Ghoul is a horror story in Colonial-era America about an ancient curse set loose with the backdrop of the revolutionary war. Below is the first little snippet.
Ghoul
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His teeth sunk deep into her throat, and the warmth of her life’s blood splattered the back of his mouth. He could feel the hunger inside taking over as he clenched his jaw shut, rendering chunks of flesh and sinew from her pale neck. She had been too weak, already suffering from some sickness, to fight him off as he dragged her back to his cabin like a wolf does a deer. He had stuffed a handkerchief in her mouth before his action so she could not scream. The sudden storm that fell upon the ship right before sundown helped hide what pitiful noises she did make. Once the small door was closed to his quarters, he set to work. Like predators in the wild, he ravaged his prey consuming all that his stomach deemed fit.
The act of feeding had grown more accessible over the years. He learned to watch his chosen prey’s actions and routine for a few days prior until he found a proper moment to strike. At least, that is how it had been prior to him fleeing his home for the New World. Tonight’s meal was a young woman who had fallen ill the first week of their voyage. He had not intended on using her until his other options had run out. They were, at best guest, a few days away from making port, and he did not feel like letting the hunger run loose in a new place until he had time to survey the land. There wasn’t much time between Him taking her from her hammock and where her body was unrecognizable. She hadn’t felt a thing, at least that is what he told himself as he wrapped up what was left of her body in a neat bundle swathed in her clothes.
Nazem watched as what was left of the body slipped beneath waves. The crash of the bundle of half gnawed limbs and partially consumed torso was hidden by the sloshing of the ocean against the ship. It had helped that the small coastal gale had rolled in during his meal and masked the sound of his victim’s cries and raw tearing of bone and flesh with his mouth and hands. Rough had been the life he lived back home amongst the harsh sun-soaked Arabian sands, but nothing could compare to the last seventy-five days he spent trapped in this floating wooden box, not that he had been counting.
The English men and women aboard the HMS Fleeting Dawn were not as well-fed and healthy as those from his homeland. He still had to be picky about his meals, choosing only the ones with scurvy or another sickness that could be explained away. He longed for the hunt; he longed for the bounty of his prey in fear as it fled. He would strike under cover of night when the guard was limited, and the passengers were asleep. He had confined himself to once a week, but his hunger was mounting. He was starving, and the demon fueled his appetite and demanded to be sated.
He closed the latch to his porthole with a small creek, sealing his tiny room off from the howling gale outside. The flickering light from the single candle-fed lantern swung with the dance of the waves painting his small quarters in an uneasy light. Nazem was thankful to have had a washbasin in his quarters; he was grateful to have quarters. They had served as a gift from his old childhood friend, who now served as the Fleeting Dawn’s Captain. Nazem lumbered towards his small washbasin and gazed into the deskside mirror.
He closed his eyes and counted down from three, breathing in deeply to try and slow his beating heart. He opened them again, meeting their intense amber gaze, and rocked back a moment. The olive skin on his face stood disfigured and painted in the crimson blood of the young woman he had feasted on. He watched in awe as his cheekbones slowly formed back into his face and grew less prominent. His wolf-like teeth shrank into the dulled ivory meant to consume more than just meat. Looking into the porcelain basin, he watched as the sharp green of the pained vines and the violet flowers danced against the white background in the reflection of the candlelight off the water. Hunching over, he cupped his hands, filling them with the cool liquid before rubbing it against his face.
GREYSEN HENDRICKS 