Always Another Wolf at the Door
An Urban Fantasy Short Story
As if I didn’t have enough to worry about. What with the economy in the pits and the environment collapsing, the government self-destructing, and all these epidemics making people sick. And now there’s a crazy crime wave in the neighborhood. Guys knocking on apartment doors, and as soon as the doors open they bust in and steal your food and money. If you try to resist, they mess you up too.
But that’s not the crazy part. I mean, this is New York City after all. No, the crazy part is that the robber or robbers dress up as animals—furry costumes and masks, like dogs or wookiees or something.
Grandma says they’re werewolves.
So, who am I to argue? She’s lived here in Greenwich Village most of her life, and she’s in her 80s.
Just kidding, I did try to argue, to convince her that the werewolf idea is bonkers.
“Zoe, honey,” she said, “You’re young, and you don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve seen it all in this town, the hippies and folk singers in the 60s, then the yuppies’ takeover, Gay culture and the horrible AIDS epidemic, then 9-11.”
“I know, Grandma. But werewolves?”
“Yes! I’m telling you, we had them for a while in the 90s. Of course, the police covered it up. That would have really driven down property values, and the city didn’t want that.”
Signs of dementia, maybe? I do worry about her sometimes—like I worry about everything else.
Not that she seems incapable most of the time. Far from it. Really, she’s the most cheerful, resilient person I know. She shops and cooks for us both, handles her own finances, reads all the time, writes poetry, even volunteers at the local food bank twice a week.
But she is in her eighties and … yeah, I guess I depend on her. Ever since I dropped out of college and moved to the city to live with her. I told myself it was mostly so I could look after her—an old lady living alone in the Village. But I had to admit, even then, that I wanted her to take care of me too.
Mostly, I suppose, I just wanted to be with her. My parents don’t understand me at all. Why did I keep changing my majors? What was I going to do with my life? Why didn’t I have a regular boyfriend? Did I have to spend so much time on my phone?
They didn’t get my situation at all. I was trying to figure out who I was and what I could do with my life. I tried to explain how all the college programs were mostly irrelevant—designed for a world that doesn’t exist anymore.
When I told them I was dropping out, they really blew up.
So I moved out too. Came to New York to live with Grandma. She doesn’t understand what it’s like for my generation either, but at least she doesn’t judge. No, she’s encouraged me all along: Take your time, try out different jobs, maybe take classes part-time. Figure out what’s best for you.
Somehow, despite all the horrors and catastrophes in the world, she’s always managed to stay positive, even optimistic.
“I guess I’m just an idealist,” she told me. “That’s the only way I’ve manage to stay sane, with all the sad things I’ve seen, all the good people I’ve lost along the way. You have to cling to your ideals and your optimism—convince yourself it will be okay. Because, I tell you, Zoe, that’s the way life is. You just have to keep telling yourself it will be okay.”
You can see why I like to be around her. Not easy to follow her advice, but I try.
She’s in the kitchen fixing lunch when I hear a loud knock on the door. I feel this crazy bolt of terror, and I jump to my feet. Grandma comes out and stares at me. I can tell she’s worried too.
I walk to the door and press my hands on it. “Who is it?” I shout.
“Special delivery. I need you to sign.”
Can this be real? Or is it a robber dressed as a wookiee? I don’t know what to do.
“Just a second,” Grandma yells.
She hurries into the kitchen and opens a drawer. When she comes back, she’s holding a two forks, one in each hand.
Now I’m totally confused. If it’s the robber, what good will her old silverware do?
“Open the door, Zoe,” Grandma says.
Well, it’s her apartment. I turn the locks, pull the door open. But I lean back behind it, still scared.
A man bursts into the apartment.
No, not a man, a werewolf.
I mean, really! All hairy and snarling. And he moves like a thing from a horror movie, shoving Grandma aside so she falls to the floor. I gasp, and he whirls to face me—crazy glaring eyes and spit dripping from his mouth. Fangs even!
But he doesn’t attack me. Instead, he lopes toward the cabinet and starts tearing through the drawers. He’s looking for money or valuables to steal.
I rush over to help Grandma up, thinking we should both run.
“I’m all right, honey.”
Instead of fleeing the apartment, Grandma staggers toward the intruder. As he turns, she lifts the fork in her right hand and stabs him in the chest.
The werewolf’s face is shocked, to say the least. His dribbling jaw gapes open, he stares down at the wound as Grandma backs away. I rush over to stand beside her.
“Ow! Ow! Ow!” The wolf collapses to his knees. He shudders, and his body changes. Flashes of light and flailing arms. Now he’s rolling on the floor. But he’s not a wolf anymore, he’s a middle-aged guy in black jeans and a tee shirt. He stares at the fork, still stuck in his chest. Gritting his teeth, he pulls it out, then stares at us.
“Ow! You hurt me!”
“Get out of here and don’t come back!” Grandma holds the second fork ready. “And tell all your werewolf friends to stay away from this neighborhood!”
The guy hisses and shakes himself. On hands and knees, he scrambles past us and out the door. I run behind him, slam the door, and turn the locks.
“Oof.” Grandma lets out her breath.
She bends and picks up the dropped fork. When she lifts it, I see a little blood.
“Real silverplate,” she says. “The movies say you have to kill them with a silver bullet. But it doesn’t take too much to hurt them, as long as the silver’s real.”
She walks to the sink and starts washing the fork. “I got this silverware from my mother, you know. It’s been in the family forever. I’m going to have to leave it to you, Zoe. Real silver is hard to find these days.”
“Grandma, you’re amazing.”
‘Well thank you, sweetie. I think you’re amazing too.”
“No, really. How do you keep it so together?”
“Oh, I just do my best. I’ve learned that over the years. You have to be adaptable and expect the unexpected. There’s always gonna be another wolf at the door.” She places the forks in the dish drain and smiles at me. “Now, how about some lunch?”
Thank you for taking the time to read my work. I hope you enjoyed this one. As always, Likes, Restacks, and Comments are most appreciated.
For sure... and gotta really watch out for the wolves in sheep's clothing!
I loved the normality of this. You built up to it so well, slotted in amongst all the real-world worries, that by the time the werewolf burst in, I was pretty much convinced that werewolves roaming the streets is just the next crazy thing we'll have to deal with. Actually, it's a lot LESS crazy than some of the stuff happening these days, which I guess was your point. Grandma's advice rang true ... I'll just keep telling myself it'll be OK 😉