Page 5 of Ghoul Me, Maybe

SIENNA

T onight, the fog doesn’t stay outside.

It slips through the window crack like it owns the place and curls around the foot of my bed. My body’s asleep—I know it is—but my mind’s wading through cold, moonlit surf.

The dream smells like salt and rust. Feels like seaweed wrapping around my ankles.

I’m back on the deck of the wreck, but the stars are too bright, and the moon’s too low. The ocean whispers my name like a warning. Or a plea.

And then I hear it.

Not my name.

His.

“Elias…”

It ripples through the water, through my bones. The syllables weigh more than they should.

Eli-as. Eli-as. Eli-as.

I wake up gasping, tangled in the sheet, my skin clammy like I’ve been swimming.

I groan, rubbing my eyes. “Goddamn it. This is why I don’t do haunted beach towns.”

As I roll over to yank the blanket free, something clinks.

I sit up.

On the nightstand, resting on the warped wood like it’s always belonged there, is a single silver coin.

Round. Heavy. Old. Its surface etched with a ship’s wheel and a symbol I recognize from my father’s map. It’s wet.

I haven’t opened a window.

I haven’t brought in anything from the beach.

I don’t believe in ghosts.

But I believe in signs.

And this one’s screaming.

The coin’s still damp when I shove it into my pocket and march out of the house like I’ve got a plan. I don’t. But I’ve got a name I haven’t said out loud in eight years, and today feels like the kind of day you dig up dead things just to see if they’re still breathing.

Mira Quay.

Used to be my best friend. The “swear on blood and pinky fingers” kind of best friend. We built fairy traps in the woods, swore we saw sea monsters in the tidepools, and read our horoscopes like they were gospel.

Then I left. She stayed. And neither of us ever called the other again.

But if anyone knows what this coin is—and what the hell it means that I’m dreaming about a ghost with storm-colored eyes—it’s Mira.

Her shop’s tucked behind the bait shack on East Mariner.

Used to be her nana’s place, back when it was a cramped tea room that smelled like bergamot and mothballs.

Now the sign above the door says The Spell Jar: Potions, Charms & Possibly Legal Advice .

A skeleton hand with painted nails hangs in the window holding a bottle labeled “Drink Me (Probably Don’t)” .

God, I forgot how much she leaned into the aesthetic.

I push the door open and jingle the bell, half expecting a puff of smoke and an animatronic raven.

Instead, I get Mira.

She’s behind the counter in a velvet robe, chunky boots propped on a stool, blue lipstick and dark curls tucked into a messy bun like she just rolled out of a Tumblr post from 2012. She’s holding a latte and a paperback titled Hexes for Exes .

She sees me.

And to her credit, doesn’t throw the book at my head.

“Well, well,” she says, dragging the words out like taffy. “If it isn’t the girl who vanished mid-bonfire and never called again.”

“Hi, Mira,” I say. My voice sounds small. I hate that.

She closes the book. Doesn’t smile. “You here for a potion or an apology?”

“Neither,” I say. “I need information.”

She barks out a laugh. “Still charming as ever. What kind of information?”

I pull the coin from my pocket and toss it on the counter. It lands with a wet clink. Mira looks at it. Then at me.

She doesn’t pick it up.

“That come out of Wrecker’s Bay?” she asks, voice suddenly serious.

I nod.

“You touched it?”

I nod again.

She sighs. Loud and annoyed. “Of course you did.”

“I didn’t exactly have a manual.”

“Well, you’ve got me now,” she mutters, reaching for the coin with a pair of iron tongs. She drops it onto a ceramic plate like it’s radioactive.

I watch her as she rifles through drawers, pulls out a magnifying glass, a bottle of salt, and—of course—a deck of tarot cards.

“I’m not here for a reading.”

“It’s not for you,” she says. “It’s for the energy.”

“The energy.”

“Don’t make that face. Just let me work.”

She lights a candle, sprinkles salt around the plate, and hums under her breath. It’s a lullaby. One I remember. Her nana used to sing it during storms.

“Still doing your cryptid blog?” I ask, just to fill the silence.

She snorts. “It’s a magical artifact vlog now. And yes, still monetized. Thank you very much.”

I smile to myself.

She doesn’t smile back.

After a minute, she sits down and stares at me. “This coin’s old. Older than the wreck. Maybe fae-forged. The symbol’s alchemical. Relic magic. Binding stuff.”

“What’s it binding?”

She hesitates. “You, maybe. Him.”

“Him?”

“The ghost. You saw him, didn’t you?”

I don’t answer.

“You did,” she says, nodding like she’s confirming something she already knew. “And he saw you.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in that crap anymore.”

“I believe in people dying around cursed relics and that coin smells like grave magic and sea blood, so yeah, I believe in ghosts now. Thanks for asking.”

I run a hand through my hair. “He said my name.”

“Then it’s already started.”

“What has?”

She leans forward. “You’re tethered. To something. The coin, the wreck, maybe him. He’s not just haunting the bay—he’s bound there. And you… you’re the crack in the seal.”

“That’s a poetic way of telling me I’m screwed.”

Mira finally softens. Just a little.

“I missed you, you know,” she says, voice lower.

“I didn’t want to drag you into?—”

“I was already in it,” she snaps. “We both were. You just chose to run.”

She’s right.

She’s always been right, which is why I stopped calling her. I couldn’t stand to hear the truth through someone else’s mouth.

I pick up the coin.

“I’m not running this time,” I say. “I need to know what it’s doing to me.”

Mira sighs. “I’ll help you. But you have to promise me something.”

“What?”

“If this gets worse—if the dreams get deeper, if he starts showing up in mirrors or shadows—you tell me. No matter what.”

I nod.

“Swear on it,” she says, eyes sharp now. “Like we used to.”

I swallow hard. Hold out my hand.

“Swear,” I say. “On blood and pinky fingers.”

She grabs mine. “Then we start tonight.”

The candle on Mira’s counter burns low, flickering like it’s eavesdropping. She’s pulled out a battered leather journal—her nana’s, judging by the handwriting—and flips through the pages until she finds a yellowed newspaper clipping stuck between two pressed sage leaves.

“Here,” she says, sliding it across the counter. “The Lost Captain.”

I glance at the headline: Shipwreck Mystery Still Haunts Wrecker’s Bay.

Beneath it, there’s a sketch—rough, but clearly a man. Broad shoulders. Long coat. Grim expression under a sea-wind snarl of hair.

“Tell me you’re not chasing this guy,” Mira says.

I shrug, too honest to lie. “He kind of found me.”

She groans and drops her head onto the counter. “Of course he did. Sienna, he’s a myth . Half the town thinks he’s a sailor who pissed off a sea witch. The other half thinks he’s a warning.”

“A warning?”

“Yeah. ‘Don’t dig where the tide’s been whispering.’ That kind of thing. My nana used to say some stories protect themselves. That if you dig too deep, the truth claws back.”

I finger the edge of the clipping. “What if the myth is the truth?”

She sits back, folds her arms. “Then you’re in way over your head.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

She doesn’t laugh.

“I’m serious, Sienna. Magic like this—it doesn’t care who you are. It doesn’t play fair. It binds, it buries, and it takes . Your dad spent his whole life poking it, and look how he ended up.”

I glance at the coin again, heavy in my palm like a dare.

“I’m not him,” I say quietly.

“No. But you’ve got his blood, and the relic knows it.”

She leans in close, her voice a whisper.

“Some magic’s better left buried.”