Page 2 of Ghoul

Grams’ House

Cleveland, Ohio

“Shake a leg, Hazel Jane, cause if your ass isn’t down here in the next five minutes, your breakfast is going in the trash.” Grams’ voice carried up the stairs and into the bathroom. We’d been here for a little over two months and were settling into some semblance of a routine. Grams’ routine. The woman was a firm believer in eating at least three times a day, and she made sure Dad and I did, too.

“I’ll be right down, Grams,” I answered her after popping the toothbrush out of my mouth and spitting toothpaste into the sink. That was another thing, she wasn’t a fan of repeating herself. It only took about two times of her having to remind me before I realized one very obvious thing about my grandmother, she was intense. I may have been too young to really pay attention to that until now, since I had only seen her for a handful of holidays until we moved in with her. She was stern, but one of the most caring people I had ever met, expecting a lot from the people around her, but it was never more than she would do herself. She was fair like that.

“After you eat—”

“I know, feed Charlie,” I interrupted her, plopping down at the table and scooping a forkful of eggs into my mouth. She turned ever so slightly away from the sink where she was washing dishes and raised her eyebrow.

“Sorry,” I apologized for not letting her finish her sentence and intentionally dropped a bite of food on the floor for her German Shephard, Charlie. As soon as the food hit the floor, her ears perked up, and she was quick to snatch it up with her tongue. Her long tail wagged, but she didn’t bother to stand. She stretched her legs and repositioned herself, closing her eyes. Neither Charlie nor I wanted to be awake this early, but we both did what Grams said; therefore, we were.

“I swear, I don’t know what kind of manners Karen and that son of mine taught you in West Virginia,” she said in a light tone, both of us knowing she meant each word that she spoke. I wanted to dislike her for all of her rules and chores, but oddly enough, it made me respect her. Before her, I was used to the way Mom did things. It wasn’t that Mom was a bad person, I never questioned if she loved me or anything like that, but she wasn’t consistent either. Some days, Mom made food and got out of bed, others, she stayed in bed, and I ate cereal and sandwiches. Grams could never replace Mom’s position in my heart, but it was nice to not wonder if I would be fending for myself for the day or not until Dad came home.

The first week we were here, Dad didn’t leave for work. However, after that, things changed. Now, he was usually gone before I got up, or left shortly after, and didn’t come home a lot of nights before I went to bed. I made sure to pay extra attention to details once we got here, determined to figure out if he was lying to me about his job. I deserved to know the truth, considering he uprooted us and left Mom behind. She was the one who made the choice for all of us, but it didn’t mean I wasn’t sour about the entire situation.

The good thing about Dad and Grams was their dependability to always do things around the same time. Every Wednesday evening, like clockwork, Grams went to her friend’s house to play cards, and on Thursday afternoon, she did her grocery shopping. Getting her schedule down wasn’t hard; she rarely veered from doing the same things from week to week. It made it easier to find answers to my curiousness about Dad.

On Wednesdays, I rode my bike a little further each time, looking for Dad’s Harley, always making sure to be back home by nine. Thursdays were the same, I was out searching for him, but returned earlier at six. It took the remainder of the month to even come close to finding anything out.

I checked the watch on my wrist, I still had an hour before I had to head home. It was plenty of time to go a bit further. A sleek black motorcycle parked outside a huge beige building flashed out of the corner of my eyes, and I slammed on my pedals. It was Dad’s. This was the first big break in my ongoing investigation of him since I started. Honestly, I was feeling like a bit of an idiot for continuing after the first few days of coming up empty-handed.

This place wasn’t easy to find, but maybe that was why he was here. He didn’t want to be found. I smirked and hopped off my bike, walking beside it to a nearby bush, which was the perfect height to hide any evidence of me being here. Dad would absolutely lose his shit if he knew I’d stumbled upon him. My heartbeat pounded in my ear as I inched closer to the building where his Harley was parked. It was pure dumb luck that I found him. I thanked my lucky stars and prayed that this would finally lead to some answers. I had to be careful, though. If Dad caught me, I would be grounded for the rest of my life…if not by him, by Grams. I didn’t know what either of them would think a suiting punishment would be, but I didn’t plan to find out either.

* * *

Dad needed help, but I didn’t know how or what to do. Seeing the man who had always kept me safe now so helpless was unfathomable. He was so strong, the glue that held everyone around him together. I blinked my eyes hard, trying to force myself to wake from this nightmare, but despite how many times my eyes closed and reopened, the horrific event unfolding before me didn’t change.

Move.I instructed my feet to carry me into the darkness to protect Dad as I promised myself I would do that night in West Virginia. He needed me to be his strength now, but my body didn’t listen. The only moving it seemed to be capable of was trembling with fear. I hated being so small and powerless.

“Who do we have here?” A deep man’s voice filled my ears and released even more panic into my body. Once again, I told my feet to move, but they refused.

“Don’t be afraid, I’m not going to hurt you,” he reassured me, extending his hand out to where I stood. His movements were slow, and his eyes full of genuine concern. A spider tattoo taking up the majority of the skin on his inner forearm was the only thing that seemed to hold my attention. Oddly enough, it brought me some comfort, despite the fear swarming within me. Dad had so many tattoos that most wouldn’t be able to count themI wasn’t just anyone, though. I was his daughter. Dad had thirty-three.

“You like tattoos?” the man asked in a gentle tone, inching closer to where I was. My quivering head nodded slightly in response, but no words left my dry mouth. I had never been more aware of the beating of my heart than I was at this moment. Boom. Boom. Boom rang in my ears like the biggest drum in a marching band, and each time the sound happened, my chest tightened. The man’s face was hard to make out, and my legs felt like Jell-O. Warmth touched my face and trickled its way down into my legs. It only took seconds for everything to fade to black.

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