Chapter 12 #2
Caspar’s hunch had been right—when he sold his house to the museum, Anthony and his family had sold theirs, too, along with everyone else on the block.
The entire suburb had been flattened into a grassland full of weeds and uneven mounds of earth, leaving his parents’ small house standing out at the end like some Gothic mansion at the top of a hill.
Cars filled the street with parking. People dotted the grassland, coming and going from the museum.
A line to get inside twisted around the driveway and spilled out onto the street
“You okay?” Malek asked. “You stopped.”
“Oh. Shit. I just…”
“It’s a lot to see. But come on, let’s get it over with. Then maybe I’ll interrogate you about that damn Irish pub.”
Caspar choked back a laugh that was half a sob. “Okay. Deal.”
Everything about his house had been maintained.
The shitty, outdated mouldings, the eavestrough he remembered installing with his father, the front porch with a rickety step, and the rose bushes were all there, exactly where they’d been eight years ago.
By the time they got through the line and made it into the garage where the tour started, Caspar remembered the sections of his house he’d long since forgotten: the gardening equipment, the oil stain on the floor, his old bike from the second grade, and a baseball bat that was warped, but he’d still loved and made his dad hang in the garage.
Caspar’s chest tightened as he entered the front hall through the garage door.
Malek’s shoulder was pushed tight against his own as everyone clamoured inside two by two.
Caspar braced himself for yet another question from Malek about his house, the case, or, God forbid, his feelings, but nothing came.
Malek seemed as enchanted—or disgusted—by the house as Caspar was.
A woman stepped in front of everyone and immediately silenced the titters in the crowd.
“Hello! Good morning,” she greeted. Her skin was brown, and her dark hair was twisted behind her back in a thick ponytail. She wore black jeans and a black standard issued Ghoul of Main Street T-shirt with a logo in the same horror-style font the website had.
The crowd echoed a chorus of “good morning” back at her. Malek did too, but Caspar pulled his hat lower.
“Welcome to the Ghoul of Main Street’s infamous house.
I’m Natasha, and I’ll be your tour guide today.
If you get lost or need to break away from the tour for any reason, I direct you to anyone else wearing a shirt like me.
We’re all here to help. Now, before we get started today, who has seen the news? ”
Everyone mumbled. One person cheered. “The Ghoul is dead. The Ghoul is dead.”
“Yes. Caspar Nassir is dead,” she said, a slight frown visible on her lips.
“But I would like to remind you that this museum has been put up in respect for the dead. First, Luna and Bilal, his parents, killed before their time, and now Caspar, killed by a car fire. Yes, one of these people was a convicted murderer, but if we don’t respect the dead, we may ourselves be no better than the killer. ”
A balding man close to Natasha cleared his throat, signalling for her to move on.
When Caspar realized he was a manager at the museum, he knew she’d gone off-script.
Natasha wanted people to respect the Ghoul, even after death, because that was what people should do.
Caspar liked her instantly, and as she led them into the kitchen of his family house, he tried to focus on her—rather than the place where he used to eat cereal every morning.
“Now, I heard some people ask if ghouls can really die. That’s an interesting question, especially if we’re familiar with the lore around ghouls.
They’re traditionally undead creatures who haunt graveyards and eat flesh.
However, like so many of our supernaturals, ghouls are born of body, and manifest their powers later on, usually after a traumatic life event.
And their powers are more to do with the objects they can control and enchant than with who they are.
Keep the ghoul away from the dead or dying, and they seem pretty normal.
It’s only when they’re surrounded in liminal spaces or with liminal people that they can become activated and enraged.
Having a human body means they can have human feelings–but it also proves to us that ghouls can die, just as Caspar Nassir. ”
“But is Caspar a real ghoul? Or is it just a name?” someone called out. “I thought he wasn’t a supernatural. Isn’t that why he was in that prison?”
“A great question,” Natasha said. “One that I can’t entirely answer, but I can tell you this: Names make us who we are.
Whether or not Caspar Nassir has—had—supernatural blood doesn’t matter.
He became the Ghoul, so we call him the Ghoul.
