3. Charlie #4
Dust hung thick in the weak sunlight. Scaffolding cluttered one corner, next to stacks of paint tins and builder’s equipment that looked abandoned mid-project. A tarp covered something large and rectangular—furniture, probably.
Harrison led us down a corridor to the left, our footsteps echoing on the worn floorboards. The walls here showed evidence of attempted renovation—sections of new plaster next to crumbling original work, paint samples in various shades of cream and beige.
We turned through a doorway into the kitchen.
It stretched the entire width of the back of the house, dominated by a massive fireplace on one wall that could’ve roasted an entire ox.
I was no expert on old properties, but what were possibly the original stone flags remained on the floor, uneven and worn smooth by centuries of feet.
Modern attempts at renovation clashed painfully with the period features—new white cabinets installed along one wall, a stainless-steel sink plumbed in next to an ancient cast-iron range.
Half the ceiling showed exposed beams, the other half modern plasterboard.
Like someone had started the work and then just… stopped.
A woman sat at a long wooden table in the centre, papers spread out before her.
Evelyn Lancaster. She wore her dark hair in a sleek bob that framed high cheekbones and intelligent eyes.
Elegant. That was the word for her. Despite being dressed casually in a cashmere jumper and tailored trousers, she carried herself with the poise that probably came from years of managing luxury hotels.
Relief flooded her face when she saw us.
“Oh, thank God.” She stood, abandoning her paperwork. “You’re here. Thank you for coming so quickly.”
Brad flashed his most charming smile. “No problem, ma’am. We’ll get this sorted out for you.”
I forced my mouth shut. Kept my face neutral.
“Please, sit.” Evelyn gestured to the chairs around the table. “Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?”
“We’re fine, thanks,” Brad said, just as I was about to announce that I would murder a cup of tea. Gee, thanks, partner.
Brad settled straight into a chair like he owned the place. I took the seat next to him, dropping my bag at my feet. Harrison remained standing, leaning against one of the new cabinets with his arms crossed.
“So,” Brad leaned forward, “why don’t you tell us firsthand what you know so far?”
Evelyn exchanged a loaded glance with her husband. An entire conversation compressed into a single look.
“Well… we personally have seen very little,” she said carefully. Her eyes met Harrison’s again, and he looked away. “But I believe the workmen. Absolutely believe them. It’s just a… feeling I have. There’s an evil presence here.”
“What did the workmen say has been happening?” I heard myself ask.
Evelyn sighed. Not a normal sigh—this one came from somewhere deep, deep inside.
“Where do I even start?” She sat back down, fingers drumming against the table.
“The first electrician said his tools kept disappearing and reappearing in different rooms. He’d put down his wire cutters in the entrance hall, walk to his van for supplies, come back and find them upstairs in a bedroom.
Then he started hearing footsteps following him.
Heavy footsteps. He refused to work alone after that. ”
Harrison made a dismissive noise. Evelyn ignored him.
“The plumber had it worse. He was working on the pipes in the old servants’ quarters when all the taps in the house turned on at once.
Every single one. Water everywhere. He said it was like someone turned them on deliberately, all at the same time.
And when he went to turn them off, he heard laughing. ” She paused. “Children laughing.”
My skin prickled. I pushed the sensation away. These local workmen probably hated working for Harrison so much, they all planned this together at the pub one night.
“Then there was the painter,” Evelyn continued.
“Poor man. He was working in the long gallery—that’s on the first floor—and he said he kept seeing someone in the mirrors.
A woman in an old-fashioned dress, just standing there watching him.
But when he turned around, nothing. This went on for three days before he packed up and left. ”
“Definitely his imagination,” Harrison muttered. “Though that young lad seemed the sort to smoke cannabis. That could have been it.”
“The final straw,” Evelyn said, her voice hardening, “was the incident with the carpenters last week. One of them was measuring up the doorframes in the drawing room when a hammer flew across the room and hit him in the back of the head. Knocked him unconscious. His colleague had to call an ambulance.”
