Spellbinding Spirit (Greenview Manor Tales #5)

7. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Sebastian

T he attic feels different tonight. It’s colder for one thing. The kind of cold that creeps in through the cracks and settles into your bones. I tug my jacket tighter and glance at Cat, who’s fiddling with one of her digital recorders. The tiny red light blinks steadily in the dimness, the only movement in a space that feels too still.

“Remind me again why we have to be in this bloody freezing attic?” I mutter, rubbing my hands together.

“Because that’s where Sally is supposed to be. What would you have preferred? A cosy living room with central heating and a hot chocolate dispenser?”

Her voice is calm and clipped but I catch the way she glances at the shadows every now and then. She’s not as relaxed as she’s pretending to be.

I wander over to the window, my footsteps muffled by the threadbare rug stretched across the wooden floorboards. The glass is smudged with years of grime but I can just about make out the illuminated grounds below. The trees sway gently in the night breeze.

“Right,” Cat says, straightening up. “That’s the equipment checked. EMF meter’s running, recorders are live, and the motion detector is in place. Now we wait.”

“Riveting,” I reply, shoving my hands in my pockets. “Remind me again why I’m here?”

“Because I needed someone to keep me company,” she says, pulling out a notebook. “And you’re not half bad at shifting heavy boxes.”

“‘Sebastian, I need you to protect me’ is what I was hoping to hear.” I can’t help but tease her. It helps me to remember that we’re just friends and it stops me from thinking about the kiss this afternoon.

Cat flashes me a brief smile then drops down onto the mattress and pulls one of the duvets I’ve laid out over her legs, flipping through her notes. I know she’s focused—she always gets that crease between her eyebrows when she’s in work mode—but there’s something different about her tonight. She’s quieter, more thoughtful. Maybe it’s the letters we read earlier or maybe it’s the way this attic seems to press in around us.

We sit in silence for a while, the faint hum of the equipment the only sound. I try not to think about how dark it is up here, how the corners of the room seem to stretch into shadows deeper than they should do. It’s just an attic. Old beams, dust, and a lot of creaky floorboards. Nothing to it. But that doesn’t stop me from keeping my fingers tight around the torch in case I need it to bring light into the darkness.

“What was that?” I ask, my voice low.

Cat looks up sharply. “What?”

“That noise. Like... scratching.”

We both go quiet, listening. There it is again—soft, faint, but definitely there. A scuffing sound like something dragging across the floorboards.

“Probably just a mouse,” I say quickly to reassure me and her, though my stomach does a little flip. “It’s an attic. Bound to have mice.”

“Maybe,” she murmurs, her eyes narrowing as she stares at the little screen on her night vision camera.

The scratching stops. A moment later something shifts in the far corner of the room; a muffled rustling, like fabric brushing against wood.

“Cat...” I start and lift my torch, ready to switch it on. She holds up a hand to silence me. Her gaze is fixed on the corner, her notebook forgotten in her lap.

“Hello?” she says, her voice steady, measured. “Sally are you here?”

Silence.

She tries again, her tone softer this time. “Sally, it’s Catherine. We’re just here to listen. Can you tell us your story?”

The recorder keeps blinking, steady and unbothered. The EMF meter stays stubbornly quiet. For a moment it’s just the two of us sitting in the middle of an empty attic, waiting for a ghost to answer.

I want to say something, to crack a joke or point out how ridiculous this all is, but the words stick in my throat. Because for all my scepticism there’s something about this place and this moment that makes me feel like maybe, just maybe, we’re not alone.

A sudden, sharp clack makes us both jump. Cat’s notebook tumbles from her lap as she spins towards the sound pointing the camera into the darkness.

“What the hell was that?” I ask, my voice louder than I intended. I flick on the torch and let the light move across the room.

Cat’s eyes are locked on the motion detector, which has been knocked clean off the chair where she’d set it up. It’s lying on the floor now with its little light blinking furiously.

“Wind,” I offer weakly although there’s no draft. The attic feels airtight and the air is still and heavy.

Cat gets up with careful and deliberate movements. She picks up the motion detector, inspecting it before placing it back on the chair. “Sally,” she says again, her voice firm. “If that was you, thank you. Can you do it again?”

Nothing.

The attic settles into silence once more. Dust is swirling in the light of my torch. I shift on the mattress, trying to shake the eerie feeling creeping over me. This is just an attic. I don’t believe in ghosts. I don’t.

“Sebastian,” Cat whispers suddenly, her voice tight.

I follow her gaze and feel my stomach drop. The EMF meter is lighting up, its green light flashing erratically. It’s not subtle or faint; it’s unmistakable, like someone’s waving a magnet in front of it.

Cat leans forward, her breath quickening. “Sally, are you trying to talk to us?”

The light flickers once. I glance at Cat, whose eyes are wide but determined. She leans closer to the equipment and adjusts the recorder.

“Sally,” she says softly, “can you tell us what happened to you? We want to help.”

There’s nothing for a long moment the room feels oppressively quiet. And then from somewhere behind us, faint but clear as day, comes a single word.

“Here.”

