Page 68 - Chronicles of Darkness

“Finish your dinner, or the Hangry Wolf will come for the leftovers.”

That was Grandma’s thing, growing up. The Hangry Wolf. I don’t know where she got it,
some fucked-up book of Old World fairy tales, probably. The Hangry Wolf was supposed
to live in the basement, and it didn’t have any food or toys or friends of its own, so it would
come out at night to take whatever I had neglected. I guess it was supposed to teach me not to
be wasteful, but all it really did was keep me up at night, convinced that every sound of the old
building settling was the Hangry Wolf nosing around, looking for something to eat.
The window breaks with a muffled crack, and I’m in. Grandma wasn’t exactly loaded, but
she had some jewelry she brought over with her after the war that should fix me for rent for
a month or two. She probably left it all to Sira, but fuck her. Didn’t even call to tell me
the old lady had died. Had to see it in the goddamn paper. Obits are a good way to find
places to rob, but you’d expect your own family to give you a courtesy call.
It’s been ten years, but I still remember the layout.
Grandma’s room at the end of the hall, mine next to the
bathroom and across from Sira’s. I head for Grandma’s
room, kick a stack of yellowing newspapers as high as my
knee, nearly face-plant into a pile of musty, moth-eaten
old scarves. When did it get this bad? Does the rest of
the family know? Whatever. It’s not my problem. They
made that clear a long time ago.

The bedroom’s even worse than the hall — Grandma was
87, how’d she even get to bed? — but I find her jewelry
box on the dresser, surrounded by photos. Photos of Sira,
our parents, our cousins. What a surprise.

Jackpot! I start stuffing necklaces and brooches
into my pockets. I’ll sort out the costume
junk from the real stuff later. I’m debating
mounting an expedition to the bathroom to
check for prescription meds when the creak
of the door freezes me like a mouse in a
hawk’s shadow. Shit, Sira couldn’t be here
already, could she?
No explosion of angry Armenian.
Not Siranesh. Raspy, ragged breaths,
like a ripped-open football. I don’t
want to turn. I do anyways, and
there he is. Mangy white fur,
matted and filthy. Tongue lolling
stupidly between cracked and
yellow teeth, belly swollen in his
famine. He holds out a hand,
inviting, and like I’m in a
dream, I take it.
The Hangry Wolf
lived in the basement,
and it didn’t have
any food or toys
or friends of its
own. Now it has me.