Page 159 of Love at First Fright

He turned back to the laptop. I watched him work, pulling up different websites, typing various combinations of my name and dates. His brow furrowed deeper with each failed search.

“Right,” he muttered, pulling out his wallet. “Official death records in England are only free up to nineteen fifty-seven, but there’s this other site…”

“Charlie, don’t spend money on that. You’re completely broke, remember!”

But he was already entering his card details, completely ignoring my protests. The little git.

More searching. More clicking. More frustrated sighs.

Finally, Charlie sat back, staring at the screen in disbelief. “There’s no record of your death anywhere, Bat. I mean nothing. No death certificate, no coroner’s report, no mention in any newspaper. It’s like you just… vanished.”

My phantom insides twisted unpleasantly. “That seems unlikely.”

“Was your murder covered up?” Charlie asked, his voice gaining momentum. “But… why wouldn’t the owners of the manor have reported finding a dead body? You know, this is all making me think that Michael didn’t die with you in that basement.”

“Maybe they never found my body.”

Charlie turned to face me fully, broken glasses sliding down his nose. “Have you considered the possibility that your body is… still here?”

The question hung in the air between us. Of course I’d considered it. Many, many times over the years. It would certainly explain why I’d ended up stuck here instead of moving on to whatever came next.

We both fell silent, the weight of the implication settling over us. That my bones were somewhere below us, the tattered ruins of these clothes of mine clinging to some remnants of flesh, hair, teeth.

“What’s your first memory as a ghost?” Charlie asked softly.

I had to think about that one. The early days were fuzzy, fragmented. “It’s not from straight after I died. I think it was maybe even months later? I was wandering the gardens, and Thomas found me, brought me inside to Molly. The manor was empty at that point, nobody living here. Molly says that sometimes spirits take a while to find themselves once they die. I guess that happened to me.”

“Huh.” Charlie reached for my hand, his lovely fingers tracing over the calluses on my fingertips, shivers sparkling through me. “Well, selfishly, I’m glad you finally found yourself and decided to haunt this manor.”

Heavy footsteps thundered up the corridor—unmistakably Brad’s rugby-player stomping.

“Quick,” Charlie whispered with a grin, “hide under the bed.”

“Oi, Chaz!” Brad’s voice boomed through the door. “Feeling better? I’m starving!”

What an absolute tosser. Of course he expected Charlie to be the one cooking every bloody night, despite the fact that Charlie was recovering from being attacked by a not‑witch.

“There’s leftovers in the fridge!” Charlie snapped back. “I’m still on my sick leave.”

Muffled grumbling filtered through the door—something about Gerald not offering proper sick leave benefits.

Charlie’s stomach chose that exact moment to grumble loudly, the sound cutting through Brad’s muffled complaints from the corridor.

“You’re hungry,” I said.

“There’s still more of those crisps,” he said, reaching towards me as if I were about to send him away to go and eat something proper.

Which I totally was.

“Go eat those leftovers,” I ordered.

“So bossy.” Pink bloomed across Charlie’s cheeks, but his eyes gleamed with something that made my ectoplasm fizz.

He pressed a kiss to each of my cheeks—soft, warm touches that sent pleasant tingles through my ghostly form. Then I watched him get dressed in normal clothes for once: faded jeans and a baggy jumper that made him look younger than that silly ExorSquad get-up did.

The moment he left the room, a sharp pang shot through my dead heart.

I chided myself immediately. Charlie needed to be allowed a twenty-minute break from me. Or fifteen minutes, at least. The poor bloke had been through enough without me clinging to him like some lovesick limpet.