A Monster for HALLOWEEN

GRACE POV “Wake up, sweetie.” My mother’s voice cut through my dream like an alarm clock wrapped in guilt and judgment. I bolted upright, clutching my blanket like it might protect me from maternal intrusion. Why the hell was she in Edinburgh? And more importantly, how the hell did she get in here? Did she even have a spare key? Blinking against the pale light sneaking through my pathetic excuse of curtains, I groaned. I was not in Edinburgh. I was in my old room. In the little town I grew up, Foyers. My head throbbed, the dull ache blooming like a toxic flower across my forehead. Yesterday’s s**t show had steamrolled my frontal lobe so hard I was genuinely considering pulling the blanket back over my head and disappearing from existence. Almost. But I knew better. If I didn’t get up, my mother would barge all the way in, rip the blanket off me, and kick my sorry ass into functioning adulthood. Not exactly the gentle start to the day I was hoping for. So, I did what any self-respecting, exhausted, hungover daughter would do: I plastered on a fake smile, the kind that screamed See? Totally fine, not dying inside at all, and prepared to survive breakfast. She loved breakfast. Believed in it, worshipped it, practically built her religion around it. “The most important meal of the day,” she always said. Would she spare me mercy if I confessed I was hungover? Absolutely not. She’d probably scold me for wasting perfectly good brain cells I couldn’t afford to lose. With the grace of a zombie extra in a low-budget horror flick, I peeled myself off the single bed and staggered toward the tiny bathroom. The mirror did not spare me. “Jesus,” I muttered, gripping the sink. “I look like roadkill.” Messy blond curls had staged a full rebellion, sticking out like I’d fought a tornado in my sleep. My skin carried this charming greyish undertone, like I’d already auditioned for a corpse role. My eyes—bloodshot, glassy—were the final insult. Maybe if I put my glasses on—
 Nope. Even worse. This was, unfortunately, all on me. No cosmic conspiracy, no academic sabotage, no cruel God or demon pulling strings. Just me and the brilliant idea to drown my sorrows in the local pub last night. Beer, whiskey, more whiskey. Bad decisions lined up like dominos, and by midnight my legs had gone full jelly mode. The crown jewel of the evening? Almost making out in the corner with Timothy Langfield. Timothy. Freaking. Langfield. High school’s resident douchebag, now upgraded to local pub parasite. A man who still thought quoting Top Gear counted as flirting. Sarah saved me. My best friend, my angel, my partner-in-chaos since kindergarten. Though “saved” might be generous—she slapped me across the face. Hard. Still, that sting had been enough to shock me back into reality, and I’d somehow stumbled home before making the biggest mistake of my already tragic week. Home.
 Ugh. Technically, it was my parents’ home. Which apparently meant, as of yesterday, it was my home again. Because what else was I supposed to do when my oh-so-brilliant professor, the man who begged me to join his PhD program, stole three years of my work? My research. My data. My sleepless nights. Gift-wrapped and handed off to a shinier, more promising student. A redhead, of course. With gravity-defying t**s, a waist like a Disney princess, and a smile that could melt glaciers. Even I had to admit she was stunning. And I’m straight.
 … I think. Either way, my future was over. All my fancy plans, all the late-night essays and expensive coffee binges, flushed down the drain. No PhD. No career. No independence. Just me, my boxes of books, and a one-way ticket back to Foyers. The Loch Ness tourist trap capital of the world. Kill me now. I didn’t even bother pretending to look decent. What was the point? My mother had already seen me at my worst: braces, acne, that horrible phase where I thought cutting my own bangs with kitchen scissors was an acceptable life choice. A tracksuit was practically a glow-up compared to that. So, I yanked on my oldest pair of black sweatpants and an oversized hoodie that had seen better centuries. The hoodie had a faded university crest on it, the letters peeling off from too many nights spent curled up in libraries where the heating never worked. No socks. Hair still a mess. I looked like an undercaffeinated raccoon ready to file for bankruptcy. And then I went downstairs. The smell hit me first. Heavy. Greasy. An assault on the senses. My stomach lurched in protest. “Oh, dear God,” I whispered. “She went nuclear.” Because this wasn’t just toast with butter. Not even the simple safety of porridge, or one of her pies, which, fine, I could have managed. Nope. Spread out on the table was a full Scottish breakfast. I’m talking everything. Sausages glistening with fat. Bacon curling at the edges. Eggs—fried, scrambled, boiled, because apparently variety was necessary. Beans swimming in their tomato swamp. Black pudding. Potato scones stacked like bricks. Even haggis. I gagged. Visibly gagged. If there was ever a cure for a hangover, this was not it. This was a punishment. “Morning, love,” Dad said cheerfully, like the table wasn’t a war crime. He was already halfway through his plate, fork moving with military precision. “Sleep all right?” “Like a corpse,” I muttered, sinking into the chair furthest from the bacon. Mum shot me a look that could fry an egg on its own. She was sitting primly, her plate untouched because she was too busy talking about business. Her favorite topic. They were already in full work mode, voices buzzing like bees in spring. Discussing the next order for the shop, which—spoiler alert—wasn’t actually a book order. No Dickens, no Austen, no Brontë. Not even the pretentious poetry collections I used to hide behind in high school. Nope. They were debating Nessie merch. Apparently, the hot item this season was glow-in-the-dark Nessie keychains. Because nothing says literary culture like plastic monsters that shine like radioactive jellyfish. “As if anyone’s going to get a real picture,” I muttered under my breath. “Sorry, what was that, Grace?” Mum’s voice snapped like a whip. “Nothing,” I said quickly, hiding behind my mug of coffee. Coffee. Sweet, bitter salvation. Dark and strong, just the way I liked it. Not the milky, lukewarm tea my mother considered sacred. No. This was my fuel, my lifeline, the only reason I was vertical and not curled on the floor in fetal position. Her eyes narrowed disapprovingly. “Honestly, I’ll never understand how you drink that black, watery thing. It’s hardly civilized.” “It’s called survival,” I said, taking another sip. “Some of us need actual caffeine in the morning.” She huffed, muttering something about “ruined taste buds” and “bad habits picked up at university.” I ignored her. If I engaged, I’d lose. My mother had been waging war on coffee since I was sixteen, and I wasn’t about to start another battle on an empty stomach. So, I kept my mouth shut. Which conveniently also helped me avoid eating anything from the greasy nightmare spread in front of me. And that’s when it happened. Dad looked up from his plate, met my eyes, and dropped the bomb. “You’ll come to work with me today.” Not a question. Not an offer. A command. I blinked. “I’m sorry—what?” “You’ll come to work with me,” he repeated, wiping his mouth with a napkin like he hadn’t just detonated my will to live. Fuck me now. “Not even a day,” I said, staring at him. “Not even one single day to sulk? To wallow? To mourn the death of my academic career and my poor, naïve ass that got played like a fiddle?” Dad’s expression didn’t budge. The man could have won poker tournaments with that face. “You’ll feel better if you keep busy.” “Oh, sure. Because nothing screams self-care like stacking Nessie snow globes and arguing with American tourists about whether the loch monster is real.” “Exactly.” He actually smiled. The sadist. Mum nodded approvingly. “You’ll thank us later. Sitting around moping will only make things worse.” I opened my mouth. Closed it again. Because what was the point? They weren’t going to change their minds. My parents were immovable objects dressed in tartan. Once they decided something, it was done. End of discussion. So I did the only reasonable thing left to do. I glared at my coffee, muttered a heartfelt, “Kill me now,” and downed the rest of my mug hoping it was whiskey instead.