Page 188 of Love at First Fright

Charlie asked, “But… how exactly is he locked down there? Can he get out?”

Lady Grimthorne drifted towards the window again. “About thirty years after my death, things became… unbearable. Cornelius grew stronger. More violent. Three families moved in and fled within months. There were… more than several deaths here.” She pressed one pale hand against the glass. “The house stood empty for years. No one would buy it. The stories had spread too far.”

She turned back to face us.

“Eventually, a spiritualist from France heard about Grimthorne Manor. A woman named Ms Bénassy. She arrived with two assistants and claimed she could bind malevolent spirits. I revealed myself to her. We spoke.” Lady Grimthorne’s expression turned grim. “I didn’t believe her, not really. But I was desperate to. We all were—every ghost in this house could feel him growing stronger. Feel his hunger.”

“What did she do?” I asked.

“She performed a ritual. Something ancient. Something that required…” Lady Grimthorne’s voice faltered. “Blood. Salt. Iron. Obsidian. She carved symbols into the basement door. Spoke words in languages I didn’t recognise.” A pause. “One of her assistants died during the work. Heart simply stopped beating.”

“But it worked?” I pressed.

“She sealed the entire chamber. Every exit. Cornelius is bound to the space itself—he cannot cross any threshold that leads out. We could all feel the change—like a great weight settling over the basement, pressing down, containing. Cornelius’s presence… diminished. Not gone, but muted. Trapped behind layers of binding magic.”

“So, he can’t get out,” Charlie said. “Can’t hurt anyone.”

“Well… no. Not entirely.” She pursed her two thin lips together. “Every so often—perhaps when he has a surge of power, or when the bindings weaken—something slips through. A part of him, at least. An influence.”

That conversation with Vivian, Molly, and Edmund just yesterday… Vivian’s theory about Catherine pushing Molly down the stairs. “What if the thing in the basement has been manipulating people for centuries? Whispering in their ears, feeding their darkest impulses?”

Edmund’s haunted voice. “I remember pulling the trigger. I remember thinking it was the only way. But I’ve never understood why I shot myself.”

“So he can still reach people,” I said slowly. “Even through the seal. He gets into their heads. Makes them do things.”

Lady Grimthorne nodded. “Whispers. Suggestions. Amplifying existing darkness, nurturing violent impulses, twisting grief into despair.”

The rain hammered against the windows with renewed violence.

Charlie cleared his throat. “Do you know what happened to Bat? How he died?”

Lady Grimthorne’s form solidified, then flickered, then solidified again. When she finally turned to look at me, her expression was stricken.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I know.”

Rage flooded through me. Hot and vicious and completely unfair. “All this time?” My voice crackled and sparked. “You’ve known all this time how I died and you never—”

“You never specifically asked!” Lady Grimthorne’s form blazed brighter. “In twenty-seven years, Bartholomew, you never once asked me what I witnessed that night!”

She was right. I knew she was right. But the anger still burned.

“I… I can’t remember,” I managed. “Only fragments. Flashes.” My hand went to the wound between my ribs, the puncture that never healed. “I know I came here to teach guitar. I know Michael was there when it happened. I remember the basement. Pain. Blood.” I looked at her. “I remember him screaming my name.”

Charlie’s hand slipped out of my mine to wrap around my waist, pulling me to him. For a moment, his palm pressed solid against my hip—then his arm sank through my torso like water through a sieve.

“Oh.” The startled sound punched out of him. His arm hung there, inside my ribcage, warmer than anything had a right to be.

Fuck. I’d stopped concentrating. Lost the thread of solidity whilst my head spiralled through twenty-seven years of not asking the right fucking questions.

“Sorry.” I grabbed for focus, for substance, willing myself back together. His arm withdrew as I solidified, leaving a phantom sensation like pins and needles beneath my skin.

“I enjoyed when you came to visit,” Lady Grimthorne said. Soft, sincere. “Your weekly lessons with Michael. The music drifting through the house. It was…” She paused, searching for words. “It was lovely. Life. Youth. Beauty in a place that had seen so much darkness.”

“Lovely until I died in the basement,” I said.

Lady Grimthorne’s expression twisted. “Sort of. You died at the bottom of those stairs, yes. Right outside the sealed door. You didn’t get through it.”

I waited for the memory to come flooding back. For the final pieces to slot into place.