Page 26 of Love at First Fright

Don’t touch it. Don’t be an idiot. This was how people died in horror films.

My fingers passed through the swirling dust.

And I felt something.

Not physical. Not a hand or face or anything solid. But something deeper. An emotion that wasn’t mine, flooding through the point of contact. Nostalgia so sharp it ached. Longing for something lost. The way music could crack you open and expose every soft, vulnerable part you’d tried to bury.

My breath caught.

Something brushed my cheek. Gentle. Reverent. The whisper of a touch that sent warmth spreading through my chest instead of terror.

I should be terrified. Should be screaming, throwing myself at the door, tearing my fingernails off trying to escape.

Yet… I wasn’t scared. Not exactly.

I swallowed hard.

The dust swirled once more, almost seeming to pulse.

The attic door exploded inward with a shriek of splintering wood.

I lurched backwards, the guitar nearly slipping from my grip. The dust scattered like startled birds, dissolving into nothing.

“No!” The word tore out of me. I reached towards where they’d been, fingers grasping at empty air.

“Charlie?!” Brad’s bulk filled the doorway, his face flushed from exertion.

“Brad!” Relief flooded through me.

He stared at the door, then at me. “Why did you lock it?”

“I obviously didn’t mean to! It must be… dodgy. Old mechanism or something. I’ve been stuck up here.”

Brad grunted, examining the latch. The metal looked ancient, corroded. Perfectly innocent. Just a faulty lock in a decrepit house.

Not supernatural. Couldn’t be supernatural, because I didn’t believe in that rubbish.

Except for the dust. Except for the touch. Except for—

Stop it.

“I heard music,” Brad said, his gaze sweeping the attic. “Like a guitar?”

I held up the instrument, forcing a casual shrug. “Found it. Thought I’d check if it still worked.”

His face fell. Actually fell, the disappointment so visible it would’ve been funny under different circumstances. “Oh. I thought…”

“What? That it was a ghost? Chilling in the attic playing a tune? Do you think it takes requests?”

“Never mind.” He moved further into the attic, pulling out that stupid Kestrel meter. “You get the measurements for up here, at least?”

“Yeah.” I patted my clipboard. “All documented. Can we go?”

I needed to get away from this place. Away from whatever I’d felt—or imagined I’d felt. Away from the impossible touch and the longing that hadn’t been mine.

Brad marched around the attic. “Temperature’s consistent,” Brad muttered. “No cold spots. EMF baseline. Nothing.”

“Great. Fantastic. Let’s go, then.”