Page 52 of Love at First Fright

“You can stand guard upstairs if you’re too chickenshit.” He snapped his suitcase closed with unnecessary force. “I’ll handle the real work.”

The insult stung, even though standing guard sounded infinitely preferable to descending into whatever hell waited below. But I couldn’t let him think I was useless. Not after spending all day on the sofa.

“The Lancasters said the basement’s blocked off,” I pointed out. “Remember? Evelyn mentioned it—door’s jammed shut at the bottom. None of the workmen could get it open.”

Brad shrugged, flexing his arms. The muscles in his shoulders bunched under his jumpsuit. “We’ll see about that.”

“Your brute-force approach didn’t get you very far at the crypt.”

He scowled. “That was different.”

Was it?

Brad strode past me, his trainers thumping against the floorboards. I followed, because what choice did I really have?

The corridor stretched ahead, darker than before. Afternoon was quickly bleeding into evening, shadows pooling in the corners. Brad didn’t slow down. He navigated the manor with confidence now, having memorised the layout during his multiple surveys.

We descended the spiral staircase—the same one I’d tumbled down this morning. My hand clutched the wobbly bannister, knuckles white. Each step creaked, the sound echoing up the stairwell.

At the bottom, Brad turned left. The corridor narrowed, walls pressing closer. Paint peeled in long strips, exposing bare plaster underneath. Dread mounted with each step. Not normal fear—something heavier. Secondhand, almost. Like wearing someone else’s anxiety. My head spun slightly.

The concussion. A sensible person would have insisted that they needed to go to the hospital.

Brad reached a door at the corridor’s end. Plain wood, unremarkable except for the way shadows seemed to cluster around it.

He twisted the handle.

Nothing.

“There’s no lock,” he murmured, running his fingers along the frame.

He tried again, yanking harder. The door shuddered, then gave way with a groan that scraped down my spine.

Cold air rushed out. Not the ordinary chill of an old house—this was wrong. It sank into my bones, made my teeth chatter.

Brad pulled the door wide. Stone steps descended into darkness.

“After you,” he said.

“Absolutely not.” I didn’t trust the bastard not to lock me down there for funsies.

He laughed and started down. I hesitated at the threshold, peering into the black. The light from behind us only reached a few metres before dying completely.

What if the door shut behind us? What if we got trapped down there?

Maybe I should stand guard.

Brad’s footsteps faded. I heard him rummaging with something, then a click. White light flared—his torch beam cutting through the darkness.

“Are you coming or what, Chaz?” His voice echoed up the stairwell.

With a colossal sigh, I descended. Each step felt like walking deeper underwater, pressure building in my ears. The walls closed in, rough stone scraping my shoulders. My breathing came too fast, too loud.

The stairs ended in a tiny space—barely two metres across. An ancient fuse box clung to the left wall, its metal housing spotted with rust. The glass panel that once covered it had shattered—jagged shards still clung to the metal frame, glinting dully in Brad’s torchlight. Behind the broken glass, a tangle of exposed wires and ceramic fuses. It looked worryingly old, the sort of thing that probably sparked and crackled during storms.

Another door loomed ahead.

This one looked different. Heavy. Metal. Black iron bands ran across its surface, bolted into the stone. The whole thing looked medieval, like something from a dungeon.