Page 45 of Love at First Fright

And now lovely Charlie lay on that sofa, staring at the ceiling with those blue eyes gone glassy and lost.

My dead heart ached.

Made sense that he’d look like that. Made sense that he’d be spiralling. I’d be upset too, if I’d been bitten by a rabid ghost child, jump scared by a one-eyed maid in a cupboard, tumbled down a flight of stairs hard enough to leave a bump on my skull, then cradled tenderly by someone who immediately denied the whole thing had happened.

Okay. Maybe that last part was my fault.

But I’d been trying to help.

Trying to comfort him.

And instead, I’d made everything worse. Made Charlie question his own sanity.

God, I was an idiot.

Molly glided through the wall, her bloodstained cloth stark against the pallor of her face. Phantom hands smoothed non-existent wrinkles from her apron.

“Master Bartholomew.” Her voice carried the crisp formality of someone who’d spent her entire life—and death—serving others. “You seem upset.”

“I am upset,” I seethed, what remained of my form crackling with agitation. “You traumatised him! You, and Lady Grimthorne, and the twins!”

Molly’s single visible eye blinked.

“But… that’s what we do, Master Bartholomew.” Her tone carried no malice. Just confusion. “That’s what we’ve always done. Under your instruction, if I may remind you.”

She was right.

Of course she was right.

For as long as I could remember, I’d orchestrated their chaos. Directed their hauntings like a conductor leading a particularly violent symphony. The Lancasters wanted their manor cleared of squatters and vandals? Fine. We’d send them running. Developers wanted to gut the place? We’d make them regret it.

The twins barrelled past, giggling maniacally. They played tug-of-war with what looked like a length of torn wallpaper. Or maybe intestines. With those two, it was hard to tell.

“You two!” I shouted after them.

They ignored me completely. Rosemary’s pigtails bounced as she yanked the prize from Henry’s grip.

I turned back to Molly, my form flickering with frustration. “But I said last night he wasn’t to be harmed!”

“I didn’t harm him!” Molly’s posture straightened, indignant. “You know Rosemary can’t resist a good chomp every now and again, but all I did was show myself to him! Offered him tea, like a proper hostess should!”

“Molly.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. Or tried to. My fingers passed through my face twice before I gave up. “You’re a one-eyed maid covered in blood with half your face hidden under a cloth. You materialised in a dark cupboard while he was hiding. You’re terrifying.”

She touched the stained fabric self-consciously.

Molly had been forty-three when she died. 1817. A lifetime of service to the Grimthorne family, and what had it got her? A jealous lady’s maid named Catherine who’d shoved her down the servants’ stairs because the master had looked at Molly too long during dinner service.

The fall had shattered her skull. Driven bone fragments into her brain. But she’d lingered for three days before the infection finally took her. Three days of agony, her left eye destroyed, her face a ruin of blood and splintered bone.

She’d died still apologising for the inconvenience.

And in death, she’d never stopped serving. Never stopped trying to dust and polish and offer tea to anyone who entered the manor. Even when those offerings came with a face that looked like it had been split open by a meat cleaver.

The anger drained out of me. Slowly. Like air from a punctured balloon.

“I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s quite alright, Master Bartholomew.” She adjusted her cloth, tucking a strand of dark brown hair behind her ear. “You’re fond of him. That young chap.”