Page 124 of Love at First Fright

Dave’s eyes widened. “What was that?”

Brad already had the EMF reader out, pointing it at the ceiling. The needle swung wildly, pinned at maximum.

“Significant electromagnetic disturbance,” Brad announced, voice tight with professional satisfaction. “Class Four activity at minimum.”

The painting above Dave’s head—a pastoral landscape in a gilt frame—suddenly swung violently to the left. Then right. Then left again, banging against the wall with each oscillation.

Dave stumbled backwards, gaping. “Right. Very funny. Which one of you is doing this?”

I raised my voice, addressing the empty room. “Yes, I’d like to know that too.”

Bat’s voice drifted past my ear again, amused. “Not me. That’s Molly—she’s very particular about wonky pictures. Drives everyone mad.”

“She can come sort out my flat for me, if she’d like,” I muttered.

Brad whirled on me. “What are you on about?”

Blood drained from my face. Fuck. “Nothing. Just… thinking out loud.”

Dave edged towards the doorway, tools forgotten. The painting finally settled at a perfect right angle, then went still. The temperature plummeted further. My teeth chattered.

Brad swept the SpecterTrack Monitor across the room, stopping abruptly near Dave’s tool bag. The device shrieked—a piercing electronic wail that made us all flinch.

“Two distinct signatures,” Brad breathed, staring at the readout. “Child-sized.”

Dave’s leather bag twitched. Jerked sideways an inch.

“What—” Dave started.

The screwdriver floated out first, spinning lazily in midair. Then the pliers. The voltage tester. One by one, tools lifted from the bag, circling Dave’s head like demented satellites orbiting a planet.

Dave’s face went chalk-white. He stumbled backwards into the fireplace, hands raised defensively. “Holy shit! How—how are you doing this? Wires? Magnets?”

A child’s giggle echoed through the room. High-pitched. Delighted. Rosemary.

Dave’s wild gaze fixed on Brad. “You’ve rigged this place! Just what are you playing at? You trying to get me to tell Harrison Lancaster to keep paying you to fuck about here?”

“Sir.” Brad’s voice crackled with genuine offence. “You’re witnessing legitimate paranormal activity! You need to leave the property and leave this to us trained professionals.”

The screwdriver shot forward, whistling past Dave’s ear with millimetres to spare. It embedded itself in the doorframe with a solid thunk.

Poor Dave screamed—a proper, full-throated bellow of terror.

Something grabbed my arm.

I startled, jerking sideways, but then Bat materialised beside me. Solid. Visible—at least to me. His pale face bore an expression caught between amusement and exasperation.

“The twins can’t help but get carried away,” he sighed, watching the tools do loop‑de‑loops around Dave’s head. “Despite my very clear instructions not to actually hurt anyone.”

The pliers swooped low, tangling briefly in Dave’s grey hair. He batted at them with both hands, stumbling over his own feet.

I couldn’t help it. Laughter bubbled up, loud and extremely inappropriate, bursting out of me before I could stop it.

Brad whirled on me, face flushed with anger and confusion. “What’s funny about this?!”

Dave bolted from the lounge like a fox fleeing hounds. Tools clattered behind him—screwdriver bouncing off the doorframe, pliers skidding across polished floorboards.

Brad bolted after him. “Walk! Don’t run! That always makes it worse!”