Page 6 of Love at First Fright

I swallowed hard. Forced my face into neutral lines.

“No. Nothing like that.”

The lie came out smooth. Natural. I’d had years of practice pretending certain things didn’t bother me, didn’t send ice flooding through my veins at the mere thought.

Gerald studied me for a beat too long, those milky eyes unreadable through the cigarette smoke. Then he nodded. “Immediate start?”

My mouth opened before my brain could catch up. “Yeah. Absolutely.”

Gerald stubbed out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray shaped like a miniature coffin. He wiped his tobacco-stained fingers on his trousers and extended his hand across the desk.

“Then welcome to the team, Charlie.”

My hand remained frozen in my lap.

This was insane. Utterly, completely insane. They wanted me to travel the length of Britain on my own money, steal food from clients’ fridges, and perform elaborate theatrical productions designed to con desperate, grieving people out of their hard-earned cash. All for minimum wage.

The ethical implications crashed over me like a wave of filthy water.

I didn’t believe in ghosts. Obviously. The supernatural was nonsense, stories people told themselves to feel less afraid, to cope with loss, to inject meaning into random tragedy. And ExorSquad clearly preyed on that vulnerability. They probably had a whole arsenal of tricks—cold reading, hidden speakers, all the classic mentalist techniques repackaged as “spirit extraction.”

It was despicable.

Morally bankrupt.

A complete and utter scam.

But then again… if people were stupid enough to fall for this?

I reached across the desk and shook his hand.

two

Charlie

The projection flickered against the grubby white wall—not even a proper screen, just one of those ancient pull-down things that probably predated the internet. The image showed a crude diagram of a human figure surrounded by wavy lines that might have been drawn by a particularly untalented five-year-old.

“This,” Ted said, pointing at the wobbly lines with his pen, “represents negative spiritual energy.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. Three days ago, I’d signed my life away to Gerald’s shady operation. This morning, I’d endured the world’s most depressing tour of ExorSquad HQ.

The highlight: a tech specialist called Hollis who apparently lived in a broom cupboard. Literally. Ted had knocked on the door, and a pale hand had emerged to snatch up my induction paperwork before the door slammed shut again. “You can call him for help and advice on any of the provided equipment,” Ted had said cheerfully, “or to consult his database of paranormal entities.”

Then we’d visited the storage room to collect my “uniform”—navy blue overalls that smelled faintly of mildew and someone else’s sweat. Lovely.

“Do I have to wear them on duty?” I’d asked.

Ted had shuddered. “Oh, I definitely think you’ll want to. Haunts can get messy.”

Finally, he’d led us towards the “conference room” for training. My heart had lifted. I’d pictured something corporate and clean—a long, polished table, ergonomic chairs. Fancy pens and paper. A water cooler, at the very least.

The reality: a windowless room barely larger than my flat’s bathroom, dominated by a folding table that looked like it might collapse if you breathed on it too hard. Five plastic chairs, two of them cracked. A portable fan that wheezed asthmatically in the corner.

Ted had begun his presentation by clarifying that he had no personal experience of haunts himself, “so please try not to ask too many questions.”

Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

Luckily, I wasn’t alone in this hellscape. I had a friend—well, a fellow trainee called Gary, which was almost the same thing. He sat beside me, arms folded, sporting the most impressive moustache I’d seen outside of a period drama. A proper seventies porn‑star number that kept catching my attention at wildly inappropriate moments.