Page 22 of Love at First Fright

“There.” He pointed to the far corner. “Temperature drop. Significant.”

I followed his gesture. The corner looked identical to the rest of the room—dusty, abandoned, depressing.

“Three degrees colder than the rest of the space.” Brad’s voice took on that annoying edge, the one he got when he thought he’d found something. “Classic cold spot.”

I glanced up. “Um… I hate to break it to you, but there’s a broken window right there.”

Brad ignored me. He’d already pulled out his clipboard, scribbling notes with the intensity of a man solving a murder. The EMF meter sang in his other hand, colours shifting.

“Something’s here.” He paced the corner, practically vibrating. “Can you feel it?”

I felt cold. Because of the window.

“The mirror.” Brad gestured to an ornate frame on the wall, the glass clouded with age and grime. “Spirits are drawn to reflective surfaces. It’s a threshold. A gateway.”

“Right.”

He crouched, running the Kestrel along the skirting board. His attention had narrowed to this single corner, this single theory. The rest of the manor ceased to exist.

Perfect.

“Listen, we should split up now,” I said, keeping my voice casual. “Cover more ground. Get this finished faster.”

Brad grunted. Didn’t even look at me.

I took that as permission and slipped out before he could change his mind.

The hallway swallowed the sound of Brad’s muttering. Silence rushed in, thick and wonderful. My shoulders dropped. The tension in my jaw eased.

Peace at last.

I pulled out my phone on instinct, then remembered. No signal.

Without the distraction of scrolling through Reddit or sending my friends photos of this ridiculousness, I had nothing but Grimthorne Manor for entertainment.

The staircase loomed ahead, grand and imposing. Wide steps, carved bannisters, ornate architectural detail that probably cost a fortune to restore. I climbed slowly, my footsteps echoing in the empty space. The first floor held more abandoned rooms, more dust sheets covering furniture. The second floor, the same.

Another staircase, narrower this time. Servants’ quarters, maybe. The walls pressed closer. The air thinned.

The attic stairs were barely wide enough for one person. Steep. The wood protested under my weight, creaking with each step. The temperature dropped—not supernatural, just the reality of unheated spaces in old buildings. My breath misted.

The attic door hung slightly ajar.

I pushed it open. Hinges shrieked.

The space stretched long and low, the ceiling slanting sharply where it met the roof. Boxes lined the walls, stacked haphazardly. Furniture hulked under tarps, the shapes vaguely sinister in the last of the day’s light filtering through grimy dormer windows. Cobwebs draped from the rafters like tattered curtains. I froze mid-step, scanning each strand for movement. Empty. All of them empty. Yet my shoulders didn’t relax. Somewhere up there, hidden in the shadows and grime, they were watching. Waiting. Spiders always know when you’re most vulnerable.

The clipboard trembled slightly in my grip.

I forced myself to focus on something else. Dust. Dust coated everything. Thick. Undisturbed.

Except it wasn’t entirely undisturbed, was it? Footprints marked the floor. Recent ones. Workmen, probably. Or Harrison, checking the space before the renovation.

I stepped inside. The floorboards groaned.

Good. Brad would be thrilled with attic measurements. Height, width, temperature readings. Maybe that would satisfy his need for thoroughness and we could call it a day. Make dinner. Ignore each other until morning.

I pulled out the clipboard, scrawling quick notes. Dimensions estimated. Condition: derelict. Potential hazards: structural integrity questionable, possible rodent infestation. Definitely spiders. Big ones.