Page 53 of Love at First Fright

Strange marks covered the metal—not rust exactly. Deliberate patterns. I leaned closer, trying to make them out in the torchlight. Symbols? Letters? The lines curved and overlapped, some deep gouges, others barely visible scratches. They made my eyes hurt if I looked too long.

“What are those?” I pointed.

Brad barely glanced over. “Scratches? Old house, innit.”

But they didn’t look random. They looked purposeful. Organised. Like someone had carved them with intent.

“Anyway, this is it,” Brad said. He ran his hand across the metal. “The door those workmen couldn’t open.”

“Maybe there’s a reason for that.”

He ignored me. Stepped back. Rolled his shoulders.

I sighed. Brad reminded me of an aggressive ape, all muscle and no brain, convinced every problem could be solved by throwing his body at it.

He charged at the door.

The impact boomed through the confined space. I clapped my hands over my ears, but the sound reverberated in my skull.

The door didn’t budge.

Brad stepped back, chest heaving. Tried again.

Nothing.

Again.

Again.

On the fifth attempt, Brad staggered back, breathing hard. Sweat darkened his hairline despite the basement’s frigid air.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

I’d never seen him like this. Brad always exuded that infuriating confidence, that swagger. Now his jaw clenched, muscles jumping beneath his skin. His hands balled into fists.

“Maybe we should leave it,” I said. The words came out too fast. “Come back to it when the Lancasters return. Get proper tools. Bolt cutters or something.”

Brad didn’t answer. He stared at the door like it had personally insulted him.

The cold intensified. My breath plumed white in the torchlight. It was surely my imagination, but what looked like frost crept across the stone walls, spreading in delicate patterns.

“Brad?”

He blinked. Shook his head like clearing water from his ears.

“Yeah. Right.” His voice sounded distant. Distracted. “We need… we need to get through this door. This is where they’re strongest.” Brad pressed his palm flat against the iron. “Can’t you feel it? The concentration of energy?”

Actually, yes. The dread I’d felt upstairs had multiplied down here. It pressed against my chest, made my lungs work harder. Like the air itself had turned hostile.

But that was exactly why we needed to leave.

Brad threw himself at the door.

The crash rang through the stairwell, louder than before. The sound didn’t fade—it hung in the air, vibrating against my eardrums.

He staggered backwards. Caught himself on the wall.

“Brad?”