Page 34 of Love at First Fright

We’d eaten dinner in near silence. Tomato pasta. No cheese. The Lancasters hadn’t exactly stocked the fridge and cupboards for us, as much as Gerald had encouraged me to steal anything I could find. Brad had scarfed his down without complaint, but mine had tasted like cardboard and sadness.

Afterwards, we’d agreed to hunt for phone signal instead of ghosts.

A mutually beneficial task. The only thing we’d managed to coordinate on all day.

We’d been without data or Wi-Fi for almost twelve hours by then. Proper millennial crisis territory. One more hour and we’d have had full-blown panic attacks, probably started drawing on cave walls or something equally primitive.

Brad had suggested the east wing. I’d countered with the west. We’d split up, both of us wandering the upper floors with our phones held aloft like dowsing rods, desperate for that single bar of salvation.

I’d found it, eventually. A spot on the third-floor landing, right next to a portrait of some sour-faced Victorian bloke in a cravat. Two bars. Flickering, but persistent.

Brad had joined me there. We’d sat on the dusty floorboards, backs against opposite walls, and scrolled in silence for an hour.

Emily had texted asking if I had any more guesses for Lily’s picture. Two friends had posted engagement photos. My mum had sent a message with seven grammatical errors asking when I’d visit next.

I’d replied to Emily. Ignored the rest.

Brad had eventually grunted something about an early start, and we’d headed down to bed.

And now the cat was back, nuzzling into the crook of my neck, warm and solid and impossibly friendly.

I’d never met a friendlier cat. Most strays I’d encountered had been feral, skittish things that hissed if you got within three metres. This one acted like I’d adopted it years ago.

“Alright, alright.” I shifted, and the cat hopped off me, tail high. “I’m up.”

I swung my legs out of bed. My breath fogged in the cold air. Christ, it was freezing. The radiators probably hadn’t worked since the 1950s.

I peeled off my pyjamas, shivering as the frigid morning air hit my skin. Goosebumps erupted across my arms, my chest, down my stomach.

The cat watched from the end of the bed.

Just… stared.

Right at my dick.

Its tail flicked. Back and forth. Almost… appreciatively?

“Oi.” I grabbed a pillow and held it strategically. “Pervert.”

The cat’s whiskers twitched.

I turned away, rummaging through my bag for clean clothes. The navy-blue ExorSquad jumpsuit stared up at me from the bottom. Polyester. Badly stitched. With the company logo emblazoned on the arm.

I’d sworn I wouldn’t wear it.

But my favourite jeans were filthy from yesterday and I hadn’t brought that many spare clothes with me. Was there a working washing machine in this manor? Probably not. Definitely not.

Bollocks.

I pulled the jumpsuit on, zipping it up to my collarbone. It fit poorly—too tight across the shoulders, too loose around the waist—and made me look like a discount Ghostbuster.

But it would save my own clothes from getting ruined, at least.

A knock at the door made me jump.

“Yeah?”

Brad pushed inside, holding a steaming mug. “Morning.”