Page 17 of Love at First Fright

Breathe. Just breathe.

I forced my shoulders down. Unclenched my jaw with effort. Shoved my hands in my pockets so he wouldn’t see them trembling.

“Yeah. Hilarious. You’re a regular comedian.”

Brad wiped his eyes, still grinning. “Sorry, sorry. But come on. It was tiny.”

“It wasn’t tiny!”

“Size of my thumbnail, max.”

“It was huge.”

“Sure, Chaz. A proper monster. At least twice the size of your di—”

A sound cut through the air.

A long, drawn-out creak. Metal on metal. Old hinges protesting movement.

We both turned.

The manor’s front door swung open with a groaning protest that belonged in a horror film.

Slow. Deliberate. Like something was savouring the moment.

A man stepped out.

Fifties, maybe? Dark hair swept back from a high forehead. He wore a charcoal suit that looked expensive—proper tailoring, with surgeon’s cuffs and a waistcoat. Completely incongruous with the decaying manor house behind him.

He closed the door with care and began walking down the gravel path towards us.

Slowly. Far too slowly.

Each step measured and precise, gravel crunching under polished Oxford shoes.

“Any time today would be nice,” I muttered.

Brad said nothing.

The man finally reached the gates. His hair showed silver at the temples, giving him that distinguished look rich people seemed to cultivate effortlessly. Though, up close, the slight grey stubble on his jaw suggested he’d skipped shaving this morning.

He pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the padlock. The chain rattled as it fell away, and he pushed one gate open with a grunt of effort. It swung wide with another theatrical creak.

“Harrison Lancaster.” His voice carried the crisp edges of expensive education. He didn’t offer his hand. “You’re the ExorSquad people?”

“That’s us, mate.” Brad stepped forward, all confidence and easy smiles. “Brad Harrington. This is Charlie Hayes. We’re here to sort out your ghost problem.”

Harrison’s expression didn’t change. He looked us over with the sort of assessment usually reserved for dubious purchases—like he was deciding whether we were worth the money he’d spent.

“My wife, Evelyn, is in the kitchen, making notes for the workmen.” He stepped aside to let us through the gates. “If we can ever find workmen who aren’t useless piles of shit.”

Brad cleared his throat. “Yeah, we heard they’ve been refusing to come back.”

Harrison rolled his eyes. A proper eye roll, housing an immense amount of accumulated frustration. “That’s putting it mildly. The moment anything goes wrong—a creaky floorboard, a loose tile—they’re off like startled rabbits. Listen. To be clear, I don’t believe in any of this.” His hand waved between us and the house. “This entire exercise is to make Evelyn happy.”

Right. Of course. Dropping six thousand pounds on something he doesn’t believe in. Makes sense.

“Let’s go inside,” Harrison said, already turning towards the house.