Knock, Knock Wolf
highlight_author
Megan Blake
highlight_reads
134K
highlight_chapters
5
Fun, Sure⌠If Dying Counts
âCome on, itâll be fun.â
The girl on screen was about to walk into a basement where a butcher knife was probably waiting for her. Lina snorted. Fun, sure... if dying in the first ten minutes counted. She tugged her blanket higher, black hair spilling loose, chipped black polish scraping the popcorn bowl.
The house was hers tonight. No brother turning the hallway into a soccer field. No parents nagging her about church. No Grandpa humming prayers and taping yellow paper to the windows like it was still the Tang dynasty.
Heâd done it before leaving, trembling hands pressing sutras to glass. Protection, heâd said, especially on Halloween. According to him, tonight wasnât costumes and candy. It was when the dead crossed over. When demons hunted.
Sheâd rolled her eyes then. She was born in Jersey, raised on pumpkin spice and Netflix, not incense and ghost stories. Grandpaâs old-world superstitions embarrassed her more than they scared her.
She remembered being the kid who smelled like incense at school, the one who couldnât have sleepovers because âthe house must stay pure.â
She shoved another handful of popcorn into her mouth, chewing louder. The sutras clung to the windowpanes in the TVâs glow, their inked characters throwing strange shadows across the walls. Creepy. But only because they looked like ancient Post-its.
On screen, the basement door creaked open.
Lina muttered, âYeah, enjoy your stabbing.â
Her voice was the only sound. The fridge hummed. The house breathed. Too quiet. Way too quiet.
For the first time all night, the silence pressed down like it was listening.
She forced a laugh, shaking it off. Horror movies beat frat parties full of sweaty boys drenched in Axe. Her best friend Marisol was probably two shots in already, texting her fifty versions of youâre so boring with eggplant emojis. Marisol called Linaâs dry spell a humanitarian crisis.
Yeah, okay. It had been a while. But random Econ one-oh-one guy? Hard pass. Marisol swore she wasnât over her ex. Wrong. She was just picky.
She shifted on the couch, tugging her camisole down over her shorts. Messy ponytail, dark circles, comfort over style; the antisocial twenty-something starter pack.
On screen, the killer stepped out of the basement shadows, blade glinting. The camera cut to the girlâs wide eyes just before the knife came downâ
Knock. Knock.
Lina yelped, the popcorn bowl flying, kernels skittering across the floor. Her pulse spiked.
The knock wasnât in the movie.
âNot a chicken,â she muttered, pressing a hand to her chest. The movieâs final girl was screaming at a fake jump scare. Lina wasnât about to be that girl.
Except⌠who was knocking at this hour? Nobody was supposed to come by. Grandpa wouldâve called first and he sure as hell wouldnât tell her to open the door on Halloween.
Her gaze flicked to the window. One of Grandpaâs sutras fluttered in the draft, inked characters writhing like they were alive. Heâd sworn the strips would keep spirits out tonight, when âthe dead hunt the living.â
She swallowed hard. She didnât believe that stuff anymore. She didnât.
Another knock. Harder, rattling the frame.
Her eyes darted around the room until they landed on Calebâs baseball bat by the wall. Not exactly a jian, but it would do.
She snatched it up, grip slick with sweat, and moved forward. The heroine on screen was creeping toward her basement door, knife raised. Lina almost laughed. Twinsies.
Another slam shook the patio door.
âNot a chicken,â she whispered again.
Darkness outside swallowed every shape. No outline. No face. Just pounding. Closer. Relentless.
Her chest rose and fell too fast. She tightened her grip on the bat, wrapped her fingers one by one around the cold knob, and yanked the door openâ
âWait!â
The voice was raw, panicked. Not the monster from her movie. A man.
Tall, brown hair damp with sweat, both hands thrown up like she was about to clock him. Panic lit his blue eyes, wild and unblinking.
