Joel McKay, Wolf at the Door
excerpt
Wolf at the Door Publisher: Birchwood Press Retailer: Amazon Date: June 3, 2022 Length: 129 pp. ISBN: 9781778231209 |
Before Dinner - The Master Bedroom
“Who’d you invite?”
Char Deerborn hesitated before she answered her husband. She worked the tiny gold clasp on the necklace she wanted to wear to dinner, using the nails of her index finger and thumb to pry it open. She used this little extra time to think about how best to answer the question.
“Well, Tommy and Charlotte, your brother Dan, your parents, Craig and Amy, MikeandMarleen, Randy, and you and me.”
The clasp closed, and she set the necklace against her chest, admiring it in the mirror. It was one her grandmother had passed down to her, twenty-four karat gold with wide links woven to look like lace. She didn’t like to wear it when Mom was around. It annoyed Char’s mother that Gran had skipped over her daughter and given it to Char instead. She shouldn’t be so secretive, it was Gran’s choice, but that’s the way it was.
“Mike and Marleen? Really?” Doug said, tucking his crisp button-up shirt into navy blue slacks.
Char had moved into the ensuite and was applying eye shadow. “Yes, they’re our best friends and always good for a story or two.”
“Your best friends. If I have to listen to one more of Marleen’s work stories, I’m going to take a walk down to the river and, I dunno, build a raft and drift away or something. She goes on and on, finds some way to turn every comment you make into a story about her,” said Doug, sliding a brown belt through the loops in his pants.
“She struggles with self-confidence, honey, that’s all. Besides, you like Mike. He likes to fish, like you,” Char said, applying lipstick.
“I’ve gone fishing once in six years, and only did then because your father insisted on taking Tommy and made me feel like a bad father for not exposing him to the outdoors. Every time I see Mike, he wants to talk fishing, makes a big deal about it. I don’t want to offend him, but I just don’t like it that much.” Doug, now seated on the bed, pulled on a pair of dark blue socks.
Char came out of the bathroom and leaned over to plant a kiss on his cheek, her hands on his knees. “It’s only a few hours, it’s Thanksgiving, and we’re celebrating your brother being back in town.”
“Being released from jail you mean,” Doug reminded her.
She stood up, hands on her hips, a sharp little smile parting her glossy lips. “Well, at least my parents won’t be here.”
“True.”
* * *
Charlotte Deerborn’s Room
“Get out of my room, buttmeat!”
Tommy Deerborn broke out in a fit of giggles and collapsed on the floor beside his older sister’s bed, half his body hidden beneath her bed, the other half looking up at her as she sat painting her toenails. His face was covered in a rubbery Michael Myers mask. Charlotte snorted derisively and kicked him lightly in the ribs.
“You’re such a little worm; don’t you have anything better to do?” she asked.
Tommy cinched out from under the bed and pulled the mask up so that it sat on top of his head like a deflated skin. “No,” he said, matter-of-factly.
“What about your little worm friends? That gawky looking one with the weird eye?”
“It’s a lazy eye, and his name is Hasib. He’s gone back home to visit his grandparents in Dubai. I wish I was in Dubai.”
“What about Martin?”
Tommy smiled. “Marty-Marty-He-So-Farty? That Marty?”
Charlotte shook her head and focused on her baby toe. Her iPhone buzzed beside her. More messages from Madison, who was also about to suffer through another family Thanksgiving dinner.
“Gone to his mom’s for Thanksgiving. I guess he trades holidays between Randy and his mom,” Tommy explained.
“I wish I could do that,” Charlotte lamented. “Except I would just be alone every other year. Or maybe every year.”
“Oh, you’re so angsty,” Tommy said, climbing to his feet.
Charlotte shot him a look. “Where’d you learn that word, buttmeat?”
“Where’d you learn the word ‘buttmeat,’ buttmeat?” Tommy shot back between peels of giggling.
Charlotte didn’t take the bait, instead fixing her younger brother with a glare.
“I overheard Mom and Dad use it after Christian broke up with you,” he said.
“That’s none of your business,” she said, finishing the last dose of red paint on her right foot. She wiggled her toes and then looked down at her brother, who, at ten years old, was currently only wearing tighty-whities, a Star Wars T-shirt depicting his favorite character, Poe Dameron (Really, Poe Dameron?), and a forty-dollar Michael Myers mask he’d picked up at the local Halloween store.
