Page 1 of Ghoul Me, Maybe
CHAPTER 1
SIENNA
The sea fog hits me like a slap of wet wool the second I step off the bus. Salty. Heavy. Familiar in the worst kind of way—like a dream you’ve outgrown but still wake up sweating from.
Lowtide Bluffs hasn't changed much. Same crooked sign by the dock, same sagging rooftops, same way the locals pretend not to stare even though they’re obviously clocking the return of the prodigal disappointment. I half expect someone to yell“Witch’s kid!”like they used to in middle school. No one does. Gotta love repressed coastal hostility.
I sling my duffel over my shoulder and march down the warped boardwalk toward the chapel. If you can even call it that. The sign saysSanctuary of the Sea and Stars,but it’s basically a rotting shed with a weathervane shaped like a fish skeleton.
“Nice to see Lowtide still smells like mildew and generational trauma,” I mutter to no one.
“You haven’t changed a bit.”
I turn, eyebrows already climbing, and see Pastor Webb standing in the chapel doorway like a scarecrow in a thrifted cassock. He’s older now, whiter around the temples, but his eyes are the same: watery blue and annoyingly perceptive.
“Wish I could say the same, Pastor,” I say, giving him a dry smile. “But you’re looking more... taxidermied.”
He chuckles like I just blessed him. “Still sharp as ever. Come inside, child. We’ll begin shortly.”
Child.God, I’m twenty-eight and legally allowed to own a crossbow in six countries. But I bite back the retort. This isn’t the time to start a theological slap fight.
The inside of the chapel smells like salt, incense, and moldy hymn books. A handful of townsfolk shuffle in—more than I expected, honestly. I recognize a few faces, none of them friendly. There’s Old Man Harrow with his cataract cloud eyes. The Thompkins twins whispering behind a fan like they’re in a Tennessee Williams play. No Mira. Not that I expected her to come.
The casket is closed. Thank whatever gods are still accepting prayers. I couldn’t bear to see his face again—not now. Not like that.
Pastor Webb drones on about forgiveness and complicated men and legacies left in sand. I zone out halfway through. My father would’ve hated this. He’d have wanted Viking horns and a sea pyre, not an awkward dirge in a chapel held together with duct tape and spite.
The only part that jerks me back into focus is the rustle of paper as the pastor clears his throat and steps down from the pulpit.
“There is… one more matter.” He’s holding a small box. It’s wooden, stained with oil or maybe just time, and bound with a strip of cracked leather.
“Sienna, your father left something for you.”
He walks it down the aisle like it’s a damn wedding ring.
“I didn’t bring a gift, so let’s pretend this is the awkward fruitcake,” I say, taking the box and trying to keep my fingers from shaking.
People watch. Of course they do. I tuck it under my arm and bolt before they can circle me like vultures sniffing scandal.
Outside, the fog’s gotten thicker. You’d think the ocean was steaming. I sit on the edge of the dock, my boots dangling inches above the lapping tide, and open the box.
Inside is a rusted iron key, ornate and useless-looking, like something you’d find in a haunted mansion puzzle. Next to it, a brittle piece of parchment, rolled tight and tied with red twine.
“No note? No‘Dear Sienna, sorry I ruined your childhood, here’s a quest to make up for it’?” I murmur, picking the twine apart.
The map unfurls like it’s been waiting for decades. It’s not of any town I recognize, but the coastline looks suspiciously like Lowtide’s. Jagged cliffs. A cove markedWrecker’s Bay.There’s a symbol drawn in gold ink—some kind of compass crossed with a ship’s wheel.
And a single word inked in my father’s frantic, chicken-scratch handwriting:“Return.”
“What the hell were you into, old man?”
“You talk to maps now?” a voice behind me says.
I whip around, heart in my throat, and come face to face with Quinn. He was a few years ahead of me in school, always smelled like seaweed and motor oil. Still does, apparently.
“I talk to whatever’s willing to listen,” I shoot back. “What do you want?”
“Came to see if you’d fallen in.” He nods at the tide. “It’s hungry this time of year.”
