Page 10 of Ghoul Me, Maybe
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’sstill 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 saysThe 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 titledHexes for Exes.
She sees me.
