8. Charlie
eight
Charlie
The sofa became my prison. Hours bled into each other—morning stretched into afternoon—and I remained glued to the faded velvet cushions. Part of it was the concussion. The fall. My skull still throbbed where it had connected with the stairs, a dull ache that pulsed behind my eyes.
But mostly, it was terror.
If I stood up, if I ventured back into those corridors, something would attack me again. Invisible teeth would sink into my calf. Ghostly maids would materialise in cupboards. Children would giggle in the walls.
I stared at the ceiling and contemplated my escape route. Find a staircase. Get upstairs. Search for mobile signal. Call a taxi to take me to the train station. Hide in the train toilet for the entire journey so the ticket inspector didn’t catch me without a ticket.
Simple.
Except I couldn’t move.
Brad appeared around noon. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, scowling.
“Stop making me cups of tea and not telling me.”
I blinked at him. “What?”
“Three cups. All over the bloody house. I nearly knocked one over in the east wing.”
“Believe me,” I said, “tea is the last thing I want to make for you.”
He muttered something about time wasters and disappeared.
By three o’clock, two problems had emerged.
First, I was starving. My stomach cramped and growled, demanding sustenance.
Second, Brad would definitely snitch to Gerald that I hadn’t actually worked my hours today.
Even though my workday had started with a tumble down a staircase and a potential head injury.
Plus, the cat had vanished.
No sign of him all day. The solitude gnawed at me, worse than the hunger. I’d become used to his company, his warmth. Now the silence pressed down on me.
I dragged myself upright. The room tilted, then settled.
Right. Find Brad. Prove I was working. Locate the cat. Maybe call a taxi and quit this job.
The corridors felt longer than before. Shadows stretched across the floorboards, and every creak made me flinch. I checked over my shoulder constantly, expecting to find something behind me. My pulse kicked wildly in my chest, my wrists, loud enough that I couldn’t hear my own footsteps.
Kitchen: empty.
Dining room: empty.
East wing: nothing but dust and three cups of tea.
The library loomed at the end of the hall. I hesitated outside the door, listening. No giggling. No childish whispers.
I pushed inside.
The broken window gaped open, curtains billowing. I crossed to it, glass crunching under my trainers, and peered out.
Brad marched through the manor’s overgrown garden, his own blue ExorSquad jumpsuit bright against the dead grass. He headed toward the perimeter, where trees crowded the fence line.
At least he hadn’t fucked off and left me here alone.
I dragged myself outside. The air bit at my skin, autumn-sharp, and I shoved my hands into my pockets. Brad stood at the far edge of the grounds, staring up at a small stone structure half hidden by ivy.
A crypt.
My pulse kicked up again, but I forced myself forward. Maybe I could sneak up on him. Scare him. Get some petty revenge for the spider incident.
I crept across the grass, keeping my steps light.
“Decided to finally do some work, Chaz?”
I froze. Brad didn’t turn around.
Mission abandoned.
“I’ve been in the library,” I said. Which wasn’t a lie.
Brad huffed. “This is locked.”
The crypt door was iron-banded oak, black with age. A chain wound through the handles, secured with a padlock the size of my fist.
Some futile compulsion made me push the door anyway.
It didn’t budge.
“Do we even want to get inside the spooky-as-fuck crypt?”
“Of course we do!” Brad snapped.
He stepped back, rolled his shoulders, and threw his body weight against the wood.
Nothing.
He tried again. The door shuddered but held. Brad had muscle—lots of it, thick shoulders and corded forearms visible even through the jumpsuit—not that I noticed, because I hated him.
He slammed into the door a third time.
The door held firm. Brad stepped back, chest heaving, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold.
He turned to me, expression serious. “Charlie, I’m genuinely concerned about this place.”
I waited.
“This property is directly on a ley line, meaning we’re already at a disadvantage. They’ll be able to tap into more power. That’s what Gerald says. And we’ve got multiple Level Four entities here, minimum. Maybe even a Five.” He wiped his hands on his jumpsuit. “These ghosts mean business.”
For the first time, I didn’t roll my eyes or scoff. Instead, I nodded.
“I think so too,” I said. “In my professional opinion, I mean.”
Brad raised an eyebrow. “Good to know.”
Though I wasn’t even facing it, the weight of Grimthorne Manor pressed down on me.
“So, are we like, going to banish them, or exterminate them, or whatever now?”
Tonight already loomed ahead of me—darkness, that empty bedroom, wondering if the maid lurked in the wardrobe. Waiting.
