Page 104 of Love at First Fright

“Twenty-three?”

“Yep. Born nineteen seventy-six. Died in ninety-nine.”

That would make him fifty years old. Laughter threatened to bubble out of me.

“And… how did you die?” The question escaped before I could stop it. Blunt and graceless. I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry. Bat’s hand stayed steady on my waist, but his smile turned sad, like he’d been expecting me to ask this all along.

“I don’t know.”

The words didn’t compute. I blinked at him. “What?”

“I don’t know how I died.”

“You don’t know at all?”

“No.” He shrugged, the movement stiff. “Sorry. Not much of an answer.”

My mind spun. “But—did you live here? At the manor?”

“I don’t think so.” Bat sighed. “Some of the ghosts here seem to remember their whole life, and death, in perfect clarity. Lady Grimthorne can recite her lineage back six generations. Molly remembers every piece of manor gossip from her living years, remembers serving the family.” He paused, staring past me at the glowing flowers. “But for me… it’s like the more time passes, the hazier it gets. I remember where I lived—in a house with my two bandmates in Bristol, and then before that, my childhood home with my parents. But I have no memories of living here.”

“But… you must have died here.”

“Yeah. I guess so. Everyone else died here. None of them know how I died, though.”

The pond reflected the ghostly garden in perfect stillness. A lily pad drifted across the surface, trailing light.

“Aren’t you curious?” I asked.

“Yes and no.” Bat’s fingers tightened on my waist. “There are some clues, I suppose. Firstly, I know that’s my acoustic guitar. The one you found in the attic. I remember it. Remember the weight of it in my hands. Remember playing it. Definitely mine.”

“And secondly?”

“Secondly, there’s… this.”

Bat pulled back slightly, one hand still resting on my arm, his other gripping the hem of his black Bat’s Bats shirt.

He lifted it.

Pale skin emerged, stretched taut over a frame so skinny I could count every rib, shadows pooling in the hollows between bones. The sort of body that belonged to someone who forgot to eat when they were focused on music, who lived on cigarettes and black coffee and ambition.

And there, between two ribs on his left side—

A wound.

Not fresh. Not bleeding. But unmistakably there. A puncture, dark and precise, like something had been driven straight through the flesh and into whatever vital organs lay beneath. The edges looked strange. Not torn or ragged, but almost… clean. Deliberate.

My stomach lurched.

Bat dropped his shirt quickly, smoothing it down. “So. Yeah. That.”

“That’s—” Words tumbled over themselves. “That’s how you died. Something stabbed you. Or—or shot you? Was it a bullet wound? It might be a bullet wound. Or a knife. Did someone stab you? Bat, someone killed you. This wasn’t an accident, you were—”

“Charlie—”

“We need to investigate. Look for more clues. I’ll help you. If you tell me your full name, there’ll be something online. Newspapers, police reports. Maybe someone in the town knows. Father Ashworth might even know something even if he’s a judgemental prick. And your guitar being here means you definitely came here before you died, so there has to be a reason—”

“Charlie.” Bat’s voice cut through my spiralling thoughts. He wasn’t smiling anymore. “You’re here to exterminate us, not solve the mystery of my death.”