Bat #2
“Guitar and piano mainly. Well, keyboard too, obviously. Dabbled with drums a bit.” I kept my eyes firmly on the hardwood floor to add, “And I was, um, lead vocalist for Bat’s Bats.”
“Lead vocalist, huh?” Charlie said. “Very impressive. I love your shirt.”
He sounded bemused. For a moment I was confused, then I remembered the back of it. Bat’s Bats in faded letters within a giant bat silhouette. Right. I never took the shirt off, so I hadn’t actually seen the back of it in… years. Many, many years.
“And your collar,” Charlie added, his eyes flicking to the leather around my neck. Definitely teasing now.
“Look,” I said. “If I’d known that I’d be stuck wearing it forever more, I might not have put it on the day I died. But here we are.”
“So… how did they die?” Charlie asked. “The twins?”
“Lady Grimthorne says consumption.”
“Are they her children?”
“No, she’s just one of the oldest ghosts here. Bit of a know-it-all.”
Charlie nodded thoughtfully. “Well, aside from the biting, they seem sort of sweet, those twins.”
“Don’t be fooled.”
I led him to what would have been the master bedroom once upon a time but was now just a wreck. Furniture draped in dusty sheets, wallpaper peeling, floorboards warped with damp.
Vivian stood centre stage—because of course she did—writhing dramatically with one hand pressed to her forehead.
Charlie looked around, squinting. “I can’t see anyone.”
I offered him my hand. “May I?”
Wariness flickered across his face, but he slowly extended his palm toward mine.
Ahh. The warmth of his skin against mine was like mainlining sunshine. I had to concentrate not to grip too tightly, not to pull him closer, not to—
Focus, Bat.
Charlie flinched as Vivian came into view. Always quite the sight, with her blonde curls and scarlet lipstick. He caught her in full dramatic death throes, staggering backward with both hands clutching her throat.
“Oh my god!” he shouted, full of excitement. “It’s Vivian! Vivian Starling!”
I chuckled. Vivian’s ego would get a nice little boost from that.
“Is that how she died?” Charlie whispered.
I burst into laughter. I couldn’t help it. “No! That’s Lady Macbeth, Act Five. She’s acting out her starring roles. It’s what she does.”
“Vivian!” I shouted.
She stopped mid-swoon, looking thoroughly annoyed. “I only have two more weeks to practice, you know.”
“So I gather you know she was a famous actress, back in the fifties?” I asked Charlie.
“Yeah,” Charlie said. “But I mainly know her from reading Wikipedia. She’s what made this manor famous for being haunted.”
Vivian’s eyes narrowed. She crossed her arms beneath her bust—a deliberate pose that would’ve photographed beautifully in life. “Darling, I was famous long before I had the poor taste to die here.”
Charlie’s mouth opened, then closed. He looked to me for guidance.
I squeezed his hand gently. “She can hear you. Go on, talk to her.”
“Right. Sorry.” Charlie cleared his throat. “I meant—I know you were a huge star. I’ve seen photos. You were incredible.”
Vivian preened, smoothing down her dove-grey dress. “Well. At least someone appreciates quality cinema.” She glided closer to Charlie. “You read about me on…?”
“Wikipedia,” Charlie supplied. “It’s like an online encyclopaedia. Anyone can edit it, though, so—”
“And what does this Wiki-pedia say about how I died?” Her expression sharpened. “Let me guess. The séance? The dramatic fall from the window? Star-crossed lovers and jealous rivals?”
Charlie nodded slowly. “Yeah, basically. They said you fell during a séance at a house party. That there was speculation about whether you jumped, or were pushed, or—”
Vivian laughed, throwing her head back and cackling at the high ceiling.
“Of course they did. Because Heaven forbid Vivian Starling die in an ordinary fashion.” She turned away, facing the covered mirror above the fireplace.
“The séance was hours earlier, darling. Everyone was terrified, running about screaming, convinced we’d summoned demons. Absolute chaos.”
“So you didn’t die during the séance?” Charlie asked.
“God, no.” She waved a dismissive hand. “I died later. Much later. After everyone had calmed down and got back to drinking. I was utterly sloshed—Harvey Wallbangers, if memory serves—and I needed air. Went to open the window in the upper gallery. Leant out too far and just… went over.”
Silence stretched. Charlie’s grip on my hand tightened. “That’s it?” he finally said. “You just… fell out of a window?”
“I was wearing these four-inch heels. Magnificent but entirely impractical.” Vivian turned back to face us, and for a moment, something flickered across her face.
“But nobody wants to hear about Vivian Starling toppling drunkenly out of a window at four in the morning, do they? Much better to say she died mysteriously during an occult ritual. A jealous lover, a rival actress, a vengeful spirit—so much more interesting.”