It’s a woman’s voice, soft, breathy, but undeniably there. My heart slams into my ribs as I spin around but there’s no one there. Just shadows beneath the window.

Cat clutches my arm, her nails digging into my jacket. “Did you hear that?”

I nod, my mouth dry. “Yeah. Yeah, I heard it.”

“Switch off the torch,” Cat whispers. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the complete darkness again. My other senses take over. I can smell the subtle sweetness of Cat next to me and the musky odour of the attic appears stronger.

We both sit frozen, staring into the dark and waiting for something else to happen. But the room has gone quiet again as if it’s spent all its energy on that one word.

Cat lets out a shaky breath, her grip on my arm loosening. “She’s here,” she whispers, more to herself than to me.

I don’t know what to say. For the first time I don’t have a sarcastic comment or a logical explanation. All I know is that my pulse is racing and the scepticism I’ve held onto so tightly feels a lot less certain now.

We sit still for what feels forever but there’s no further activity. My pulse is steadying now, though I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from the empty corner of the room. Cat sits back, her breathing shallow, one hand resting lightly on the recorder.

"Give me some light please.” She holds out the torch I dropped onto the mattress next to us before reaching into her bag and pulling out the letters we’d read earlier.

“What are you doing?” I ask, my voice lower than intended. It feels like we’re intruding on something fragile, and I don’t want to break it.

“George,” she says, smoothing out the paper of the topmost letter in the beam of my torch. “I’m going to read this to her. Maybe it’ll help.”

I watch her unfold the letter with trembling hands. She looks brave but I can see the tension in her shoulders and the way she keeps glancing into the shadows like she expects something to step out.

She clears her throat and begins, her voice soft but steady.

“Dear Sally, things have gotten worse here. The air’s been thick with this awful yellow fog the last few days...”

I sit quietly, letting her voice fill the room. The words feel heavier now than they did earlier, like they carry more weight up here where Sally might actually be listening. When Cat finishes she looks up at me, her eyes questioning.

“Do you think she heard that?”

I don’t know what to say. The rational part of me wants to laugh it off and tell her this is ridiculous, but the part of me that heard that voice and saw the motion detector move can’t bring itself to argue.

Cat sets the letter down carefully with a firm expression. “Sally,” she says, her voice calm and clear, “I’m going to ask you some questions. If you’re still here with us can you knock twice?”

We both wait, the silence in the attic stretching unbearably thin. For a moment I think it’s over and nothing else will happen, but then there’s a sharp knock knock . Two distinct knocks.

Cat’s eyes widen and she exhales slowly. “Thank you, Sally,” she says, her voice trembling slightly. “Are you still waiting for George?”

The response comes almost instantly: knock knock . Two knocks. Yes.

Cat looks down at the letter again, her fingers tracing the edges. “Did you stay because he asked you to?”

Another knock knock . Yes.

I shift uncomfortably. Cat looks over at me, her eyes shimmering. “She’s been here all this time,” she whispers, her voice breaking slightly. “Waiting for him.”

“Cat,” I say gently, unsure what to do. But she’s already sitting straighter with a new determination in her eyes.

“I think we need to try something else,” she says, pulling herself together. “A medium I worked with once said it’s possible to call someone through strong emotional ties. Maybe if I focus on George we can bring him here.”

I open my mouth to protest but the look on her face stops me. She’s clinging to this like it’s her one opportunity to talk to help Sally, and who am I to take that away from her?

“Alright,” I say, leaning back. “Go for it.”

Cat closes her eyes and holds the letter tightly in her hands. She takes a deep breath and begins to speak, her voice low and steady.

“George, we’re here with Sally. She’s waiting for you just like you asked. Please, come through if you’re out there. Let her know you’re here.”

The air feels heavier somehow, thicker and the darkness is closing in. Cat repeats the words but with a quieter, more pleading tone. I watch her and feel useless. I wonder if I should say something or do something. But nothing happens.

Minutes pass. The attic remains still and unchanging. No knocks, no voices, nothing. Cat opens her eyes and slumps her shoulders as she sets the letter aside.

“I thought it might work,” she says softly, letting her hands fall to her lap. “I thought... maybe...”

“Hey,” I say, scooting closer to her. “You tried. You’re doing everything you can.”

She nods but her face crumples slightly and it pains me to see her like this. For all her confidence and level-headedness, Cat wears her heart on her sleeve. She wanted this, she truly believed she could make it happen. She wanted it for Sally and for George, and the disappointment is written all over her.

Without thinking, I reach out and touch her arm. “Cat,” I say gently, “you can’t fix everything. But you’re giving her something she’s never had, someone to listen. That matters.”

She looks at me then, her eyes searching mine, and something shifts between us. The closeness that’s always been there, comfortable and familiar, suddenly feels charged, electric. I don’t know who moves first but suddenly she’s leaning into me and I’m meeting her halfway.

The kiss is soft and tentative at first like we’re testing the waters. But then her hand slides up to my shoulder and I feel myself pulling her closer, like I’ve been waiting for this longer than I realised. It’s different from last time, less impulsive, more... certain. It feels like I’ve waited centuries for it.

Something is driving me and whatever it is I don’t want it to stop.