attract the spirit’s notice—a rule often turned into an inside joke.

Unfortunately, much of what appears in modern media about the w-ndigo is deeply inaccurate. The creature’s image was taken from Indigenous storytelling spaces by outsiders who were meant to listen respectfully, not reproduce or reinterpret those stories. Over time, the figure was distorted into something unrecognizable.

The w-ndigo has never been a deer-like creature, nor has it ever had antlers. Its form varies between tellings, but it is always human in shape—gaunt, hungry, and corrupted. These stories are rooted in the winter landscapes of the northern United States and Canada, and placing the w-ndigo outside of that environment erases its meaning.

At its core, the w-ndigo is not just a tale of cannibalism—it’s a moral warning. It represents greed, selfishness, and the way unchecked hunger for power or wealth can consume one’s humanity. A person doesn’t have to eat flesh to “become” a w-ndigo; they only need to lose compassion for others.

Today, interpretations of the w-ndigo vary. Some understand it as a metaphor—Potawatomi author Robin Wall Kimmerer, for instance, describes it as a symbol of environmental destruction and climate change in Braiding Sweetgrass. Others hold that the w-ndigo and other spirits are real entities that should be treated with respect, not as fictional monsters.

Most importantly, the w-ndigo is sacred. “Sacred” does not mean “good,” but it does mean that it holds deep spiritual significance. It is part of the living heritage of Indigenous peoples whose traditions, languages, and lands have endured centuries of colonization and attempted erasure. Respect for this spirit means allowing it to remain where it belongs—in the care and stories of the cultures that created it.

Using the beliefs of other cultures like goofy horror movie fodder is culturally insensitive and, indeed, disrespectful. This isn’t to say every piece of media that has depicted w-ndigo this way is “bad” media, but it’s a mentality that we need to leave in the past as we move towards a future that’s more respectful and inclusive of the beliefs of living and practicing peoples and their religions.

Lesya from WritingWithColor puts it the best.

No, they can’t be “good” or anti-heros— they’re many cultures’ definition of evil. No, they can’t be outside of their original Algonquin/Great Lakes peoples contexts. 
If you want to be respectful to Native cultures, put the Wendigo in its full context (including the fact it is evil in our societies) with multiple Native characters involved in the plot, or don’t use it at all.
The obsession with having Native characters be tied to the Wendigo is honestly disturbing. As mentioned, the Wendigo is often a definition of evil. It is an insatiable hunger; it is pure greed. It’s wild and untamed. It’s every negative stereotype of Native Americans— cannibals, demonic, rabid, indiscriminate hunters, a threat to civilized society— wrapped up into one.
Racism against Native Americans founded in these principles is still alive and well. Trace your logic for why you want a greedy cannibal hunter to be tied to your Native character. 

Before anyone argues that these stories are part of “local mythology” and therefore free for anyone to use, it’s important to remember the historical reality. Indigenous peoples in Canada were legally banned from practicing their own religions starting in 1884 — a restriction that lasted nearly a century. There was never an equal exchange of beliefs or folklore; Indigenous people were actively punished for preserving their spiritual traditions.

So when I see Native spirits or “scary creatures” being used in art or media, I’m immediately cautious. Respectful representation is possible, but it’s rare. More often than not, what we see is cultural appropriation — the use of sacred traditions without understanding or permission.

Then what are some examples of respectful representation for indigenous spirits in media?

One of the best modern examples of respectful indigenous storytelling I’ve seen comes from author C. M. Alongi, a graduate of Hamline University with a double bachelor’s degree in History and Social Justice. Alongi has built a reputation for writing diverse, inclusive stories, and they make a point of consulting real people from the cultures and identities they depict to ensure accurate and respectful representation.

Their standout project is CaFae Latte, a fantasy web series originally shared on TikTok, later adapted into a physical novel titled Heart of Iron (2025). The series follows a cozy café run by fairies, but its stories often feature spiritual beings and mythologies from a wide range of cultural traditions.

In Season 63, the story centers on the boyfriend of a local Indigenous woman who’s found dead, with the police wrongfully treating her as the prime suspect. She seeks help from Cyrus, a former (fey) defense attorney who now works at the cafĂ©. Using a truth potion, they uncover the truth through a potion of honesty—and find she’s innocent. The true story lies deeper, connected to sacred Lakota land.

After receiving feedback and guidance from Lakota creators and community members in the TikTok comments, Alongi introduced a new storyline featuring the Deer Woman—an immortal shapeshifter who punishes predatory men. Her victims become shells of themselves, wasting away until they die of thirst or hunger, consumed by their own cruelty. Alongi even refers to her by her Lakota name, Anukite, and uses terms from the Lakota language to both educate and entertain.

The Deer Woman is part of the Nunnehi (“the people who live anywhere”)—spiritual beings from Cherokee tradition. According to many tellings, the Deer Woman’s origin begins in tragedy. After a woman was assaulted and left for dead in the forest, a stag heard her cries and came to help. By the time he arrived, the attacker was gone and the woman had died. The stag revived her, transforming her into a spiritual guardian who protects women and the vulnerable from harm. As colonial violence spread across Indigenous lands, her story became even more meaningful—a symbol of justice, endurance, and divine retribution amid centuries of suffering.

In conclusion?

In the end, this isn’t just about one brewery ad or one horror trope. It’s about the ongoing pattern of taking sacred stories from living Indigenous cultures and turning them into something unrecognizable for entertainment or profit. These spirits, stories, and traditions aren’t public domain monsters; they are sacred, deeply rooted reflections of belief, morality, and identity that have survived centuries of attempted erasure.

Respectful representation isn’t about censorship — it’s about responsibility. It means understanding that these beings belong to cultures that are still here and still practicing. It means listening when Indigenous people say that something crosses a line, and taking the time to learn why.

There are creators, like C. M. Alongi, who show that it is possible to engage with these stories thoughtfully — by consulting Indigenous voices, respecting spiritual context, and using storytelling as a bridge rather than a tool of appropriation. That’s the future we should aim for: one where our fascination with the strange and the spiritual is matched by our respect for the people who have carried those stories through generations of survival.

Because when we honor where these stories come from, we aren’t just avoiding harm — we’re keeping the heart of storytelling itself alive: connection, reverence, and the shared responsibility of remembering where we all come from.

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