“Don’t you have to get ready for dinner?” she asked.
Tommy plopped down on the bed next to her and took off the mask. “All I need to do is put on some pants.”
“And change your shirt. It looks like you have mustard on it there,” she said, pointing to the stain just below his chin.
He looked down. She flicked him with her fingers.
“Hey!” he protested.
Charlotte laughed. “And comb your hair. It looks like a rat’s nest.”
He ran a hand through it, pretended to find a rat and toss it at her with a yelp, wriggling his fingers at her like a malevolent sorcerer or some such thing.
“Maybe they’re undead rats!” he threatened.
He cackled menacingly, which quickly turned into a fit of giggles as he fell back onto her stack of pillows, nearly swallowed by them. Beneath one of them, he found a narrow tin case and held it up.
“What’s this? Smells like a skunk,” he said.
She snatched it from his fingers. “None of your business, that’s what it is. Now go get dressed; if I have to suffer through this dinner, so do you, especially if it means weird Uncle Danny is going to be here.”
“Is he all covered in tattoos? You know, like tear drops below his eyes and skulls and stuff like on TV?” Tommy asked, suddenly thoughtful.
“I doubt it,” she said. “Mom said he was at a medium-security facility down around Vancouver somewhere. I don’t think they stick the guys you’re talking about in places like that.”
“Did he murder someone? Was he a bank robber?” Tommy asked.
“No, and ... sorta. Mom says he went down for a life insurance scheme he was running. Apparently, it cost people a lot of money.”
“Oh,” said Tommy, suddenly deflated.
“Anyway, get out, buttmeat. I need to get ready.”
Tommy ran to the foot of the bed and leaped onto the floor, transitioning into a somersault that led him into the hallway. He disappeared around the corner and down the hallway in a flurry of sound effects.
* * *
The Graysons Outside
Mike Grayson slowed the Jeep Cherokee to a crawl as he navigated the narrow gravel driveway up to the Deerborn house. It was an offshoot of another gravel road on the west side of town, a subdivision that was technically outside the city but home to folks who commuted into it. The best way to describe it was country chic-just enough room to pretend you lived in the wilderness but close enough to still have a pizza delivered.
A heavy full moon peeked above the serrated tips of the spruce trees as they wound their way toward the house, affording a pale light that cast the trees in moving shadows as their headlights threaded through the forest. The house at the end of the driveway was standard for this part of town, a two-story stick frame with white vinyl siding, bay windows up front, a large wraparound deck in back, and a two-car garage to the side.
Mike brought the Cherokee to a stop on a patch of grass to the right of the garage.
“Why don’t you just park in front of the garage?” Marleen asked.
Mike turned off the engine and unbuckled his seat belt. “I don’t know if they’re both home. What if he wants to get into his garage? I’d be in the way. Plus, here I don’t have to worry about anyone blocking us in.”
“So that it’s easier to leave, you mean,” she said, fixing him with a glare.
“I suppose that’s one way to look at it,” Mike said, going for the door handle.
She put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. “Don’t you think we should talk first?”
He looked back at her. “About what?”
“You know what.”
Mike looked at the house and chewed his lip, then turned to her. “Look, if you don’t want to be together anymore, that’s fine. I get it. It hasn’t exactly been a ... joyride ... these last few years. I’ve made mistakes. But, please, tonight let’s just pretend we’re fine. The last thing I want is Char to have that smug look on her face when she finds out and gets to tell you ‘I told you so.’”
Marleen considered for a moment, her hands clasped, the fingers of her right hand fiddling nervously with the wedding band on her left. “Okay. Did you bring the wine?”
He gestured to the back seat. “In a cloth bag. Two bottles. Not the most expensive stuff, and not the cheapest either.”
Marleen grabbed the bag and rolled her eyes. “Not terribly committed, are you?”
Mike paused for a beat and then said, “I could say the same for you. They’re fine, I guess. You know I have a hard time with Char. Doug’s okay, but he always wants to talk about fishing, so that’s all I really have to strike up a conversation with him. I don’t even like fishing; it makes for a painful few hours.”
“He likes fishing?” Marleen asked. “Char never mentioned that, always complains about how he never leaves the house-busy building things in the basement.”
