Liminal
This is an excerpt from my upcoming novel. It features some of my favorite things: a dad doing his best for his daughter, a supernatural dog who can pass between worlds, and an eerie, uncanny setting where the shadows have teeth.
Free to a good home:
Lovable lab mix, answers to Dougal.
Not afraid of the dark. Loyal and protective.
House trained. Likes cuddles, loves kids.
Not good with cats or other dogs.
Serious inquiries only.
He’d only driven through this neighborhood a handful of times – usually by accident – but he’d always admired the stately Victorian homes nestled between old growth trees. They exuded a sense of history, of timeless grandeur, livened up here and there by creative trim colors and riotous gardens.
And house number 7835 was the most creative of all. Painfully so. Like a fever dream crossed with a Vegas-style interpretation of what a Victorian house should be.
Mark exited his car, made his way through the orchid-painted garden gate, and approached the asymmetric house with its turrets, balconies, and wraparound porch. Apricot walls, fuchsia-trimmed windows, piercing green eaves . . . A dull headache thudded behind Mark’s eyes. The porch was navy underfoot, leading to the front door, painted a shocking crimson so vibrant it shouldn’t have been possible. And . . . was it his imagination, or were the colors changing as he watched? The eaves were now citrine, not lime.
Just what kind of person lived in a place like this?
The door opened before Mark could ring the doorbell. A slim woman stood there, her hand on the door, her gaze on him. Assessing.
“You’re Mark?” Faint lines radiated from the corners of her eyes and her fair hair was liberally streaked through with silver. She must’ve been gorgeous in her youth, though. There was something magnetic about her, something undiminished by decades of life.
Mark cleared his throat. “I . . . Yes.”
Her luminous smile erased all signs of advancing age from her face.
“I’m Clarissa, Muriel’s niece.” Muriel was the name of the Facebook seller.
“Right.” Mark stuck his hands in his pockets.
A thunderous barking shattered the air, filling it, overpowering Mark’s senses. It came from all directions at once, but especially from behind him. Fractured images of long teeth covered in hot blood flashed through his mind.
Mark spun, heart racing. The porch and yard were empty.
A woman’s voice – not Clarissa’s – cut through the cacophony like a rusty knife.
“Dougal! Quiet!”
The barking ceased and Mark stumbled in the abrupt silence. His heart still thudded against his ribs, sharp and painful.
“Don’t worry.” Clarissa laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, “As you can see, you won’t need an alarm system with Dougal around.” Her smile was wry.
Mark glanced back at his car, sitting in a puddle of sunlight across the long, long front yard. Those barks had been so loud, so deep, they had to have come from a pony-sized dog at the very least. A mastiff, perhaps? St. Bernard? But the ad said it was a lab mix.
Fiona was small for her age, always had been. A dog large enough to make those barks would dwarf her, hurt her if it decided to. Mark wouldn’t let that happen.
“I’m sorry,” he said, slipping from under Clarissa’s hand, “But I don’t think this is going to work out. I’ll just be going.”
“Please.” Clarissa’s eyes watered. “Please at least come see him. You’re his last chance before I have to –” She shook her head. Wiped her eyes.
Mark had never been good with female tears. They were his weakness, the ultimate source of all his suffering. They were the reason he’d stayed close to home after graduating college instead of taking that job across the country. They were the reason he’d stayed married to Stella five years longer than he should have. And they were the reason he was at this crazy house in the first place, trying to acquire a dog for Fiona. A cheap dog, because he was still adjusting to paying alimony.
“Fine, fine, let me see him.” He couldn’t temper the rough burr in his voice. Tears were cheating.
Clarissa’s smile was quicksilver. Her eyes were already dry.
“Perfect, just this way.”
She led him through the house, passing room after jewel-toned room, each crammed so full with bold furniture and clashing tchotchkes the place was a visual bedlam. Saphire velvet, gleaming brass, ruby rugs, a lavender so pure it practically glowed . . .
The hallway stretched longer than it should have – how many rooms did this house have? Mark blinked, and they’d reached an achingly citrus kitchen at the back of the house. The yellow walls and tangerine cabinets magnified the sun’s brilliance pouring through untrimmed windows, and Mark squinted against the harsh light.