“So the haunting legend—”
“Based on absolute fiction. But everyone expects drama from a dead actress, so…” She gestured to herself, then struck another pose. “I give them what they want. The glamour, the mystery, the eternal performance. Truth is cheap, darling. Legend is forever.”
We left Vivian to her theatrics, and I led Charlie to a large window in the corridor overlooking the gardens. The glass was grimy but still provided a decent view of the grounds.
Charlie squinted out at the landscape. “I can’t see anything.”
I took his hand again—that lovely, lovely, warmth—and watched his expression change as Thomas came into view. “There’s Thomas. Groundskeeper who drowned in the well.”
He moved methodically between the flowerbeds, tending to plants that had been dead for decades. His movements were careful, reverent, as if the withered stems might bloom again under his ghostly touch.
“That’s… sad,” Charlie murmured.
“Thomas is happy enough,” I said. “He loved those gardens when he was alive. Still loves them now. Plus, you should see them at night.”
Charlie watched Thomas work, his thumb absently stroking across my knuckles. Did he realise he was doing it? Probably not. But I definitely wasn’t going to disturb him.
Thomas continued his endless circuit through the dead garden, and Charlie’s thumb kept tracing endless patterns across my knuckles, and I remained very, very still, praying for this moment to be endless.
Eventually, Charlie said, “Is that everyone, then?”
I laughed. “Not even close. But depends who we’re counting here.”
“What do you mean?”
How to explain this? “So, some of us are like me, Lady Grimthorne, Molly. We can talk, move around, choose what we do. And some are… not.”
Charlie turned toward me, still holding my hand, his eyes curious behind his gold-rimmed glasses.
“There are ghosts here who aren’t really here, if that makes sense. They’re like… echoes.” I searched for the right words. “Like a stuck record. Same groove, same song, over and over. They don’t know you’re watching. Don’t know anything anymore, really.”
“That sounds horrible.”
“Come on. I’ll show you one.”
I started to walk, then thought sod it. Walking was exhausting when you’d spent two decades floating. Plus, it was hard to hold Charlie’s hand and not float. I lifted off the ground, clutching Charlie’s hand in a death grip. Much more fun.
“Wait, what—”
“Come on.”
I zoomed along the corridor, dragging him so fast his feet barely touched the floor. He yelped, then laughed, stumbling to keep up.
We reached the long gallery on the second floor. Portraits lined the walls, generations of dead people watching other dead people. How lovely.
“There,” I whispered, though the echo couldn’t hear us anyway.
Charlie squinted. “I don’t see anything.”
“Hold on.”
The gentleman appeared at the far end of the gallery. Dark silhouette, vaguely man shaped. A glimpse of period clothing—tailcoat, cravat, something from the 1820s or ’30s maybe. Never a face. Never a clear face.
He paced the length of the gallery with measured steps. The floorboards creaked under footsteps that weren’t there. At the third window, he stopped. Looked out for exactly seven seconds—I’d counted hundreds of times over the years.
Then he turned and paced back.
Started again.
“Jesus,” Charlie breathed.
The temperature had dropped. Charlie shifted closer, and I pretended not to notice.
“He does that forever?”
“Forever and ever and ever.”
We watched in silence as the gentleman completed another circuit. Stop. Look. Turn. Walk.
“I guess that means he’s like a Level One entity, then?” Charlie said. “Or maybe a Two. Not sure. What happened to him?”
I shrugged. “No idea. Could be suicide? It’s almost like he’s waiting for someone who never came. That window looks out over the front drive. Maybe he was watching for news that never arrived.”
Charlie’s grip tightened on my hand. “That’s so sad.”
“Death usually is.”
The echo passed within three feet of us, his cold spot trailing in his wake like a funeral procession. Charlie shivered.
“There’s loads more of them,” I said. “Like the woman who drowned in the tub in the first-floor bathroom. Which is why I told you to use the second-floor bathroom. Much safer.”
Shit. Why did I have to go and bring up the second-floor bathroom?!
Charlie’s head whipped round. One eyebrow arched above his glasses.
“Is it? Is it safer?”
I kept my face completely straight. Completely innocent. “Absolutely unhaunted by any malevolent creature, yes.”
Charlie carefully manoeuvred his hand out of mine, which was quite impressive, what with how tightly I’d been gripping it.
“Okay,” he said. “So. How do we get them to stop?”
What?
“Brad and I are here to stop the ghosts from haunting the place. That’s our job. You know that, right?”
I crossed my arms. “Oh, I’m very aware.”
“So?” Charlie spread his hands. “How can we do it? Do we need to like, move you all on or something?”
“We’ve only just met and you’re already trying to get rid of me?” I said it like a joke, but it came out all wrong. Sharp as glass. Bitter.
Charlie’s expression shifted. “Bat—”