Page 73 of Love at First Fright

Up close, I could see more details. The small bat stitched on his chest. The black wristbands. The thin leather collar he wore, with its tiny silver rings. The way his long hair obscured half his face. The faint, almost imperceptible glow emanating from his skin—like moonlight trapped beneath the surface. He was… pretty. In an edgy, alternative, definitely would’ve had posters of him on my wall as a teenager sort of way.

“Well,” I said carefully, “you have both of your eyes, so that’s a good start.”

He said nothing. Just stood there, watching me with those dark-rimmed eyes.

“So that was you?” I gestured vaguely back toward the house. “In the attic, just now? You threw Brad across the room? After pratting around with the Ouija board?”

He didn’t look like he could throw anything, being so skinny. Slimmer than me, even. All sharp angles and delicate wrists. If I reached out to touch him, would my hand pass right through him? His shimmering translucence seemed to suggest so.

The ghost nodded.

“Yeah, look, thanks for your help, but it’s probably best if you don’t intervene next time.” I ran a hand through my hair. “I’ll be semi-fucked if Brad dies. For a start, he’s my lift home.”

The ghost snorted. Actually snorted. “It’s all my fault, though,” he said quietly.

I blinked. “Huh?”

“The fight. Between you two.” He shifted his weight again. “It was my fault. I feel bad.”

“What was your fault? You’re not responsible for that dickhead’s actions.”

The ghost shuffled on the spot. Hands shoved deep into his pockets. Eyes fixed somewhere over my left shoulder.

“Are… are you?!”

“Do you promise not to be mad at me?”

I stared at him. At his nervous posture. His bitten lip. The way he couldn’t quite meet my gaze.

Cool dread seeped through me. “No,” I said flatly. “No, I do not promise not to be mad at you.”

The ghost said nothing. Just stared at me with those kohl-rimmed eyes.

I stepped towards him. One step. Two. Close enough now that I could see the individual piercings lining his ear. Close enough to notice how the dappled light filtering through the leaves didn’t quite behave around him—didn’t cast proper shadows, didn’t illuminate him the way it should.

“What’s your name?” The question surprised me. Why did I suddenly care what this ghost was called?

The ghost looked panicked. Proper deer-in-headlights. “Well, my parents named me Bartholomew… but… I’ve always gone by Bat.”

“Bat.” I rolled the name around on my tongue. My eye caught on the tiny bat stitched onto the front of his shirt. “Bat.”

Weird name, for sure. But… I’d heard that word. Really recently. But when?

Brad. Brad had said it… yesterday, in the kitchen.

Ice crept through my veins. “Bat,” I said again. “Bat’s… Bats.”

Fear flashed across the ghost’s face. Unmistakable fear.

“Brad asked me to play Bat’s Bats yesterday.”

The pieces crashed together. Brad’s odd behaviour. Brad’s confusion. Brad’s insistence that last night had never happened.

The kitchen.

The tea.

The talk about feelings in the basement.