Page 66 of Love at First Fright

Heat flooded my face that had nothing to do with hot bathwater. Mortification crashed over me in waves.

I’d encouraged it. Hadn’t stopped when I realised. Had actively continued whilst knowing full well something invisible was touching me.

What the fuck was wrong with me?

I launched myself out of the tub. Water cascaded everywhere. My feet nearly slipped on the wet tiles.

I grabbed the towel, wrapped it around myself, and stared at the empty space where something definitely lurked.

What exactly did one say in this situation?

That was it. A step too far. They could bite me, giggle at me, offer me tea, terrorise me down staircases, but this crossed every possible line into absolutely fucking not territory.

“I hope you enjoyed the free show, you fucking creep.”

The kitchen felt cavernous in the morning light. Empty chairs lined the long table, and I slid into one near the window, eyeing the bowl of cornflakes I’d poured with suspicion. After the bathroom incident, I was freshly re-traumatised.

Brad slouched at the far end, spooning cereal into his mouth mechanically. His hair stuck up at odd angles and dark circles shadowed his eyes.

He barely glanced up when I sat down.

“You okay?” I asked warily.

“Think I’m coming down with something.” He scraped his spoon against the bowl. “I’m still so tired, even though…”

He trailed off, and we finished in silence. The scrape of spoons. The tick of a clock somewhere in the manor. Great start to the day.

“So, what’s the plan?” I asked, while I washed up our bowls.

Brad leaned against the doorframe, and some of the exhaustion seemed to lift from his shoulders. “First, we’re going up to the attic. With a Ouija board.”

“We are?!” The words burst out, high and eager. Like a kid promised a trip to the seaside.

Brad’s eyebrow twitched.

Heat shot up my neck. “Well… I’ll bring the guitar to play. The ghost up there liked it last time, I swear.”

He grunted. “Yes, fine, bring it if you really want to.”

With great effort, I suppressed a sigh. Grumpy Brad was definitely back. Maybe he really wasn’t a morning person?!

I fetched the guitar from my room and met Brad at the bottom of the stairs. He carried a zipped canvas bag that clinked with equipment. We stood there in our matching navy ExorSquad jumpsuits. The ridiculous logo. The cheap polyester. Something about it made me smile.

“What?” Brad said.

“Nothing.”

We climbed. The stairs groaned under our weight, each step a warning. The house watched us ascend. I felt it, that awareness in the walls.

The attic door hung slightly open. Same as before.

Brad stopped in front of it. Ran his fingers along the frame, examining the hinges. “We don’t want to be locked in here again.” He pushed the door wider. It shrieked. He crouched, inspecting the latch mechanism. “Nothing wrong with it.”

The attic stretched before us, exactly as I remembered. Long and low. Boxes stacked haphazardly. Furniture hulking under tarps. Cobwebs draped from rafters like rotting lace.

Dust coated everything. Thick. Waiting.

I already had the heebie-jeebies. Setting down the guitar, I grabbed the nearest old suitcase—luggage so ancient the leather had cracked into a crazy-paving pattern—and wedged it against the door. Take that, ghostie.