“It’s not quite that simple.” Brad shook his head. “We have to classify them first. Plus, we need to be careful we don’t get ourselves killed.”
This morning, I would have laughed. Now, I nodded sagely, because I understood death was a very real possibility.
My eyes drifted back to the crypt, to the black metal fence beyond it.
Behind the fence, shadows moved between the trees.
The sensible thing would be to leave. Immediately.
Walk to the main road. Hitchhike to the nearest train station.
Return to my tiny London flat and pretend none of this had happened.
Yet…
Something stirred inside me. Something that had been dead for a very long time. For months—years, even—I’d sleepwalked through existence. Dead-end jobs. Pointless arguments with managers. Emily’s pitying looks across dinner tables. Friends who stopped calling.
Lily’s face flashed in my mind—eyes wide, impressed—as I recounted tales of banishing one-eyed maids to her. Uncle Charlie’s a ghost hunter, she’d tell her teachers proudly.
Yes, this place terrified me. But it also made me feel alive.
“When the Lancasters return, we can ask about getting into the crypt,” Brad said.
A sudden fat raindrop splattered against my face. Then the drizzle started in earnest, threatening to soak through my jumpsuit.
We jogged back toward the manor.
“My phone picked up a message from Gerald earlier,” Brad said as we reached the front door. “He and Ted are worried Gary’s dead. He’s not replying.”
A chill ran through me that had nothing to do with the rain. “Gary? Dead?”
“Yep,” said Brad, almost… cheerfully? He yanked the front door open. “I told Gerald sending Gary to Cornwall’s most haunted hotel was a bad idea. Probably means I’ll get sent there next, after this mission.”
Gary and his epic moustache were probably fine… right? After all, he didn’t seem the type to bother constantly checking in with Ted.
“I just hope this gig doesn’t take so long that Gerald sends Raul to Cornwall instead.
He’s in the Cotswolds first.” Brad wrinkled his nose.
“Prick joined three months ago and thinks he’s the best thing since sliced bread.
Won’t listen to a word of advice—not that I’m offering much these days, after he ignored everything I told him about the Brixton poltergeist. The twat needs taking down a peg or ten. He really gets under my skin.”
Were there any decent colleagues at ExorSquad to partner up with? Brad was… Brad. Apparently this Raul bloke was just as insufferable. And Gary might be dead. The odds were slim.
The manor’s vague warmth hit my face. I followed Brad inside, running a hand through my saturated hair.
Questions bubbled up inside me like shaken champagne. “So, if a ghost, like, touched your face, does that mean it’s a particularly powerful one?” The memory of the attic flooded back. That invisible caress. The wave of emotion.
Brad paused, considering. “Depends on the manifestation. Physical contact usually indicates Class Three minimum, but could be a Two.”
“Right.” I paused, part of me still semi-reluctant to give Brad any opportunity to talk more. But… “So, what can Twos do? And Ones? Not much, I guess?”
“Ones are residual. No awareness of the living. Just impressions. Phantom footsteps. Old smells. Echoes of the past playing on loop.”
“Like a recording?”
“Exactly.” Brad nodded. “Twos have some awareness. Might even know they’re dead.
They know you’re there. But they can’t fully manifest most of the time.
Blurry faces. Missing details. Very see-through.
They can make sounds, drop the temperature, maybe touch you if they’re pulling enough power.
But they can’t lift objects and chuck them at your head. ”
The maid in the cupboard flashed through my mind. Her face had been solid enough. Clear. Every detail sharp—the frayed collar, the hollow eyes, the grey skin. Tea, sir? Her voice had been clear, not some distant echo.
A Three, then?
The bite wound on my calf throbbed. I bent down and yanked up my trouser leg, revealing the two puncture marks. They’d darkened to an ugly purple, surrounded by bruised yellow?green skin.
“Look at this.”
Brad glanced down. His expression didn’t change. “Yeah. At least a Three.”
“At least?”
“Could be a Four.” He shrugged. “But there are loads of Threes in this place. Guaranteed.”
Loads of things that could cause me physical harm. Brilliant.
“So how can I defend myself?” The desperation in my voice was embarrassing, but I didn’t care. “We’ve got that salt, right?”
Brad opened a pouch on his utility belt and pulled out a handful of black salt that glittered in the dim light like crushed coal.
“This is the good stuff. The rest of the team only gets table salt. But Gerald trusts me not to waste it.”
“Right…”
“It’ll work against some spirits. Not all of them, mind you.”
Maybe I needed a belt too. Something practical. Something that said professional ghost hunter instead of terrified man in borrowed jumpsuit.
“Can I have some? Some salt?”