Page 33 of Love at First Fright

“Besides.” I shifted the cat in my arms. The scraping sound continued, rhythmic now. Insistent. “I work for ExorSquad. This is literally my job.”

Not really a lie. But… I’d been here less than twenty-four hours. Had exactly zero training beyond Ted’s disastrous PowerPoint presentation. And Brad—my actual partner—had buggered off entirely.

The cat’s claws flexed against my chest.

Another series of bangs erupted from below. Faster. Harder. Almost frantic.

“Let’s just have a quick look, yeah? Then we’ll go find you some more salmon.”

I reached for the handle again.

The cat went absolutely mental.

Thrashing. Claws out. A yowl that sounded almost human in its desperation. His back paw caught my neck, sharp and sudden. Pain bloomed hot across my skin.

“Ow! For fuc—”

The banging stopped.

Just. Stopped.

Complete silence filled the corridor. No creaks. No groans. No phantom scraping sounds. Even the ambient noises of the house—the distant tick of pipes, the whisper of wind through old windows—seemed to pause.

The cat went limp in my arms. Gave a single, soft meow.

I touched my neck. My fingers came away with a thin smear of blood.

“Alright, alright,” I said. “Point taken.”

The cat blinked at me.

“And anyway.” I stepped back from the door. “I’m off the ExorSquad clock. Brad’s gone. The Lancasters aren’t paying me overtime. So really, there’s no logical reason for me to go snooping around in a creepy basement when I could be relaxing.”

The cat purred.

“Right. Exactly.” I turned away from the door, carrying the cat back towards the kitchen. “Let’s go check all of the other kitchen cupboards to see if there’s any stashes of biscuits somewhere.”

How was my fellow trainee and biscuit-lover Gary getting on at Cornwall’s most haunted hotel? Hopefully they had digestives for him, and not just rich tea.

A low creak echoed behind me.

Like wood shifting against a frame.

Like a door beginning to open.

I held the cat very tightly to my chest and didn’t look back.

Purring woke me.

Low. Rhythmic. A motorboat vibrating against my ribcage.

I cracked one eye open. Pale morning light filtered through the grimy window, painting everything in shades of grey and dust. The black cat sat on my chest, kneading the duvet with its paws, staring at me with those unsettling amber eyes.

“You came back.”

The cat blinked slowly. Continued purring.

Last night, after the banging from the basement had stopped, the cat had vanished. Just slunk off into the shadows somewhere, leaving me alone when Brad finally returned from his marathon run—sweaty, red-faced, and mercifully too knackered to talk much.