Clarissa opened the kitchen door, ushering Mark into the backyard.
Here, at last, there was a sense of peace, a respite for Mark’s overstimulated eyes. Green trees – soothing, natural – ringed the lot, blocking any view of the neighboring houses. A honey-colored wooden porch with faded wicker furniture gave way to a lawn ringed with flowers, all sporting sensible, stationary colors. An old woman – she had to be in her eighties – huddled in an off-white chair, wrapped in a multitude of scarves and shawls.
She glared at Mark with hard, glittering eyes.
“Aunt Muriel,” Clarissa’s voice was loud, “This is Mark. He’s here to see about Dougal.” She leaned close to Mark, pitching her voice low, “She’s not too happy about this, but what choice do we have? She’ll come around.”
Mark stepped toward the old woman – Aunt Muriel – with an outstretched hand. “Pleased to mee–”
A growl like a rabid avalanche stopped him. Cold.
The shadow at Aunt Muriel’s feet rippled . . . rose . . . stretched until it stood on four long, muscular legs. Obsidian eyes framed by jet black fur pierced into his own, glittering with savage intelligence. Practically glowing. The dog’s bulky frame trembled with suppressed energy, and its lips curled back over gleaming white teeth, promising swift, untold violence if Mark made the wrong move.
Mark slowly lowered his hand. He glanced back at Clarissa, who was scowling at the old woman.
“We talked about this, Aunt Muriel. Call him off!”
Aunt Muriel made a jerky motion with her hand. The beast fell silent and lay down once more at her feet, no more harmful than a shadow. But this shadow had teeth.
Mark blinked. Had . . . had the dog just shrunk? He could’ve sworn the beast’s shoulders were even with his hips just a few heartbeats ago. But now, the dog looked no larger than the goofy lab Mark had thought he’d come to acquire.
He shook his head. His fear must’ve exaggerated Dougal’s size.
Aunt Muriel laid a withered hand on Dougal’s blocky head. “So, you’re the young man come to take my shadow away from me.”
“I saw your Facebook ad, yes. I’m looking for a dog for my daughter.”
“Why?”
Because Fiona didn’t understand why everything had changed these last few months, why her life had fractured. Why she could only visit Mark in his bare-walled apartment every other weekend instead of seeing him every day at home. A dog would help her with the transition. She’d always wanted one, had even drawn a picture of one the last time she’d visited, complete with hearts and rainbows.
Aunt Muriel stared at him, her expression impossible to read.
Mark took a deep breath. “Your ad says he’s good with kids. My daughter needs a friend.”
Muriel’s face softened. “He’s the best friend there is.”
She glanced down at Dougal, who turned his great head to meet her gaze. Something passed between the old woman and the dog just then, something deeper than words, as indefinable as the first hints of fall on a summer breeze.
Mark’s cheeks flushed and he looked away.
“Listen,” he said, stepping toward the house, “It’s obvious you’re not ready to give Dougal up. I get that, and I’ll just be going. But why even list him on Facebook?”
Aunt Muriel shot a dagger-laden glare at Clarissa. “Because pets,” her voice dripped acid on the word, “aren’t allowed at the Whispering Pines.”
Clarissa crossed her arms over her chest. “We’ve been over this. You’re too old to be left on your own.”
“I have Dougal.”
The dog growled his assent. Distant thunder answered.
Clarissa snorted. “He’s protection against the Others, not stupidity.”
The Others? Mark frowned. This neighborhood seemed too well-off to have gang problems.
“The Others already know not to cross me.” Aunt Muriel raised her chin. “And Dougal and I get by just fine on our own. Always have.”
“Your control’s slipping – it’s not safe.”
Thunder rolled in the distance, closer.
“It wasn’t that big of a fire.” Aunt Muriel’s fingers tightened in Dougal’s fur.
“You broke the wards!”
Mark frowned. Wards? What the hell?
Overhead, a dark cloud covered the sun, plunging the backyard into cool shadow.
