Page 1 of Love at First Fright

one

Charlie

Thirty-four years old and answering job adverts stuck to lampposts.

Living the fucking dream.

Rain drummed against my glasses, turning the world into a watercolour smudge. I squinted down at my phone, then up at the building that supposedly matched the address. The email inviting me to an interview had seemed legitimate enough—professional formatting, proper spelling, even a company logo. But standing here, soaked to the bone on a nameless South London side street, I questioned every life choice that had led me to this moment.

The address pointed to a narrow doorway squeezed between a betting shop and Doughlicious Pizza. The pizza place’s front window displayed grease stains like abstract art, and a laminated sign boasted “Taste the Difference!” beneath a food hygiene rating of two out of five. Someone had scrawled “eat if you dare!” in black marker underneath.

Brilliant.

I studied the photo I’d snapped three days ago. The job advert, stuck to a lamppost with gaffer tape, already half peeling in the drizzle when I’d found it.

WANTED: Spirit Extraction Specialists. No experience necessary. Full training provided. Competitive salary. Travel opportunities. Immediate start. Don’t delay, ring ExorSquad today!

Spirit Extraction Specialists.

What kind of legitimate company advertised for “Spirit Extraction Specialists” on a bloody lamppost? I’d googled it, obviously. No LinkedIn profiles, no Glassdoor reviews. Nothing. Just a company website that looked like it had been built by a twelve-year-old—all Comic Sans headers and spinning skull GIFs.

This had to be a wind-up. Some elaborate prank my old uni mates had cooked up after hearing about my latest employment disaster. Maybe they’d hired actors, rented the office space, just to film me looking like an absolute mug on a rainy Tuesday afternoon.

I glanced around for hidden cameras, half expecting to spot one tucked behind the overflowing bins or mounted on the opposite building. The street stretched empty in both directions—mostly rows of Victorian terraces converted into flats.

The rain intensified, turning my hair into a sodden mess that dripped steadily onto my collar. Cold seeped through the fabric of my jacket, settling into my bones.

Leave, now. Walk back to the Tube station, go home, and pretend this never happened. Spend the evening applying for more call centre positions or retail jobs that last exactly three weeks before you inevitably mouth off to a manager about their stupid policies.

But that would have meant going back to my flat. Back to Jake scurrying past my bedroom door like I carried some contagious disease. Back to scrolling through job sites that offered nothing but variations of the same soul-crushing positions I’d already failed at.

Back to lonely silence.

My phone buzzed. The family group chat—Mum’s domain of relentless positivity and photo spam.

Mum

Look at our brilliant Emily! So proud! X

The image loaded slowly through the dodgy signal. My sister Emily stood beside some bloke in a suit, holding a crystal award that caught the camera flash. Her smile blazed with the confidence of someone who’d just been recognised for groundbreaking cancer research. Behind her, a banner read “Royal College of Physicians Excellence Awards.”

Three messages from Emily followed in quick succession:

Emily

Can’t wait to celebrate tonight! Lily is so excited to see Uncle Charlie! X

Don’t forget the restaurant booking is at 7! X

Hope the trains aren’t delayed! X

Another image quickly followed. My niece, Lily, blonde curls wild around her face—same messy hair as mine, same blue eyes. She was grinning at the camera, gap-toothed and perfect.

My throat tightened. I’d told them I’d be there. Promised Lily I’d bring her that ridiculous stuffed dragon she’d been obsessing over. The one with the glittery wings that cost thirty quid—money I didn’t have.

Emily. Just turned thirty, saving lives, married to a decent bloke who made her laugh. Living in a proper house with a garden where Lily could ride her bike in circles, squealing with delight.

Meanwhile, me. Fast approaching thirty-five, soaked, jobless, trying to sign up for what was probably a pyramid scheme.