Page 93 of Love at First Fright

Any small part of me that thought he and the others were products of concussion or hallucination disintegrated. Bat was real!

Had been real.

“Hello, Bat,” I whispered at the screen.

Video-Bat took no notice of me, grinning brilliantly at the camera, all teeth and frantic energy and pure, unadulterated joy. God, he looked so… happy. In his element. Behind him, two bandmates—one on drums, one on bass—grinned just as widely, lost in their music.

They didn’t know their “mighty leader’s” gigs were numbered. That this was one of the last, or perhaps the last time that they’d play together.

My throat tightened.

I paused the video, zoomed in on Bat’s face. His eyes were closed mid-scream, mouth open, completely uninhibited. Free in a way I’d never seen him. The ghost I knew still had sparks of that energy, but muted. Dimmed by death and decades of isolation.

I scrolled to the comments.

Two of them.

The first, from JezzaTheMaaan, posted in 2009: Ollie, you have no idea how much seeing this meant to me. Those were the times, right? And Bat, if you’re reading this… hope you’re shredding it up, wherever you are.

Then, a reply from the video uploader, OllieOllie: You know he is, mate! Love you, man. Hope I see you soon x

My chest ached horribly in a way it had never quite done before.

I had a bizarre urge to reply. To type something like, He’s okay, you guys. Haunting a manor in Wiltshire. Doesn’t get to play music that much, but your dead friend is having a whale of a time scaring contractors.

I had so many questions. If I knew Bartholomew’s full name, I could google that. Find an obituary. A news report about his death. Learn what had happened to him.

But I didn’t.

So I drove back to the manor.

fourteen

Bat

Because I was a mature adult who understood boundaries, I decided not to harass Charlie the very second he returned to the manor.

Well… not as me, anyway.

The cat, however, greeted him as soon as he stepped foot in the courtyard. His delight at seeing him confirmed this was an excellent choice.

Good thing I’d pounced on the opportunity to possess the creature again as soon as it wandered back into our gardens. It had been coming here for years, hunting our rats and mice. I’d watched it many a time, envious of its freedom to leave whenever it pleased.

Bat-as-the-cat followed Charlie and his many bags into the house, weaving between his legs, making him laugh as he almost tripped over me. The sound warmed my ice-cold dead heart.

Charlie quickly hid half the bags in his room before heading to the kitchen to cook chicken pasta while I lay on the countertop, flicking my tail, eyeing up the cheese he’d left out.

Brad finally appeared, only grunting as Charlie placed a bowl of pasta in front of him rather than thanking him for the meal he’d just slaved over. This man, honestly. If I’d had someone like him cook for me when I was alive—actually cook, not just microwave Supernoodles—I’d have been on my knees with gratitude. And something else too.

Just to wind Brad up, I sat on the table with them, body pressed against Charlie’s arm.

Charlie scooped up a forkful of pasta. Paused. Set the fork down again. “So, my visit to town was useful in more ways than one!”

Brad chewed mechanically, staring at nothing.

“I found a book about the manor! Written by a local.”

My ears pricked forward. What book? What local? In all my years here, I’d seen plenty of historians and enthusiasts turn up, notebooks clutched to their chests like shields. Most of them never made it past the front gate.