Page 1 of Ghouls and Girth (The Knottiverse: Halloween Monsters #4)

Daisy

I snap awake, shove my stepbrother’s meaty hand off my thigh, and slap him across his deceptively handsome face. Mama gasps my name from the passenger seat, but I ignore her and glare at the most disgusting human I’ve ever had the misfortune of enduring.

I’d rather deal with the monsters lurking in the woods or the demons wearing human skin than this backwater cretin. The translucent spikes jutting from his body and black smoke wafting from his bulky frame aren’t because he’s possessed; they’re from his own evilness.

If my spotter hadn’t dropped me on my head during cheer practice when I was eight years old, I might have fallen for his blond hair, blue eyes, and muscular jock persona, but with my third eye, sixth sense, inner gate, or whatever the fuck you want to call it, open, I wouldn’t touch him with an eighty foot pole.

Worms crawl under my skin at the mere thought of sitting in the same car as him, but there was no escaping it today.

“Daisy, honey, you can’t slap your brother,” my mama scolds.

I grit my teeth and glare at my stepbrother as he swings furious eyes my way.

The red handprint on his cheek sends a sliver of satisfaction down my spine until my stepfather’s grip squeaks on the steering wheel.

Fear ices my bones, but fury boils my blood when my stepbrother smirks and openly ogles my chest.

“It’s okay, Ma. We all know how cranky she gets in the car. Don’t worry about it. I can take it,” he says before leaning closer and whispering in my ear. “I’ll take everything soon.”

Sourness coats my tongue and disgust twists my stomach. I elbow his chest and shove his face away from mine.

“No, Bryce. Get the fuck away from me,” I snap.

Mama gasps again.

“Daisy! Where are your manners?” she cries.

“Calm down, Janet,” my stepfather, Bob, says from the driver’s seat. “They ain’t seen each other for four months. Let ‘em work it out like they always do.” He shifts in his seat and meets my eyes in the rearview mirror. “I can pull the truck over if they need more time.”

My heart pounds in my ears and fear coils through my entire body at his thinly veiled threat. Mama doesn’t sense it. She doesn’t understand.

The last time she saw him pull the truck over was when I was ten, about a week before my accident. Bryce and I were bickering—I don’t remember about what—so Bob stopped beside a field and let us yell at the cornstalks until we were ready to use our manners.

But that wasn’t the last time he did it.

The scars on my back and ass throb despite being barely visible, and my shoulder aches deep in the joint from phantom pain.

It didn’t matter how hard I fought his hold on my arm; I couldn’t escape his grip as he lashed me for whatever transgression he decided to beat me for that day.

I learned to avoid his ire the same way I learned to bribe the boggarts living under my bed; through trial and error and lots of pain.

I was an idiot for thinking college would offer me an escape.

I’m twenty-two years old and still cowering in the backseat like my twelve-year-old self.

I cross my arms over my chest and turn my scowl out the window.

My mama married Bob when I was six. Bryce was eight.

For two years, he was an amazing big brother, but then my accident happened and my view of the entire world changed.

Everyone kept saying I’d go back to the bubbly, silly little girl I used to be once the knot on my head went away, but it’s hard to smile when goblins and ghosts jump out and scare you twenty-four-seven just to amuse themselves.

And it’s even more difficult to be nice when you see the scum of the earth—your stepbrother—systematically weaseling his way into every aspect of your life.

Men suck. They’re worse than the monsters no one else can see. I hate them.

Tension coils through me when my mom sniffles.

“You don’t have to act out, Daisy. You shouldn’t’ve invited us if you didn’t want us to come,” she says in a voice thick with tears.

Bitterness wells up in me.

I didn’t invite them. They invited themselves.

I’d never invite them to celebrate Halloween with me, not after the torture they’ve put me through every year since my accident.

Even after all the drastic behavioral and psychological changes I went through from my head injury, my stepfamily always dragged me to the most terrifying and haunted places imaginable.

The increased paranormal activity during All Hallows’ Eve turns the creatures I see daily into feral beasts and encourages bigger, scarier monsters to rise from the shadows.

I’d love to huddle under the covers in a brightly lit room while my favorite movies play at max volume, but my stepfather insisted ‘exposure’ would make me stronger, and my stepbrother never hesitated to throw me into the most dangerous and terrifying situations.