Now, speaking of names,” Natasha said as she guided the group, “Toronto used to be known as the City of Monsters before it got cleaned up. So much of that cleaning up wasn’t getting rid of the monsters, but calling them by another name.
Giving them jobs, livelihoods, and homes.
Assimilation, basically. The Ghoul and his family also assimilated when they emigrated here from Lebanon.
Like most immigrants, they were looking for the best possible future for themselves and their children.
They were looking for, in a way, the Canadian dream. ”
“How is that different from the American dream?” the same person asked. Many other people tittered, confused as well.
“At its core, I believe the Canadian dream is about fitting in and living a good life. It’s hope for the future, especially for the future of your family.”
Natasha opened up the cupboards, the fridge, and displayed the fake food and cardboard boxes that had been shellacked in place.
The Coke Zero logo was old, from 2006, when it was still white and grey.
Everything was dated, caught and preserved in amber.
“Sometimes fitting in is as easy as buying the right products and having the right car, the right job. Sometimes, it’s a little harder than that.
Assimilation can be a double-edged sword at times, where you’re not sure what to leave behind and what to keep.
Where to call home and what language to speak there.
Though Caspar was born here, and his parents came here from Lebanon using all the appropriate measures, it can still be hard not knowing exactly where to fit in.
The tragedy that befell this family turned the Canadian dream into the Canadian nightmare—for everyone involved. ”
As Natasha continued to talk, she pulled the group into the dining room for another display. Photographs of his parents had been set at the table as if they were sitting at dinner. An informational piece on Lebanon sat in the corner.
“Canada is a diverse country. We will always welcome new cultures, and sometimes that comes with new folktales and traditions. For instance, we get lamias who can only survive in the badlands desert or the harsh winter climate of the north. Different types of witches from all countries around the world. We aim to welcome all people and customs because it makes our landscape much, much richer. Now,” Natasha said, turning to the crowd. “Who is ready to see the living room?”
Caspar’s stomach dropped. No, no, no. He could already see the blood on the door, the floorboards, and soaked into the couches.
The garage and kitchen remained untouched by violence, carrying only nostalgia—but if Natasha and the crew here had kept each previous room like a time capsule, Caspar didn’t want to face what could be on the other side.
While the crowd cheered, Caspar swayed on his feet.
His head ached. He just wanted to lie down and forget everything.
“You okay?” Malek grabbed Caspar’s arm. “You need to sit down?”
“Yeah. I need—I shouldn’t be here. It’s too much.”
“Is everyone doing okay over here?” Natasha appeared by their sides. Her voice was quiet, less showy than it had been when she was lecturing.
The remaining crowd filtered through the doorway and into the living room. Their chatter roared in Caspar’s ears. Malek said something to Natasha that Caspar couldn’t hear. Soon after, she nodded and produced a walkie-talkie from her belt.
“Chris,” she mumbled. “Take over. We got another fainter.”
Caspar’s stomach lurched. Fainting sounded so good right now. He hated that he was attracting so much attention to himself, and that there was even a protocol for fainting people in his parents’ house. Just how much blood was on the other side?
“Do you need to sit down?” Natasha asked. “We have chairs and a resting station set up on the other side of the doors, if you do. We know this can be a difficult tour for people.”
“Is there… is there blood?”
“No, no blood. Not even fake blood. When the house was purchased, the floors were cleaned and replaced in the living room. We weren’t even allowed to see the crime scene photos, so someone here guessed at the placement and everything.
It’s actually the only room that’s not completely authentic, though we try to sell it as that.
” Natasha chuckled and then made an awkward face.
“I probably shouldn’t have told you that. ”
“No, that’s good to know,” Malek said. “Is that okay… Lenny? Or do you want to sit down outside?”
“I’m fine.” Caspar stood up straighter. He swayed on his feet and his head throbbed behind his one good eye, but he was determined. He wanted to get this over with. If it wasn’t authentic, then maybe he’d be okay.
“Okay. Great. Because it would be a shame to miss the best part of the house—the upstairs. It’s my favourite section, but I still have to talk up everything else.” Natasha smiled and moved to hold the door for them.