Blair Witch- Okee Wooden Golem

The odor came from his right; Crawford turned his head to look.
He saw Fellowes, a dozen feet away, kneeling on the rock. In one hand he held a branch the size of a baseball bat; in the other, a rope. He was tying something to the end of the branch.
A human hand.
Crawford strained at his bonds; he lifted his head up and held it off the rock.
He saw more branches, each the same size as the one Fellowes held, perhaps larger. Each had something tied to the end of it; all had been neatly laid out on the rock.
Laid out in the shape of a man. Two feet, two hands, two legs, two arms . . .
A head.
"Jesus," he whispered.
It was a life-size version of the stick figure Callihan had found in the cemetery.
Fellowes was really doing it, the crazy bastard. He was building his god a new body.
...

Fellowes began chanting:
Here is the body you must live in, Okee
Made from the dead, and the unborn
From the fool, and the wise person
From your people, and from strangers
Here is your new body, Okee
Crawford stopped straining and closed his eyes. This was absolutely insane.
...

"Are you ready?"
"If you're going to kill me, go ahead and get it over with."
Fellowes shook his head. "The knife is not for you, Detective."
Holding the knife in his right hand, Fellowes drew the blade gently across the palm of his left.
He held that hand up in the air; drops of blood poured down on the rock.
He began walking in a circle around Crawford.
Here is the end of your journey, Okee.
There is blood to quench your thirst
And meat to fill your belly.
Here is your new body, Okee
Rise up, and feast.
The circle enclosed the stick figure he'd built as well. When he finished, he sat down outside that circle and crossed his legs.
The rain was falling harder.
The wind blew in gusts.
Crawford watched as the mist that had covered the road on their journey to the reservation rose up from the ground.
It blanketed the rock around him.
It swallowed Fellowes.
And still it came, getting thicker and thicker until finally he could barely see a foot in front of him.
The sounds of the forest around him vanished: the chirping of the crickets, the buzzing of insects, the falling rain. Everything was quiet: it was as if the mist were a blanket, muffling all noise.
A minute passed.
Crawford heard something scrape across the rock.
He twisted against the ropes again; they didn't budge.
Nearby, something groaned. There was a kind of rustling noise, and another groan, even closer.
That smell again--of moist black earth, of the grave.
He sensed something looming above him. Sensed, rather than saw; the mist was so thick, he couldn't see more than a foot in front of him.
It was a person. It was Fellowes, of course, but the way he was walking-- more like he was shambling, really, not at all the way he had moved just a minute before, his arms stiff, his hands dangling low as if--
No.
It was Fellowes, he told himself. It had to be Fellowes.
A hand, cold and clammy, reached out and touched him then.
For the first time since he had been a little boy, Randy Crawford screamed.
...

He drew back sharply and realized the ropes binding him to the rock were gone.
He kicked out and struck something hard with his foot. Damn. The man's leg was hard as rock.
Or wood.
No, he told himself. Do not even think that.
He climbed to his feet. A little trickle of blood edged down his arm.
The low groan he'd heard before came again.
Crawford stepped backward, edging away from the sound. The fog could work to his advantage. If he could circle around Fellowes--
He backed up against a wall.
"Shit." A wall? How could there be a wall here all of a sudden?
He was still hallucinating from the mushrooms. Or the iced tea. Either that or the world Fellowes was living in, of cannibal demons and Tinkertoy body parts, was the real one, and the rest of the goddamn world was the insane asylum.
Something hard hit him in the forehead; he stumbled backward.
He struck out blindly, and found only air. A hand grabbed his, and threw him to the rock. He landed face first.
A terrible weight landed on his back. He felt hands tearing at him: the T-shirt he was wearing ripped.

- Blair Witch: Graveyard Shift, chapters Eight and Nine