Page 84 of Love at First Fright

Blood on stone. Blood on metal. Blood everywhere, soaking into ancient mortar, into foundations laid when kings still ruled absolutely and mercy was a foreign concept.

Chains. The sound of chains dragging. Scraping. Endless scraping against stone.

A face in the darkness. Wrong. All wrong. Features that shifted and melted and reformed, mouth open too wide, teeth too many, eyes—

Charlie wrenched away from me, stumbling backward. His face had gone white, sweat beading at his temples.

“Fucking hell,” he gasped. “What was that?”

“I told you. Something bad.”

“But… is it a ghost, or—”

“Who are you talking to?” Brad’s voice boomed from the staircase. Heavy footsteps descended toward us.

Charlie jumped like he’d been electrocuted. I went invisible.

Brad marched towards him, a frown on his horrible face. “Well?”

“Um… a friendly ghost,” Charlie said, walking toward the kitchen. Brad stomped after him.

Go away, I silently screamed at Brad. Nobody wants you here.

“Ghosts aren’t friendly.” Brad caught up, looming over Charlie’s shoulder. “What’s going on?”

Charlie gestured vaguely at the kitchen counter. “I’m trying to make contact with the one‑eyed maid. To try to stop her from making us cups of tea.” He pointed to a cold mug sitting on the side, steam long since dissipated. “It’s a waste of tea bags unless she’s going to hand them to us directly, nice and hot.”

Brad scowled. “Tea is the least of our problems here.” He jabbed a finger at the wound on his forehead, still oozing slightly around the edges.

Charlie frowned. “I thought you said that was no big deal.”

“Did somebody say tea?” Molly’s voice drifted from the drawing room.

“No!” I shouted back. “Nobody at all.”

Brad crossed his arms, glowering at Charlie. “By the way, where’s my SpecterTrack Monitor?”

“How should I know?”

“You moved it. Out of my suitcase.”

Charlie laughed—a brilliant, wonderfully loud laugh—right in Brad’s face. “Nope. A spirit’s probably borrowed it to do some tracking of their own.”

Giggling erupted behind me. I spun around to find Rosemary and Henry materialising through the wall, smirking like the little demons they were.

“Is this your doing?”

Their smirks widened.

“Good work,” I muttered.

Charlie’s face suddenly lit up. “Oh, Brad. Did you bring any books with you?”

Brad, who’d turned his attention to the empty fridge, frowned into its barren interior. “Books?”

“Yeah. You know. Novels. To read.”

“What? No, of course not. Why?”