Page 50 of Love at First Fright

A chill ran through me that had nothing to do with the rain. “Gary? Dead?”

“Yep,” said Brad, almost… cheerfully? He yanked the front door open. “I told Gerald sending Gary to Cornwall’s most haunted hotel was a bad idea. Probably means I’ll get sent there next, after this mission.”

Gary and his epic moustache were probably fine… right? After all, he didn’t seem the type to bother constantly checking in with Ted.

“I just hope this gig doesn’t take so long that Gerald sends Raul to Cornwall instead. He’s in the Cotswolds first.” Brad wrinkled his nose. “Prick joined three months ago and thinks he’s the best thing since sliced bread. Won’t listen to a word of advice—not that I’m offering much these days, after he ignored everything I told him about the Brixton poltergeist. The twat needs taking down a peg or ten. He really gets under my skin.”

Were there any decent colleagues at ExorSquad to partner up with? Brad was… Brad. Apparently this Raul bloke was just as insufferable. And Gary might be dead. The odds were slim.

The manor’s vague warmth hit my face. I followed Brad inside, running a hand through my saturated hair.

Questions bubbled up inside me like shaken champagne. “So, if a ghost, like, touched your face, does that mean it’s a particularly powerful one?” The memory of the attic flooded back. That invisible caress. The wave of emotion.

Brad paused, considering. “Depends on the manifestation. Physical contact usually indicates Class Three minimum, but could be a Two.”

“Right.” I paused, part of me still semi-reluctant to give Brad any opportunity to talk more. But… “So, what can Twos do? And Ones? Not much, I guess?”

“Ones are residual. No awareness of the living. Just impressions. Phantom footsteps. Old smells. Echoes of the past playing on loop.”

“Like a recording?”

“Exactly.” Brad nodded. “Twos have some awareness. Might even know they’re dead. They know you’re there. But they can’t fully manifest most of the time. Blurry faces. Missing details. Very see-through. They can make sounds, drop the temperature, maybe touch you if they’re pulling enough power. But they can’t lift objects and chuck them at your head.”

The maid in the cupboard flashed through my mind. Her face had been solid enough. Clear. Every detail sharp—the frayed collar, the hollow eyes, the grey skin. Tea, sir? Her voice had been clear, not some distant echo.

A Three, then?

The bite wound on my calf throbbed. I bent down and yanked up my trouser leg, revealing the two puncture marks. They’d darkened to an ugly purple, surrounded by bruised yellow‑green skin.

“Look at this.”

Brad glanced down. His expression didn’t change. “Yeah. At least a Three.”

“At least?”

“Could be a Four.” He shrugged. “But there are loads of Threes in this place. Guaranteed.”

Loads of things that could cause me physical harm. Brilliant.

“So how can I defend myself?” The desperation in my voice was embarrassing, but I didn’t care. “We’ve got that salt, right?”

Brad opened a pouch on his utility belt and pulled out a handful of black salt that glittered in the dim light like crushed coal.

“This is the good stuff. The rest of the team only gets table salt. But Gerald trusts me not to waste it.”

“Right…”

“It’ll work against some spirits. Not all of them, mind you.”

Maybe I needed a belt too. Something practical. Something that said professional ghost hunter instead of terrified man in borrowed jumpsuit.

“Can I have some? Some salt?”

We traipsed upstairs to Brad’s stash of equipment. His room was definitely nicer than mine. Larger window. Less cobwebs in the corners. His massive suitcase gaped open on the bed, contents spilling across the duvet.

He scooped up several handfuls of salt from a bag and dumped them into my outstretched palms. The tiny crystals were cold, surprisingly heavy.

I shoved them into my pockets. They bulged awkwardly, making me look even sillier.