Liminal
“This is an excerpt from my upcoming novel. It brings together some of my favorite things: a dad doing his best for his daughter, a supernatural dog that slips 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.
Mark glanced up from his phone, checking the house number against the Facebook ad info. This was the right address. Though why someone with such an obviously large yard would rehome a dog didn’t make sense.
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.
“The firefighters got the blaze under contr–”
“You endangered the whole neighborhood!” Clarissa’s expression was fierce, angry. More clouds scuttled across the sky, brought by a stiffening, frigid breeze. “Do you know how much I had to pay to keep the Council from investigating? How long it took me to re-seed the wards? Your stubborn refusal to admit you’re older than –”
“I am not that old!”
“You don’t even know how old you are!”
A smattering of icy droplets pelted down from the black clouds overhead. Mark shivered, shoulders hunching, as the wind penetrated his thin T-shirt. He’d never seen a thunderstorm whip up so fast in the summer.
Clarissa and Aunt Muriel glared at each other, chests heaving, eyes brilliant with emotion. More rain fell. Thunder crashed overhead, so close and so loud the furniture on the porch rattled.
Aunt Muriel dropped her gaze first. “I still don’t like it.”
Almost as if her words had been the trigger, sunbeams pierced through the clouds. The wind’s icy bite softened, warmed.
“I don’t like it, either.” Clarissa knelt in front of Aunt Muriel’s chair and took one of the old woman’s hands in her own. “But it has to be done.” Her voice was soft again. Filled with regret. And love.
The last of the clouds dissipated, leaving the sky bright and blue once more.
Aunt Muriel turned her glittering gaze to Mark. “Dougal won’t tolerate fools, young man.” Her voice was rough as broken glass. “And he won’t tolerate the blackhearted.”
Mark glanced at Clarissa, hoping she’d give him some hint on how he was supposed to respond. She grimaced as she rose, shrugging as if to say, “your guess is as good as mine.”
“I’m neither of those,” Mark said, shifting his weight under Dougal’s disconcerting gaze, which was now centered back on him. “Except when it comes to foolish marriages.”
Aunt Muriel didn’t react to his bad joke. She just stared at him, hard, her expression impossible to decipher.
Shadows brushed at the edges of Mark’s mind. Questing, probing. Sinking deep.
Mark shook his head, trying to dispel the wild thoughts brought on by this crazy house and these singular women. Shadows in his mind, indeed.
Aunt Muriel’s smile was abrupt. “You’ll do.” She looked down at Dougal. “Go say hello.”
The dog pushed himself to his feet, inch by ebony inch. He stretched, front legs splayed out, hindquarters up in the air, mouth opened in a yawn so wide it seemed his jaw would unhinge. Then he plodded over to Mark, his nails clicking on the deck, his floppy ears perked. He was a handsome beast when he wanted to be.
“Umm, hi.” Mark kept his hands firmly in his pockets.
“Go on.” Whether Aunt Muriel was talking to Mark or the dog was uncertain.
Dougal nudged Mark’s knee with his nose. Slowly, hesitantly, Mark freed a hand from a pocket and rested it on the dog’s shoulder. The shoulder that barely reached Mark’s thighs. He must’ve only imagined the dog was monstrously large. Dougal couldn’t be much taller than a lab. What was he mixed with, anyway? Shepherd, perhaps? No, his head was too square.
“Good boy?” Mark stroked the dog’s soft fur, admiring the way the sunlight reflected from the glossy strands, almost iridescent in places. Blue and violet.
Dougal’s tongue lolled from his mouth, his expression vapidly canine. Mark grinned back at the dog. How had Mark ever thought this sweet boy was intimidating?
His fingers strayed up Dougal’s neck, luxuriating in the warm, smooth fur. Mark frowned as he found a collar hidden beneath the dog’s ruff. A pink collar. Neon pink. Studded with rhinestones. Absolutely hideous.
“I thought Dougal was a boy?” Mark asked, glancing between Clarissa and Aunt Muriel.
“Even tough men enjoy pretty things,” Aunt Muriel said with a sniff. Her expression was aggrieved.
Clarissa was clearly suppressing a smirk. “Yet another example of your slipping control.”
Aunt Muriel glared at Clarissa.
Mark spoke quickly, hoping to avoid sparking another confrontation between the women. “It’s fine. Fiona will probably like it. And if she doesn’t, we’ll get him a new one.”
His fingertips brushed the rhinestones, which sparkled more than they should have. They couldn’t be . . ? No, certainly not. They were the size of quarters!
“No!” Clarissa’s hands were raised in warning. “Don’t do that. Don’t take that collar off.”
