Page 18 of Love at First Fright

Brad jogged back to his Focus. The engine coughed to life, and he pulled the car through the gates, parking it in the courtyard near that sad, broken fountain. Personally, I’d have left the car on the other side of the gate, but apparently Brad wanted it closer to this architectural nightmare.

I grabbed my bag from the boot—a battered rucksack that had seen better days—and slung it over my shoulder. Brad hauled out a massive wheeled case, like the ones people took on month-long holidays, not weekend ghost hunts. But supposedly he had all our “equipment.”

We followed Harrison down the gravel path towards the manor’s entrance.

“When did you buy the place?” I asked, my trainers crunching on the stone.

“Six months ago.” Harrison’s voice turned bitter. “Biggest regret of my life.”

“It’s, uh, quite a property.”

“It’s a money pit.” He glanced back at us. “My wife and I own a chain of luxury resorts. Boutique hotels, primarily. This was meant to be our next one—Grimthorne Manor Spa and Resort. Period features combined with modern amenities. The works.” He gestured at the crumbling façade. “Honestly, it was Evelyn’s idea. She’s always had a soft spot for old buildings with stories. As for me? I just saw a huge renovation job that needed doing. And I was right. It’s turning into a financial black hole, especially now the locals are refusing to work on it.”

“Must be rough,” Brad said, and I could hear the shift in his voice. Interest. Probably calculating how to angle for a free stay somewhere. “I’ve always been interested in the hospitality industry.”

We reached the entrance.

The door loomed above us, solid oak darkened with age. The brass handle had turned green with verdigris. Harrison pushed it open—less dramatic creaking this time—and we stepped inside.

The smell hit me first. Mildew and old stone and something else—something slightly sweet and rotten that made my stomach turn.

The entrance hall stretched out before us, grand and utterly desolate. Black and white chequered marble floor, dulled by a film of dust and grit. A massive staircase swept upward to our right, its bannister ornately carved but missing several balusters. The walls showed violent patches of damp and peeling wallpaper.

Dust hung thick in the weak sunlight. Scaffolding cluttered one corner, next to stacks of paint tins and builder’s equipment that looked abandoned mid-project. A tarp covered something large and rectangular—furniture, probably.

Harrison led us down a corridor to the left, our footsteps echoing on the worn floorboards. The walls here showed evidence of attempted renovation—sections of new plaster next to crumbling original work, paint samples in various shades of cream and beige.

We turned through a doorway into the kitchen.

It stretched the entire width of the back of the house, dominated by a massive fireplace on one wall that could’ve roasted an entire ox. I was no expert on old properties, but what were possibly the original stone flags remained on the floor, uneven and worn smooth by centuries of feet. Modern attempts at renovation clashed painfully with the period features—new white cabinets installed along one wall, a stainless-steel sink plumbed in next to an ancient cast-iron range. Half the ceiling showed exposed beams, the other half modern plasterboard. Like someone had started the work and then just… stopped.

A woman sat at a long wooden table in the centre, papers spread out before her.

Evelyn Lancaster. She wore her dark hair in a sleek bob that framed high cheekbones and intelligent eyes. Elegant. That was the word for her. Despite being dressed casually in a cashmere jumper and tailored trousers, she carried herself with the poise that probably came from years of managing luxury hotels.

Relief flooded her face when she saw us.

“Oh, thank God.” She stood, abandoning her paperwork. “You’re here. Thank you for coming so quickly.”

Brad flashed his most charming smile. “No problem, ma’am. We’ll get this sorted out for you.”

I forced my mouth shut. Kept my face neutral.

“Please, sit.” Evelyn gestured to the chairs around the table. “Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?”

“We’re fine, thanks,” Brad said, just as I was about to announce that I would murder a cup of tea. Gee, thanks, partner.

Brad settled straight into a chair like he owned the place. I took the seat next to him, dropping my bag at my feet. Harrison remained standing, leaning against one of the new cabinets with his arms crossed.

“So,” Brad leaned forward, “why don’t you tell us firsthand what you know so far?”

Evelyn exchanged a loaded glance with her husband. An entire conversation compressed into a single look.

“Well… we personally have seen very little,” she said carefully. Her eyes met Harrison’s again, and he looked away. “But I believe the workmen. Absolutely believe them. It’s just a… feeling I have. There’s an evil presence here.”

“What did the workmen say has been happening?” I heard myself ask.

Evelyn sighed. Not a normal sigh—this one came from somewhere deep, deep inside.