Page 87 of Love at First Fright

Started again.

The engine roared as I pulled onto another narrow country road, hedgerows blurring past.

Bat’s face flashed through my mind. That hopeful expression when he’d asked if I was coming back. The way his voice had gone small and uncertain.

You’re coming back, right?

That hand holding. My palm still tingled. Us just wandering around the manor whilst Bat introduced me to ghosts like we were at some sort of supernatural networking event. His palm against mine, so bizarrely cold.

Then there was the bathroom.

The ghost who’d touched me all over, then moaned in my ear—

“Fuck.”

The car swerved slightly. I corrected, gripping the wheel harder.

Was that Bat? Had to have been, right?

Stop. Don’t think about it.

But my brain refused to cooperate, replaying the sensation of phantom fingers exploring my skin, curious and tentative and then increasingly confident. The breathy moan that had answered mine.

My stomach clenched every time I rounded a bend. What level of insurance did Brad even have? Would it cover unauthorised drivers?

More importantly, would it cover theft, if I decided to be sensible and not return to the manor?

But I wasn’t going to do that.

Bat needed books. Needed chess pieces. Needed someone to talk to who wasn’t a dead Georgian aristocrat or a drunken Hollywood actress or a pair of Victorian children with concerning hobbies.

And I needed…

What did I need?

To understand. To figure out what the hell was happening in that house. To help somehow, maybe. To see Bat smile again, the way he’d smiled when I’d agreed to play his guitar again.

To… feel his hand in mine again?

Bloody hell, Charlie. Get a grip. He’s dead, for fuck’s sake!

Luckily, the town wasn’t far. Five minutes of white-knuckled driving brought me to a weathered sign: Grimthorne Village - Please Drive Carefully.

I parked badly on the edge of it, one wheel mounted on the kerb, the back end sticking out at an angle that would definitely get me a ticket in London. I switched off the engine and sat there for a moment, hands still shaking slightly.

The sunshine held, warm through the windscreen. Birds sang somewhere overhead, and for a moment I let myself appreciate the little town sprawling in front of me—all honey‑coloured stone and flower boxes bursting with late summer blooms.

Shame about the name, really. Grimthorne. It wasn’t exactly tourist-attracting material.

Still, it didn’t feel dying the way some small towns did. The high street stretched long, lined with shops that actually looked open. A bakery with steamed-up windows. A butcher’s with enough hanging meat in the display to please Brad. A newsagent’s with postcards spinning lazily in a rack outside. Further down, a small church spire reached towards a cloudless sky, its stonework dark with age.

Quaint. Alive. A breath of fresh air compared to the manor.

I climbed out of the car, my ExorSquad jumpsuit crinkling as I moved. Great. Nothing said “normal person going about normal business” quite like a navy boiler suit with a cartoon ghost on it.

My eyes drifted to the supermarket at the far end of the street. Small, but functional. I was here to buy food, really. Not to dilly-dally and play tourist.

Yet.