Page 91 of Love at First Fright

Perfect. I could skim it tonight, maybe learn something useful. Look busy and vaguely competent in front of Brad.

The supermarket trip passed in a blur of fluorescent lights and too-bright aisles. I spent way over Brad’s allotted thirty pounds—closer to forty-five by the time I’d loaded the trolley with pasta, chicken, bread, cheese, crisps, and approximately twelve boxes of teabags. Molly’s fault, that.

Outside, that church spire caught my eye again. The stonework glowed honey-gold in the afternoon sun, ancient and solid and strangely inviting.

I wasn’t sure why, considering the way my arms screamed with my numerous heavy bags, but my feet started moving.

My family had never been one for church. Not even Midnight Mass at Christmas. Mum had called organised religion “a convenient fiction for people afraid of the dark.” Dad had simply shrugged and said he preferred lie-ins.

But I’d always found churches oddly soothing. The quiet calm. The hushed voices. The soft music drifting from unseen places. Like stepping into a bubble separate from the rest of the world.

The heavy wooden door groaned open.

Inside, the air sat cooler. Stained glass windows cast coloured patterns across flagstone floors, and rows of pews stretched towards an altar draped in white cloth.

Empty, except for a figure near the front.

A priest, tall and thin, dressed in black with a crisp white collar. He turned as I entered, his face breaking into a performative smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Good afternoon.” His voice echoed slightly. “Welcome to St. Augustine’s.”

“Hi.” I shuffled forward, suddenly aware of how loud my trainers sounded on the stone. “Sorry, I’m just… passing through the area.”

“Of course.” He clasped his hands together, studying me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. “Father Benedict Ashworth. And you are?”

“Charlie Hayes.”

“Well, Charlie.” Father Ashworth’s gaze travelled down to my jumpsuit, lingering on that bloody silly ghost. “Do let me know if I can help.”

An idea sparked. I dropped my bags and pulled out The Grim History of Grimthorne, turning it around to show him the author photo. “Actually, I picked this up at the charity shop. Apparently this guy is local? Do you know him?”

Father Ashworth’s expression curdled. “Alan Cromwell.” He said the name like it tasted sour. “Yes, I’m… acquainted with him.”

“Acquainted?”

“He had the audacity to ask to hold a book signing here once. On Halloween. Completely tasteless. I caught him outside once peddling them, spouting all sorts of nonsense to my churchgoers about the Witch of Grimthorne.”

“Oh?” I said, interest piqued. “A witch?”

“The man is a charlatan. A fraud,” Father Ashworth snapped. “He peddles superstition and nonsense to vulnerable people, charging them exorbitant fees for his so-called ‘readings.’” His eyes flicked back to my uniform. “ExorSquad. What is that, exactly?”

My face burned. “It’s, um. A company.”

“What sort of company?”

I straightened slightly, trying for confidence. “I’m a Spirit Extraction Specialist.” The words nearly made me laugh. Spirit Extraction Specialist. Gerald really had a gift for corporate doublespeak. “I’m new to the job,” I added quickly. “But I’ve been called in to assist with Grimthorne Manor. Because it’s… haunted.”

Something cold flickered behind Father Ashworth’s eyes. “I see,” he said. “Tell me, Charlie, by any chance does ExorSquad peddle superstition and nonsense to vulnerable people, charging them exorbitant fees for the pleasure of their services?”

“Sort of,” I admitted. I could hardly lie to a man of the cloth. “But I’m broke and they were hiring.”

Father Ashworth’s lips pressed into a thin line before he made a small, disgusted sound in the back of his throat. “I see. Well, Charlie Hayes, I wish you luck with your… endeavours. You’ll be in my prayers.”

He turned away, black robes swishing, and disappeared through a side door. I caught the faint sound of muttering—something along the lines of damned charlatans and doomed youth of today.

Oh well.

I hurried back to the car, bags cutting off circulation in my fingers. By the time I collapsed into the driver’s seat, I was panting. Sweat stuck my jumpsuit to my back. I dumped the bags in the passenger footwell, fishing out my phone.