Page 8 of Love at First Fright

“Three operatives,” I read aloud. “This year alone. To ghost biscuits.”

Gary’s moustache twitched again. “What kind of biscuit?”

“I don’t think that’s the relevant question,” Ted said.

“I’m just saying, if I’m going to die via haunted confectionery, I’d like to know if it’s at least a decent digestive or just a basic rich tea.”

“The type of biscuit doesn’t matter when you’re spontaneously combusting!”

“Matter of opinion.” Gary slouched lower in his chair. “I’d rather go out in flames after a good biscuit than live after eating a rich tea biscuit. That’s not living, that’s just existing.”

Ted clicked to the next slide, which showed what appeared to be a blurry photograph of a torch. Just a torch. Nothing else.

“Your standard issue equipment includes one torch, one EMF reader—that’s electromagnetic field—one canister of sanctified salt, one vial of holy water, and one backup vial of holy water in case you drop the first one.” He spoke faster now, like he wanted to get through this before we asked more questions. “The salt creates barriers, the water weakens entities, the EMF reader detects spiritual activity, and the torch helps you see in the dark.”

The projection clicked to a new slide. A photograph of the “standard-issue torch,” except this one appeared to be melting.

“Sometimes,” Ted said, his voice very small, “the equipment malfunctions.”

Gary stood up, his chair scraping vehemently against the floor. “I need to take a piss,” he said, and walked out.

Ted looked at me. I looked at Ted. The fan wheezed its death rattle.

“Do you want to take a break?” he asked.

I eyed the door. Maybe now was the time to make a run for it. These people were even more insane than I thought.

But…

My empty bank account. My disappointed mother. My younger sister with her perfect doctor life and perfect doctor husband and perfect daughter. My failed attempts at every other career path I’d tried.

The one-in-three chance I wouldn’t see next year if I kept eating instant ramen every evening.

“No,” I said. “Let’s keep going.”

Ted’s shoulders sagged. He clicked to the next slide. The image showed a house engulfed in flames.

“Now,” he said, “let’s talk about what to do when a haunt gets out of control.”

It was over. Finally.

I suspected Ted cut the session short around the time Gary started yawning with the subtlety of a foghorn. The dramatic head tilt. The drawn-out groan. The performance earned him a pained look from our lecturer, who’d been mid-sentence about containment protocols.

“Right,” Ted said, clicking off the projector. “I think that’s enough for today.”

Gary had stood before Ted finished speaking.

We shuffled back into the reception area. Shouting erupted from Gerald’s office.

I froze. Ted didn’t even glance up from organising papers on his desk.

“Gary?!” The voice wasn’t Gerald’s. Younger. Sharper. “You’re going to send Gary to Cornwall’s most haunted hotel? He won’t last an hour!”

Gerald’s raspy voice rumbled something indistinct. Then I caught, “I’d send Raul but I need him at the Cotswolds. It’s an emergency. The owner’s threatening to go to another company if I can’t deliver by tomorrow.”

A snort. “Raul? He’s an idiot. Been here three months and thinks he knows more than me.”

“He’s a glorified babysitter for the new kid I hired today. Liam Locke. It’s probably just a Class Three spirit down in Cornwall, anyway.”