They claimed they were helping me face my fears, and in a way, they taught me a ton, but I’ll never forgive them for their cruelty.

Bryce leans forward and pats my mama’s shoulder.

“Don’t take Daisy’s attitude to heart, Ma. She’ll perk up once we’re out of the car,” he placates.

I want to slap him in the face again, but Bob gives me a warning glance through the rearview mirror, so I turn my attention out my window.

Los Angeles is beautiful. It’s nothing like my hometown. Even the tiny, obscure fine arts college I got a full scholarship to has better living conditions than the trailer park I grew up in. I’ll never go back.

The car in front of us turns the corner.

My stepfather follows. His stupid souped-up truck struggles to make the corner, and his dually jumps the curb and nearly takes out the electrical box.

I grit my teeth as Bianca, my roommate, leads us between the two giant palm trees with ease while my stepfather’s truck spits out an ugly plume of black smoke.

“Is that a peacock?” my mama exclaims.

I sit up and lean forward to see around her and, sure enough, a pair of peacocks struts along the lawn.

Regular peacocks. They have no extra eyes, psychedelic coloring, or signs of otherworldly occupants in them. They’re just normal peacocks.

An orange cat leaps up the trunk of a tree and stretches out on the bottom branch as though it doesn’t have a care in the world. Another grey and black kitten curls up on a tombstone for an afternoon nap. Neither show signs of paranormal activity either.

To the left, a white mausoleum casts a shadow over the truck, but not an ounce of creepiness flows through me. No decaying hands rise from the ground. No spirits drift in the darkness.

A beautiful marble fountain sparkles in the sunlight. Even through the rumbling of my stepfather’s ridiculous truck, the view is so perfect my mind supplies the sound of tinkling water. Excitement bubbles up in me.

I found somewhere safe to hide during the most terrifying time of year.

When Gabby, my bunkmate, also admitted she hated most Halloween festivities because they were too scary, Bianca and Trista declared we’d go on a trip to the least haunted place in California, no matter how long it took to get there. My research led us here.

Off in the distance, the infamous Hollywood sign sits nestled against the hillside.

Mama gasps again.

“Are they doing yoga? In a cemetery?”

I smile at the group of people on their colorful yoga mats wearing tight workout clothes and twisted up like pretzels around the reflecting pool.

“What kind of hoity-toity shit is this? Pa, this ain’t safe. These people are fucked up in the head. Don’t even park the truck. Let’s—”

I unbuckle, slap the unlock button, yank the door handle, and shove my way out of the truck before he finishes his sentence.

My boots hit the pavement in a half-run, half-skip as I exit the still moving vehicle.

I swing my purse over my shoulder without missing a beat as I stride away from the rolling eye sore.

My stepbrother will not ruin this for me.

With his yell echoing in my ears, I cross the road and speed walk toward my roommates as they tumble out of their car.

The crisp autumn air cools my legs and brushes over my face.

As I step onto the cobbled path, a gust of wind lifts my hair from my shoulders and fills my nostrils with a deep, intriguing scent.

Unlike anything I’ve ever smelled before, the aroma reaches into my soul and unlocks a part of me I never knew existed.

Hunger grips my womb and need pulses through my clit.

I turn and stumble in shock.

Two men—one in a decadent three-piece suit and the other in a black compression shirt and grey sweatpants—stride through the mausoleum doors.

Their features bear a striking resemblance to each other, and both are ridiculously tall with muscles that put my linebacker stepbrother to shame, but the energy wafting off the man on the left couldn’t be more different than the man on the right.

They aren’t human.

The ghastly figures hidden behind their human personas are so tall they duck through the ten-foot doorway to avoid hitting their foreheads on the frame. Everything about them except for their pupils is as white as freshly fallen snow, even their lips, hair, and tattered robes.

But their aura is far from pure.

They are ancient. Powerful. Terrifying.

Their eerie white eyes with inky black pupils snap to mine. Dark brown human orbs follow.

The ground drops out from under me.

They know I can see through their disguises.

Ice and fire war through my veins. A sense of impending doom rises up from my depths while lust throbs low in my belly.

I should run, but I can’t look away from their doubled forms.

They caught me. I’m trapped.

Part of me doesn’t want to run.

I’m so fucked.