Page 49 of Love at First Fright

The crypt door was iron-banded oak, black with age. A chain wound through the handles, secured with a padlock the size of my fist.

Some futile compulsion made me push the door anyway.

It didn’t budge.

“Do we even want to get inside the spooky-as-fuck crypt?”

“Of course we do!” Brad snapped.

He stepped back, rolled his shoulders, and threw his body weight against the wood.

Nothing.

He tried again. The door shuddered but held. Brad had muscle—lots of it, thick shoulders and corded forearms visible even through the jumpsuit—not that I noticed, because I hated him.

He slammed into the door a third time.

The door held firm. Brad stepped back, chest heaving, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold.

He turned to me, expression serious. “Charlie, I’m genuinely concerned about this place.”

I waited.

“This property is directly on a ley line, meaning we’re already at a disadvantage. They’ll be able to tap into more power. That’s what Gerald says. And we’ve got multiple Level Four entities here, minimum. Maybe even a Five.” He wiped his hands on his jumpsuit. “These ghosts mean business.”

For the first time, I didn’t roll my eyes or scoff. Instead, I nodded.

“I think so too,” I said. “In my professional opinion, I mean.”

Brad raised an eyebrow. “Good to know.”

Though I wasn’t even facing it, the weight of Grimthorne Manor pressed down on me.

“So, are we like, going to banish them, or exterminate them, or whatever now?”

Tonight already loomed ahead of me—darkness, that empty bedroom, wondering if the maid lurked in the wardrobe. Waiting.

“It’s not quite that simple.” Brad shook his head. “We have to classify them first. Plus, we need to be careful we don’t get ourselves killed.”

This morning, I would have laughed. Now, I nodded sagely, because I understood death was a very real possibility.

My eyes drifted back to the crypt, to the black metal fence beyond it. Behind the fence, shadows moved between the trees. The sensible thing would be to leave. Immediately. Walk to the main road. Hitchhike to the nearest train station. Return to my tiny London flat and pretend none of this had happened.

Yet…

Something stirred inside me. Something that had been dead for a very long time. For months—years, even—I’d sleepwalked through existence. Dead-end jobs. Pointless arguments with managers. Emily’s pitying looks across dinner tables. Friends who stopped calling.

Lily’s face flashed in my mind—eyes wide, impressed—as I recounted tales of banishing one-eyed maids to her. Uncle Charlie’s a ghost hunter, she’d tell her teachers proudly.

Yes, this place terrified me. But it also made me feel alive.

“When the Lancasters return, we can ask about getting into the crypt,” Brad said.

A sudden fat raindrop splattered against my face. Then the drizzle started in earnest, threatening to soak through my jumpsuit.

We jogged back toward the manor.

“My phone picked up a message from Gerald earlier,” Brad said as we reached the front door. “He and Ted are worried Gary’s dead. He’s not replying.”