Page 90 of Love at First Fright

That was it. Pure transactional logic. Nothing to do with the way Bat’s face had lit up as he asked me to buy books. Nothing to do with wanting to see him smile again.

The man passed me my receipt, already stuffing my purchases into carrier bags. “Anything else?”

“Do you happen to have a… cassette player?” I found myself asking. “Or a CD player, even?”

My bank balance flashed red behind my eyelids. The direct debit for my phone was definitely going to bounce that month.

But my brain was already painting the picture. Bat’s face when I walked back through those manor doors with an actual music player. The way his deep brown eyes would widen. That smile on his face again—the one that made him look less like a tortured emo ghost and more like an excited kid on Christmas morning.

Stop it, I told myself firmly. You barely know him. He’s dead. You’re broke.

None of that seemed to matter to the stupid, reckless part of my brain that was currently in control.

The man tilted his head, considering. “Ah, well. We get them donated occasionally, but nobody buys that sort of thing nowadays. Usually just bin them, to be honest.”

“Right,” I said, violently shoving away the disappointment seeping through me.

The man handed over the bulging carrier bags. Through the shop window, the high street stretched out, leading to the winding road back to Grimthorne Manor.

Back to Brad, who would definitely be angry at me for taking so long.

Back to Lady Grimthorne and the twins and Molly and all the others.

Back to Bat.

My stomach did something complicated that had nothing to do with hunger.

“But…” I said, turning back to the counter. “If you do get any music players donated—cassette, CD, vinyl—could you hold onto them? I’ll check back in a couple of days.”

The man’s eyebrows climbed towards his hairline. “You staying around here?”

“Sort of. Up at the manor.”

His expression shifted. Something between concern and curiosity flickered across his features. “Grimthorne Manor?” He crossed himself. “With all them workmen running off scared?”

Word travelled fast in small towns, apparently.

“I’m staying there, yeah.”

“Well.” He scratched his chin again. “I’ve heard some stories about that place. You be careful there, mind. Hold on a second… Do you want this?”

He pointed to something in the “discount bin” beside the counter, a.k.a. a cardboard box with a handwritten sign: EVERYTHING 50P.

Inside, buried beneath VHS tapes of recorded Coronation Street episodes and a guide to Windows 95, sat a slim book.

The Grim History of Grimthorne.

The cover showed an amateur photograph of the manor, slightly out of focus, its grey stone washed pale by overexposure. But unmistakeable.

I snatched it up. “What is it?”

“Well, it’s not what you’d call a real book, I guess. Some local loonie wrote it. Self‑published. Only printed fifty copies or something daft. But I thought you might be interested.”

“I’ll take it.” I practically shouted the words, waving my debit card in the air.

“Please do,” the man said, clearly delighted to be rid of it.

I tapped my card against the reader for the extra fifty pence, then clutched the book like treasure. The photo on the back showed an elderly man with wild white hair and round spectacles, grinning manically at the camera. The bio beneath read: Alan Cromwell is a local historian and professional paranormal investigator.