Lina didnât lower the bat. âWhy are you here?â
âIââ His voice cracked. âI donât have time to explain.â His head whipped over his shoulder, scanning the dark yard. âThis houseâitâs protected, right?â
Her brows shot up. Protected? Out of all the possible excuses; car trouble, wrong address, drunk frat boy... this lunatic went with protected.
âItâs⌠a house,â she deadpanned.
âNo. The papers. On the windows. Sutras. You put them up.â
She glanced at the strip of yellow fluttering on the glass, Grandpaâs brushstrokes throwing long shadows. Her stomach dipped.
âYou mean those?â she asked.
âYes.â He stepped closer, desperation in every line. âPlease. Tell me you have more.â
Her grip on the bat tightened. Religious nut. Basket case. Of course.
âListen,â she said evenly, âIâm not exactly running a spirit-repellent supply store. Unless youâve got an actual emergency? You need to go.â
âYou donât understand, I need help.â His voice cracked, urgent and low. âDo you have sutras? Talismans? I saw them on the doorframe outside. Please. Tell me you have more.â
Lina stared at him. Sutras. Talismans. Heâd said it like he knew exactly what to call Grandpaâs charms.
A cold draft slid across her shoulders. One of the yellow slips fluttered like it was stirred by breath.
How the hell would he even know about those? But he stared at her, his eyes a sharp, impossible blue.
âAre you kidding me?â she snapped, bat still raised. âYouâre asking for magic paper? This isnât a temple gift shop.â
He didnât flinch. But something was off with the way his shoulders jerked, the sheen of sweat even though October air bit hard, his fingers twitching like claws trying to break free.
âYou donât get it. Theyâre not just prayers. They suppress. They hold things back. If I donât get locked down⌠if I donât have them on me⌠I wonât be me much longer.â
Her grip on the bat tightened. Suppress? Hold things back? He sounded like a guy begging for handcuffs.
âRight,â she said, fighting the shiver crawling up her arms. âNext youâre gonna tell me Grandpaâs âevil spirit stickersâ work and youâre about to turn into Bigfoot.â
His chest heaved, every breath ragged. The sutra by the window fluttered again, the air heavy now, charged, as if the room itself was holding its breath.
He lowered his voice. âPlease. If you donât help me, someoneâs going to die tonight.â
âSaying youâre gonna hurt someone doesnât exactly sell me on helping you,â Lina said.
Her bare legs trembled. Would slamming the door make him leave or snap? Swinging the bat didnât sound like a winning move either.
âIâŚâ He pressed a hand hard against his face and dragged it down. His breath rattled. âIâm not crazy, Iâm minutes away from turning into a werewolf.â
Her laugh shot out, brittle. âRight. And Iâm Little Red Riding Hood.â
He didnât laugh. Didnât blink. His shirt clung dark with sweat. His shoulders jerked, wrong, like his own body was trying to rip out of itself. The porch light flickered, buzzing, shadows stuttering across his face.
âI need the sutras,â he rasped. âAnd somewhere to be locked up. Chains. Handcuffs. Anything.â
The word sutras made her stomach lurch. Grandpaâs yellow slips clung to the windows behind her, ink strokes carved deep and black. For a second, the characters pulsed, brush marks bleeding darker like fresh ink. A chill crawled up her back, heavy and cold, and the air pressed in until she had to fight for breath.
She raised the bat, pointing it at his chest. âPlease leave. Iâm not letting you in.â
âLadyâŚâ
His words twisted into a sound that wasnât human. He dropped to his knees, fingers clawing into his scalp. A growl tore out of him, low and guttural, rattling the glass panes. The sutras shivered as if caught in a phantom wind. The porch light flared once, then dimmed to a sickly glow.
And when his mouth opened, the teeth inside werenât his. They were too long. Too sharp.
Linaâs grip tightened on the bat. Every horror movie sheâd ever laughed at didnât feel like a joke anymore.
Under Linaâs wide eyes, his teeth stretched, reshaping, canines sliding into long, gleaming points.
Fangs.
Real ones.
