Page 63 of Love at First Fright

I floated above Brad’s sleeping form. Watched his chest rise and fall with living breath.

My fingers—my fingers—drifted to my mouth. The phantom sensation of lips I’d never kiss, pressed against lips I’d never taste.

Charlie’s lips. Pink and perfect and forever out of reach.

Maybe existing like this was worse than not existing at all.

ten

Charlie

The corridor stretched ahead, dim and unwelcoming. My breath misted in the frigid air.

It was bloody freezing.

I hugged myself, bare arms prickling with goosebumps beneath my thin T-shirt and pyjama bottoms. Last night had been worse, though. Proper Arctic. I’d wrapped myself in every blanket I could find and still shivered myself into fitful sleep.

The cat had saved me. Crept through the door sometime after midnight and burrowed under the covers. Pressed its warm little body against my chest and purred like a tiny furnace.

Surprisingly effective heating system, that cat.

Gone when I woke, naturally. Hopefully off somewhere eating spiders.

My dreams had been… unpleasant. The maid kept appearing, her face shifting between concerned and grotesque. Offering tea. Always offering tea. In one version, I’d accepted the cup, and—

No. Not thinking about that.

I counted doors. Brad said end of the corridor, second floor. Blue tiles.

There. The last door on the left stood slightly ajar.

I pushed it open.

“Oh.”

The bathroom belonged in a period drama. High ceilings, ornate cornicing, black and white checkered floor. And in the centre, like a porcelain throne, sat a magnificent clawfoot tub.

Massive thing. Deep. The enamel gleamed despite the house’s general state of decay. I pulled out my phone. There was no signal, but I could prep Lily’s next challenge. I crouched by the tub and zoomed in on one of the clawed feet—just the curve of brass and porcelain, the texture looking almost reptilian. She’d never guess.

A shower attachment hung from exposed copper piping—no curtain, no glass screen. Water would spray everywhere. But who cared?

Yet… that tub.

When was the last time I’d had a proper bath? My flat’s bathroom had a shower cubicle the size of a coffin. This… this was luxury.

I locked the door. Tested it twice.

The taps squeaked when I turned them. Water spluttered, coughed, then gushed out in a steady stream.

I stuck my hand under the flow.

Hot. Gloriously, miraculously hot.

Steam rose as the tub filled. I watched the water level climb, telling myself I’d stop at a sensible depth. Shallow. Safe. No drowning-by-ghost depth.

The water climbed higher.

Just a bit more.