Harrison straightened. “I’m still not sure—”
“It was hardly one of his friends, was it, Harry?” Evelyn snapped. “You saw the photos of the injury! The man needed six stitches!”
“Yes, but it could have been an accident. He could have knocked it off the windowsill himself, turned at the wrong moment—”
“A hammer doesn’t change trajectory mid-flight,” Evelyn said through gritted teeth. “It doesn’t fly horizontally across a room. Physics doesn’t work that way.”
“There are explanations. Rational explanations!”
“Such as?”
Harrison opened his mouth. Closed it. His jaw worked, but nothing came out.
“The point is,” Evelyn turned back to us, composing herself with visible effort, “something is wrong with this manor. The locals won’t come near it anymore.
Word has spread. We’ve contacted six different construction companies, and the moment they hear it’s Grimthorne Manor, they refuse the job.
We’re haemorrhaging money. The renovation is months behind schedule.
And Harrison”—she shot her husband a glare—“refuses to admit there might be something genuinely supernatural happening.”
“Because there isn’t,” Harrison said flatly. “It’s mass hysteria. One person gets spooked, tells a story about seeing a glimpse of Vivian bloody Starling, and suddenly everyone sees ghosts. It’s textbook group psychology.”
“Then why did you agree to this?” I asked.
Harrison met my eyes. “Because my wife asked me to. And sometimes, keeping your marriage intact is worth humouring the irrational.”
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.
Evelyn’s fingers tightened on the edge of the table, knuckles white. “The moment you experience it yourself, Harry, you’ll—”
A crash echoed through the house. Loud. Sharp. The unmistakable sound of breaking glass.
We all froze.
Another sound, from somewhere above us. The ceiling creaked, old timbers shifting.
Then silence. Heavy and waiting.
“What was that?” Brad’s voice had lost some of its easy confidence.
Harrison pushed away from the cabinet. “Probably just another windowpane. The frames are rotting. I told Evelyn we needed to replace them before winter.”
Brad cleared his throat. “Right. Well, we better get to work then.”
Relief washed over Evelyn’s face like she’d just been granted a reprieve from execution.
“Thank you. Truly. Now, unfortunately, Harry and I need to drive down to our Brighton resort this afternoon.” She glanced at her watch.
“There’s an issue that requires our immediate attention.
But we’ll be back in a couple of days to check in on your progress. ”
“Hopefully we’ll have some news for you by then,” Brad said, adopting his “professional” tone to add, “Though I should warn you—sometimes these things can take a while to sort properly. Depends on what we’re dealing with. Could be a couple of days. Could be longer.”
Harrison straightened, eyes narrowing. “Longer? And I suppose that’ll be an extra couple of thousand pounds?”
“No, sir. The fee is all-inclusive, no matter how long this takes.” Brad’s voice remained steady, earnest. “We don’t leave until the job’s done.”
My heart plummeted straight through the floor.
What?! How long was I going to be here? Days? Weeks? Months?! Trapped in this freezing, mouldering pile of stones, playing pretend ghostbusters with Brad “I’m an ex-professional rugby player” Harrington?
London haunts. From now on, I’d only accept London jobs from Gerald. Ones I could escape from at the end of each day, back to my tiny flat with its dodgy boiler and that housemate who scurried away from me like I carried the plague. That flat was paradise compared to this.
“There are plenty of rooms upstairs,” Evelyn said, standing. “Most aren’t liveable, I’m afraid—damp, broken furniture, that sort of thing. But hopefully there’s two relatively intact. Help yourselves.”
Hopefully there’s two.
My brain seized on that phrase with the desperation of a drowning man clutching at driftwood. Please let there be two beds. Please, God, if you exist, let there be two separate rooms with two separate beds and preferably a locked door between them.
The thought of sharing a bed with Brad—listening to him breathe all night, probably snoring, definitely talking in his sleep about how amazing he was—made my skin crawl worse than that spider.
“We can show you up before we leave,” Harrison said, already moving towards the door. He clearly wanted this over with. Wanted us out of his sight so he could pretend that he hadn’t dropped thousands of pounds on “Spirit Extraction Specialists.”