Page 11 of Ghoul Me, Maybe
SIENNA
I ’m not a morning person. Never have been.
But there’s something about waking up to find a ghost sitting cross-legged on your kitchen counter like a damn pirate Buddha that kickstarts your day faster than caffeine ever could.
“You know,” I grumble, squinting against the sunrise filtering through my blinds, “some people knock.”
Elias doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just sits there with that brooding storm-on-the-horizon expression he wears like a tailored coat.
“I remembered something,” he says.
And just like that, I’m awake.
I shuffle to the counter, grab a mug, and pour stale coffee like it’s a defense mechanism. “You mean besides your impromptu death seizure and dramatic rooftop monologue?”
He ignores the jab. “The man who hired me—he called himself Greaves. Paid in sovereigns laced with warding spells. Told me to transport a sealed box. No opening it, no questions.”
“Sounds above board.”
“I was desperate,” Elias says. “I needed the coin. My ship— she —was falling apart. The crew hadn’t been paid in two runs.”
“So you agreed to play magical FedEx for a stranger with cursed gold.”
He shrugs. “I’ve made worse choices.”
I take a sip and wince. “Yeah, well, I’ve dated worse. So who is this Greaves?”
He goes quiet. Looks past me like he’s trying to see through time. “He wore gloves. Always. Spoke like he was bored of being in the same room as everyone else. But what I remember most…”
“What?”
“His eyes,” Elias says. “They weren’t human.”
I freeze.
“You sure?”
“I know what I saw, Sienna. He blinked sideways.”
I swallow. “Well, that’s officially the worst sentence I’ve heard today.”
I grab my father’s journal from the table and slap it open to a flagged page. It’s filled with half-sentences, maps, and coffee rings—his usual chaos. But there, scrawled in the margins in his hurried chicken-scratch, is a name:
Greaves.
Underlined. Twice.
And beneath it: “eyes like glass—do not trust.”
My breath catches.
“Son of a bitch,” I whisper. “He knew.”
Elias leans over my shoulder. He’s close enough that I can feel the air bend between us, like gravity’s been replaced with tension and half-whispered truths.
“That’s your father’s writing?”
“Yeah. He played dumb for years, but he was always looking. Always chasing the next relic, the next riddle.” I slam the book shut. “Guess now I know why he was always three steps away from unraveling.”
Elias stands. “Then we have something. A name. A connection. We follow it.”
“And go where? Greaves doesn’t exactly have a LinkedIn.”
“There’s a place,” he says, eyes darkening. “An old tavern by the cliffs. It used to be neutral ground. Black market trades. Magical smuggling. The kind of place that knew everyone and told nothing.”
I arch a brow. “And you think this place still exists?”
Elias nods. “If Greaves is still working relics through this coast, that’s where we’ll find a whisper of him.”
I grab my bag, the map, the journal, and more backup charms than I’d admit to.
“You coming?” I ask.
He gives me a look like I’ve just suggested he abandon the wreck and join a circus. “You’re really going to walk into a den of smugglers and ask about the man who cursed me?”
I grin. “It’s Tuesday. What else am I doing?”
He almost smiles.
Almost.
The tavern is called The Drowned Gull , which sounds like a pub designed by Edgar Allan Poe during a hangover.
It’s nestled behind a row of rusting trawlers and guarded by a stone archway carved with old sea runes. The smell hits first—fish, damp wood, and something vaguely like regret.
Inside, it’s even worse.
Dim lighting. Sticky floors. A bartender who looks like she bites people for fun. But the whispers are there. Old magic. Relic energy. Things I’m learning to feel like a heartbeat under the skin.
Elias stays invisible, leaning close when I need guidance.
“That one,” he murmurs in my ear. “Second table. She used to broker for the south covens.”
I walk over, put on my best “don’t screw with me” face, and sit across from a woman with gold teeth and tattoos that move like they’re breathing.
“You know the name Greaves?” I ask her.
She freezes.
Then laughs—harsh and humorless. “No one smart asks that name out loud.”
“Good thing I’m not known for my brains,” I reply breezily.
The woman leans forward. “You want to walk out of here with your skin still zipped, little witch, you forget that name.”
I slide the coin across the table.
She stares at it.
Then at me.
Then at something just behind me—where Elias stands, unseen but felt .
Her eyes widen.
She mutters something under her breath and bolts from the table.
I stare after her.
“Well,” I say. “That went well.”
Elias sighs beside me.
“We’re getting close,” he says. “Too close.”
I grit my teeth.
“Then we keep pushing.”
Because if Greaves is still out there?
He just felt us breathing down his neck.
We don’t go back to my place. We go to Mira’s.
Because if there’s one person in this town who’ll shoot me straight—even if it hurts—it’s the girl currently grinding dried nettle into something that smells like regret and elderflower.
Mira doesn’t look up when we walk in. Doesn’t have to.
“You’ve been somewhere loud,” she mutters. “Your aura’s frayed like barbed wire.”
“You get that from sniffing herbs?” I ask.
She finally glances up, eyes narrowing. “No. I get that from the ghost-shaped migraine standing behind you.”
Elias, ever helpful, leans against her wall like a brooding coat rack.
Mira wipes her hands on a towel and gestures to the cluttered kitchen table. “Sit. Talk.”
We do.
I give her the rundown. The journal. The name Greaves. The coin, the bar, the runner who bolted like we were made of fire.
Mira listens in silence, arms crossed, foot tapping.
Then she says, “It’s a soul anchor.”
I blink. “What is?”
“The relic. Has to be. It’s not just cursed. It’s anchoring him to this world. If you break it—carelessly, incorrectly?—”
She turns to Elias. “You’ll vanish. Gone. No ghost. No aftershock. Just… unmade. ”
The word drops like a bomb.
My throat goes dry.
Elias says nothing. Doesn’t flinch.
Mira rounds on me. “You didn’t know. But now you do.”
I stare at her. “So what, I just leave him cursed? Trapped forever?”
“I’m saying you can’t just rush in with a hammer and hope for closure.”
Her voice softens. “Sienna… he’s real now. Real because of you. That bond? It goes both ways.”
And suddenly I’m not so sure anymore.
Not about the relic. Not about the mission. Not even about myself.
I glance at Elias.
And I wonder—I don’t know if freeing him is the same thing as saving him.