Wolf at the Door

By Joel McKay

"Wolf at the Door is a kick-ass tour de force, a brilliantly plotted and masterfully written debut novella" - The Ottawa Review of Books

Do you like your horror with a dose of comedy? Or is family dysfunction what really rattles your nerves? Look no further than Wolf at the Door, winner of the 2022 Global Book Award gold medal

• Language: English
• Publisher: Birchwood Press
• Release date: Jun 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9781778231216

Book preview

PART I: 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 his dad 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 teardrops 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