Knock, Knock Wolf

“Come on, it’ll be fun.”

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.

He’d done it before leaving, trembling hands pressing sutras to glass. Protection, he’d said, especially on Halloween. According to him, tonight wasn’t costumes and candy. It was when the dead crossed over. When demons hunted.

She’d rolled her eyes then. She was born in Jersey, raised on pumpkin spice and Netflix, not incense and ghost stories. Grandpa’s old-world superstitions embarrassed her more than they scared her.

She remembered being the kid who smelled like incense at school, the one who couldn’t have sleepovers because “the house must stay pure.”

She shoved another handful of popcorn into her mouth, chewing louder. The sutras clung to the windowpanes in the TV’s 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, “Yeah, enjoy your stabbing.”

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 you’re so boring with eggplant emojis. Marisol called Lina’s dry spell a humanitarian crisis.

Yeah, okay. It had been a while. But random Econ one-oh-one guy? Hard pass. Marisol swore she wasn’t 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 girl’s wide eyes just before the knife came down—

Knock. Knock.

Lina yelped, the popcorn bowl flying, kernels skittering across the floor. Her pulse spiked.

The knock wasn’t in the movie.

“Not a chicken,” she muttered, pressing a hand to her chest. The movie’s final girl was screaming at a fake jump scare. Lina wasn’t about to be that girl.

Except… who was knocking at this hour? Nobody was supposed to come by. Grandpa would’ve called first and he sure as hell wouldn’t tell her to open the door on Halloween.

Her gaze flicked to the window. One of Grandpa’s sutras fluttered in the draft, inked characters writhing like they were alive. He’d sworn the strips would keep spirits out tonight, when “the dead hunt the living.”

She swallowed hard. She didn’t believe that stuff anymore. She didn’t.

Another knock. Harder, rattling the frame.

Her eyes darted around the room until they landed on Caleb’s 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.

“Not a chicken,” 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 open—

“Wait!”

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 didn’t lower the bat. “Why are you here?”

“I—” His voice cracked. “I don’t have time to explain.” His head whipped over his shoulder, scanning the dark yard. “This house—it’s protected, right?”

Her brows shot up. Protected? Out of all the possible excuses; car trouble, wrong address, drunk frat boy... this lunatic went with protected.

“It’s… a house,” she deadpanned.

“No. The papers. On the windows. Sutras. You put them up.”

She glanced at the strip of yellow fluttering on the glass, Grandpa’s brushstrokes throwing long shadows. Her stomach dipped.

“You mean those?” she asked.

“Yes.” He stepped closer, desperation in every line. “Please. Tell me you have more.”

Her grip on the bat tightened. Religious nut. Basket case. Of course.

“Listen,” she said evenly, “I’m not exactly running a spirit-repellent supply store. Unless you’ve got an actual emergency? You need to go.”

“You don’t understand, I need help.” His voice cracked, urgent and low. “Do you have sutras? Talismans? I saw them on the doorframe outside. Please. Tell me you have more.”

Lina stared at him. Sutras. Talismans. He’d said it like he knew exactly what to call Grandpa’s 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.

“Are you kidding me?” she snapped, bat still raised. “You’re asking for magic paper? This isn’t a temple gift shop.”

He didn’t 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.

“You don’t get it. They’re not just prayers. They suppress. They hold things back. If I don’t get locked down… if I don’t have them on me… I won’t be me much longer.”

Her grip on the bat tightened. Suppress? Hold things back? He sounded like a guy begging for handcuffs.

“Right,” she said, fighting the shiver crawling up her arms. “Next you’re gonna tell me Grandpa’s ‘evil spirit stickers’ work and you’re about to turn into Bigfoot.”

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. “Please. If you don’t help me, someone’s going to die tonight.”

“Saying you’re gonna hurt someone doesn’t exactly sell me on helping you,” Lina said.

Her bare legs trembled. Would slamming the door make him leave or snap? Swinging the bat didn’t sound like a winning move either.

“I…” He pressed a hand hard against his face and dragged it down. His breath rattled. “I’m not crazy, I’m minutes away from turning into a werewolf.”

Her laugh shot out, brittle. “Right. And I’m Little Red Riding Hood.”

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t 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.

“I need the sutras,” he rasped. “And somewhere to be locked up. Chains. Handcuffs. Anything.”

The word sutras made her stomach lurch. Grandpa’s 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. “Please leave. I’m not letting you in.”

“Lady…”

His words twisted into a sound that wasn’t 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 weren’t his. They were too long. Too sharp.

Lina’s grip tightened on the bat. Every horror movie she’d ever laughed at didn’t feel like a joke anymore.

Under Lina’s wide eyes, his teeth stretched, reshaping, canines sliding into long, gleaming points.

Fangs.

Real ones.