“He’s a tradesman?” Mike asked.
“Trying to be., Char says he just gathers materials for projects he’ll never finish and hoards them in the basement,” she said.
“Huh,” Mike said, nodding.
She shrugged, opened the door, and got out. Mike stuck out the crook of his arm as Marleen came around the car, she offered a closed-lip smile and took it, and they walked up to the front door. Mike didn’t notice that Marleen had quietly taken off her wedding band.
* * *
Craig and Amy
Amy felt her stomach lurch just as she zipped up her dinner dress. She paused and put a hand on the bed to brace herself. Her heart beat rapidly, hoping against hope that it wasn’t what she thought it was.
They were due across the road at the Deerborn place for dinner any minute, but, as always, Craig didn’t get off his ass in time, so they were running behind. It wouldn’t be so bad if his gaming addiction only made them late for events on occasion, but he was as consistent as a sunrise. Over the years, Amy had started to refer to it as “Craig Time.”
But, all things considered, if that was the worst problem in their marriage, she figured they were doing pretty well.
She sat on the corner of her bed and fiddled with her wedding ring and started to slowly count to thirty, hoping that horrible knotting feeling in her stomach was just something bad she ate for lunch and not the other thing.
“Amy!” Craig’s muffled voice came from somewhere else in the house.
She ignored him. It was his own damn fault for taking so long if he couldn’t now find his shoes.
She got to twenty-eight when her gut roiled again; this time it felt like someone had reached inside her and was manually twisting her insides with an industrial crank. She gripped her stomach, and the panic set in. Then the sweat, first on her forehead and then up and down her arms and legs as if her entire body had been licked by a wet mist.
“Amy!” Craig’s muffled voice came again from somewhere in the house.
She ignored him. Instead, she darted across the hall into the office and looked at the calendar.
“Shit, shit, shit,” she cursed, while doubled over in pain. “How did we miss it?”
She bolted out of the office, the pain growing worse with each passing second. She could feel the pressure in her bones and muscles, that awful telltale sign of what was to come. She had to get to the basement. Had to get her and Craig to the basement.
If he hadn’t been so busy with that goddamn game, we might’ve noticed earlier, might’ve had some time.
She was down the stairs two at a time.
“Amy!” Craig called out again, his voice muffled, likely coming from the basement.
Good. He’s already there.
“Craig, get the chains,” she yelled, the skin on her back pulling relentless against muscles.
In the basement, she found the chains scattered on the floor, where they always left them, but Craig was nowhere to be seen.
“Craig!” she called out, desperately.
She doubled over and puked all over the concrete floor and her new red pumps. Normally she would care, but there was no time. She kicked the gooey mess off her feet and called again for her husband.
“Upstairs!” a muffled voice rang out.
There was a yell and a bunch of banging around she could hear through the unfinished ceiling in the basement. Then a scream and more banging.
As she darted up the stairs to her husband, a strange stream of thought ran through her head. It was the video games. That was the problem. If she could just get rid of those bloody machines, nothing like this would ever happen again. Their marriage would be perfect. Craig Time would cease to exist.
As she came out of the basement, she heard the bathroom window shatter. She swore again, running down the hall toward the sound. The door was locked; she kicked it open.
Behind the door was a scene of carnage. The toilet was shattered, and all over the floor, water was pouring out of the lines onto the tile. The wall-length mirror was cracked in several places. The drywall that was stenciled with blue and green pansies was smeared with thick gobs of blood. And where the window had been, there was now a large gaping hole in the side of the house. And Craig, well, Craig was nowhere to be seen.
Her stomach lurched again. She bit her lip against the pain, drawing blood. She ignored it and looked down at her swelling feet, to the lines in her skin where she knew her feet would split open shortly.
She realized she might still have time to get to the basement, to chain herself up. But it wasn’t even a consideration anymore. Not while Craig was out there.
All this thanks to Craig Time.
Well, she had an answer for that.
She stormed out of the bathroom, and with each labored step, she made her way into the living room where the Xbox sat on the shelf. She reached for it, yanked it out of the entertainment unit as hard as she could, and flung it at the wall, shattering the plastic machine in a dozen different pieces.
And then her skin began to split open, and her last rational thought was to find her husband.
Copyright © 2021 by Joel McKay
