Page 10 of Ghoul Me, Maybe

ELIAS

W aking hurts.

Which is irritating, considering I haven’t been alive in over a century. Pain is a cruel thing to return to.

I’m lying on the wooden floor of Sienna’s cramped living room. There’s a candle burning somewhere—it smells like citrus and iron. My ribs ache. My skin buzzes like I’ve been struck by lightning and haven’t decided yet whether to burn or glow.

Sienna’s perched in the armchair like a crow watching a fresh corpse. Her legs are tucked under her, her eyes unreadable. She’s got that guarded expression again—the one that says she’s about to hand me my own head in a basket but hasn’t quite picked the basket yet.

“You done having your magical seizure?” she asks, voice dry.

“I wasn’t aware I’d started.”

“You went full ghost-supernova, collapsed, and scared the hell out of me. So yeah. Bit of a seizure.”

I push myself up slowly. My hand leaves an impression on the floor for a second too long. “I didn’t ask to be… whatever that was.”

She tosses a cold pack at me. It phases through my chest and lands on the floor.

“Helpful,” I mutter.

“I panicked,” she shrugs. “I’m not exactly trained in ghost CPR.”

I get to my feet, slower than I’d like. My joints don’t feel like joints—they feel like borrowed ideas.

We stand in silence, the kind thick enough to chew.

“I saw them,” I say finally. “Kerren. Dace. The betrayal.”

She doesn’t flinch.

“They took the relic. They weren’t corrupted. Not fully. They chose it.”

“Greed?” she asks.

“No,” I say. “Desperation. Fear. Maybe something worse. The relic makes you want it. And then it convinces you you’ll die without it.”

She leans back, eyes narrowed. “And how long before it decides to finish the job with you?”

I meet her gaze. “You think I don’t wonder that every time I blink?”

She exhales through her nose. “Well. That’s comforting.”

I step forward, careful not to get too close. The bond between us snaps like a fishing line on a hook when I do. The air warps with it—charged, electric, too much.

“We can’t keep doing this,” she says. “You showing up half-dead, me pretending I don’t care?—”

“You care.”

“Don’t push me, Casper.”

“Then stop running from it.”

She stares at me for a long second. “I’m not scared of the magic.”

“Then what?”

She bites her lip. “I’m scared of us .”

That shuts me up.

Because it’s not just her. I feel it too. The way my soul drags toward her like the tide, helpless and hungry. The way I feel more real around her. The way I dream in her voice.

We can’t afford this.

So, I say the only thing that won’t unravel us right here on the floor.

“We need to formalize the truce.”

She raises an eyebrow. “What are we, a fantasy alliance?”

“You want to stop the relic?”

“Yes.”

“You want to break the curse?”

“Obviously.”

“You want me to stop waking up on your floor?”

“I’d prefer it.”

“Then we’re partners. We share what we know. We work the map. We dig up the relic and we end it.”

Her jaw tightens. “And then?”

I hold her gaze. “Then I go. Wherever ghosts go. Wherever cursed sailors are supposed to vanish.”

Her throat bobs. “Right.”

“Do we have a deal?”

She hesitates. Then she pulls something from her pocket. The silver coin.

She presses it into my hand—and this time, it stays .

“For now,” she says, voice low. “We’re in this together.”

The coin pulses.

The room goes quiet.

We’ve made a pact.

And the tide is watching.

Later that night, after the pact’s been sealed with an antique coin and more unresolved feelings than either of us can comfortably process, I find myself sitting on her roof.

Technically, I’m floating just a couple inches above the shingles, but the effect is the same.

Sienna climbs out through the window like she’s done it a hundred times—barefoot, shivering, mug of cheap wine in hand.

She doesn’t look at me right away.

Just plops down beside me and hands me the mug like I’m capable of drinking it.

“Here,” she says. “For the vibe.”

“I can’t drink.”

“Didn’t ask you to.”

I take it anyway. Hold it between my hands. It’s warm. And that’s something.

“You always climb rooftops when reality starts unraveling?” I ask.

She shrugs. “Used to do it when I was a kid. Pretend the town wasn’t swallowing me whole.”

“And now?”

“Now I do it when the ghost of a dead sea captain drops glowing in my living room and we form a bloodless blood pact.”

I smirk. “Fair.”

She leans back on her elbows, eyes scanning the stars. The ocean wind tugs her hair loose from its messy braid. She’s quiet for a minute. Long enough that I almost forget she’s here. Long enough that the fog can’t quite reach us.

Then she says, “You ever think you were supposed to die?”

I glance at her. “I did die.”

“Yeah, but like… die and stay dead. No magic. No relic. No curses.”

I think about it.

“No,” I say finally. “Even in death, I waited for something.”

“God,” she mutters, almost smiling. “You’re exhausting.”

“You’re the one who brought me back.”

She nudges me with her foot. I feel it. It’s light, like mist pressure—but it’s there .

“I didn’t believe in ghosts,” she says, softer now. “Not really. Not like this. Not… you.”

I glance down at the mug. “And now?”

She sighs. “Now I believe in too much.”

That silence comes again, more comfortable this time.

I look at her out of the corner of my eye. “You believe in second chances?”

She doesn’t answer right away.

But when she does, it’s not sarcastic.

“Not for me,” she says. “But maybe for you.”

And something in my chest tightens that hasn’t felt real in decades.