Page 67 of Love at First Fright

Brad hauled a steamer trunk into the centre of the space. Muscle flexed in his arms as he positioned it just so. From his bag, he produced a wooden board—letters and numbers burned into its surface in an arc. A plastic planchette clattered after it.

A Ouija board.

An actual, honest-to-god Ouija board. Like we were in a horror movie.

A sound rippled through the attic. Soft. Almost like a… snigger?

I spun around.

Nothing. Just shadows pooling in corners. Those dust motes, again, drifting through weak sunlight.

“Did you hear that?!” I asked.

“What?”

Hmm. Maybe I’d imagined it. The house settling. My brain conjuring threats in the silence.

Brad sat cross-legged on one side of the trunk. I took the other, the floor hard beneath my ass. Our knees almost touched around the makeshift table. The board sat between us, waiting.

This was it. Proper ghost hunting. Something I’d have laughed at three days ago.

Now? Now I leaned forward, pulse quickening.

“We place our fingers on the planchette,” Brad said. “Light touch. Don’t push it, obviously—it’ll move on its own. If there’s a ghost here, of course.”

I nodded. Reached out. My fingertips brushed Brad’s as we both made contact with the plastic. His hands were warm. Solid.

Mine were trembling.

Brad cleared his throat, his voice taking on a formal quality to say, “Is anyone here? We mean you no harm. We wish to communicate with you.”

Silence answered. The attic held its breath.

We waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Dust continued its lazy drift. The planchette sat motionless.

My legs cramped. I shifted, trying not to break contact with the board. Brad’s jaw tightened. Professional pride, probably. The great Brad Harrington, unable to summon a ghost.

The guitar leaned against its box, strings gleaming dully in the half-light. I eyed it. Last time I’d played, something had happened. That sigh. Those swirling dust patterns. The touch that definitely hadn’t been my imagination.

Maybe music was the key.

“You know,” I said to Brad, keeping my voice casual, “you never told me what music you like, last night.”

I nudged my knee against his. Just slightly. Friendly.

Brad’s head snapped up. “What?”

“Music.” I held his gaze. “What do you listen to?”

He stared at me like I’d started speaking in tongues.

“Come on,” I pressed. “What do you listen to during all those workouts?”