Aunt Muriel shook her head emphatically. “That’s Dougal’s collar, the only one he’ll accept.”
“Fine, fine.” Mark knew a losing argument when he saw one. He’d had tons of practice with Stella, after all.
It would be none of these women’s business if he replaced the collar later today. Which he probably would. He couldn’t be seen walking the dog around the apartment complex with such an ostentatiously feminine collar – he’d be the joke of the neighborhood.
“I’m serious, Mark.” Clarissa’s eyes were entreating. “Dougal must wear that collar.”
“Always.” Aunt Muriel added. “It keeps him here. And you by association.”
Mark smoothed the frown from his face and nodded. “Sure.”
“Promise.” Clarissa gripped Mark’s forearm. “Or he doesn’t go home with you.”
“All right, fine. I promise.”
“Great.” Relief washed across her face. “Now, let’s give these two some privacy to say goodbye.”
She led the way back into the house, striding down the impossibly long hallway which seemed to stretch further than it had before. It felt like full minutes had passed before they reached the front door whose violent crimson, Mark was sad to see, was not relegated to its exterior-facing side.
Two brown paper bags – stuffed full with bulky, irregular objects – stood next to the door, partially blocking it. Had they been there before? It was hard to remember, there was so much else to look at in this crazy house.
“Here.” Clarissa handed Mark a bag, opened the door, and settled the other bag on her hip, “We’ll just get these loaded up for you.”
“What’s this?” Mark asked as he followed Clarissa across the porch.
“Basic supplies. Food and whatnot. I put his leash in there, too, just in case.” She stopped by his car and cast a significant look at the trunk.
Mark scrambled to open the trunk, and they deposited the bags inside.
Once done, he turned to walk to the house.
He yelped and leaped backwards.
Dougal was standing right behind him. Watching him with that fathomless gaze. Judging him.
“He does that.” Clarrissa’s tone was long-suffering. “Aunt Muriel thinks it’s the funniest thing.” She scowled at the dog. “Play nice, Dougal.”
Something gleamed in the dog’s eyes. Amusement? Challenge?
Just what was Mark getting into?
“Don’t worry.” Clarissa laid a hand on Mark’s arm. “Aunt Muriel’s already moved his geas to you. I felt the transfer.”
Geas? What the hell was that? Had she meant to say leash?
“I thought you said his leash was in the bag already?” It’d better not match the hideous collar. If it did, Mark would buy a new one tonight. And a new collar. Promise or no.
She waved a hand. “He’ll obey you now, as much as one like him can. And you won’t find a more faithful guardian. I’ve already got one of my own, otherwise I’d . . .” She shook her head.
Mark shoved his hands in his pockets. The sooner he could get away from Clarissa and her strange aunt, the better.
“Anyway.” Clarissa gave Mark a bright smile. “I can’t tell you how much it means to us to know Dougal’s going to a good home.”
“Right, well, I’m glad it’s worked out.” Mark caught Dougal’s eye. “You ready to go, buddy?”
A frown creased the dog’s brows. He didn’t like nicknames?
“Just Dougal, then?”
The dog’s tongue lolled out.
Shaking his head, Mark opened the car door. Dougal climbed in sedately, more a prince than a dog. Refined.
“Mark, remember.” Clarissa gripped Mark’s forearm. “Don’t take that collar off. Not ever – it’s your best protection. It’s why I had Aunt Muriel craft it. Otherwise we’d never have given him to you.”
Mark frowned. “Do I need to be worried about him running off, or something?”
“No, no, nothing like that.” She shook her head. “But like calls to like, you know. He’s liminal and you . . . you’re perfectly ordinary.”
That didn’t sound like a compliment.
She released his arm. “Just leave the collar on, all right? And . . . take my number. Just in case.”
“Fine.” Mark dutifully entered her contact information into his phone.
Clarissa beamed at him. Then she nodded respectfully to the dog – Dougal returned the gesture – crossed through the now-azure fence, and made her way back to the house.
As Mark drove away from the neighborhood, the skin on the back of his neck prickled. He glanced in the rearview mirror.
Dougal wasn’t looking out the window like a normal dog. He was staring right at Mark.
Had Mark made a mistake taking the dog? Dougal seemed far too . . . sophisticated? Proper? . . Certainly too aware to be a good fit for Fiona.
“You do like kids, don’t you?” Mark asked. “They didn’t lie about that?”
Dougal’s jaw dropped in the canine equivalent of a smile. Was he being sarcastic or genuine?
“Well, I hope you also like tea parties.”
Dougal sighed and lay down across the backseat.
