Page 161 of Love at First Fright

We all paused, a collective shiver running through the room at the mere thought of what lurked below us.

Edmund cleared his throat delicately. “If I may,” he said in a reedy voice, “I believe there might be some merit to that theory.”

All heads turned to look at him.

Edmund rarely spoke—even amongst ghosts, he was quiet. When he did offer his thoughts, we listened. Years and years of sharing this manor had taught us that much.

“I remember pulling the trigger,” he said, his voice a mere whisper. “I remember the weight of the pistol in my hand, the cold metal against my temple. I remember thinking it was the only way.” He paused, staring down at his pale hands. “But I’ve never understood why I shot myself. Not once in all this time. I had everything—a loving wife, healthy children, a thriving estate. Yet something drove me to that library, to that gun cabinet, to…” He gestured vaguely at his head.

Another collective shudder trilled through the room.

“Though… when exactly was the basement sealed?” I asked.

Molly shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “For as long as I can remember.”

“So—”

A sound from the doorway—the soft rustle of fabric against wood. I spun around just in time to catch a flash of movement, the distinctive blue silk of Lady Grimthorne’s gown disappearing around the corner.

She’d been listening at the door.

The four of us caught each other’s eyes.

Strange.

Very, very strange.

The pieces of this puzzle were forming a picture I didn’t want to see. Whatever was down there might have been murdering and manipulating people for centuries, driving them to violence, to madness, to death. And Lady Grimthorne knew more about it than she was letting on.

The manor suddenly felt smaller, oppressive, as if the walls themselves were closing in. Even the familiar comfort of the piano room couldn’t shake the creeping dread that was settling over me like a shroud.

But Charlie had enjoyed at least a twelve-minute break from me now, so it was time for me to go haunt him again.

What a shame.

twenty-two

Charlie

We were back in my narrow bed, limbs tangled beneath the thin duvet. The manor had settled into its evening rhythm—creaking floorboards, distant whispers, the occasional bang from somewhere deep in the walls. Normal haunted house ambiance, really.

I slid my hand down Bat’s chest, fingers finding the button on his jeans.

“Round two?” The hopeful edge to my voice was embarrassing, but I’d given up pretending I had any dignity left.

Bat groaned, a sound caught between desire and frustration. “I’d love nothing more than to fuck you again, but I’m not sure I’ve got the energy. Don’t want to disappear halfway through and leave you wanting.” His hand caught mine, stilling my fingers against the denim. “It takes quite a bit of energy just to manifest visibly so you can see me,” he explained. “Even more to maintain enough physical presence that I can actually touch you. And after what we did earlier—”

“Oh.” I pulled my hand back. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Charlie—”

“No, really. Cuddling is lovely. And when you run out of energy for that, I’ll just cuddle a pillow instead.”

Bat’s eyebrows shot up. “Great to know how easily I can be replaced.”

I grinned, dropping my voice to what I hoped was a sultry whisper. “Though, if you suddenly regain energy in the middle of the night, I wouldn’t say no to being woken up.”

“Don’t tempt me.” His thumb traced across my knuckles. “But I won’t do that. You need rest after your near-death experience and the general stress of living in this bloody manor.”