Charlie #2
I handed over the cash, my wallet suddenly a tragic amount lighter. Now I’d have to buy part of the food shopping on my own card. My overdraft was already hovering somewhere around its limit, the bank having sent me three increasingly stern letters about it.
But oh well. At least Bat was going to be very happy with me.
Why do you care about some random ghost?
Because the happier he is, the more he’ll help me, I shot back at my own brain.
That was it. Pure transactional logic. Nothing to do with the way Bat’s face had lit up as he asked me to buy books. Nothing to do with wanting to see him smile again.
The man passed me my receipt, already stuffing my purchases into carrier bags. “Anything else?”
“Do you happen to have a… cassette player?” I found myself asking. “Or a CD player, even?”
My bank balance flashed red behind my eyelids. The direct debit for my phone was definitely going to bounce that month.
But my brain was already painting the picture.
Bat’s face when I walked back through those manor doors with an actual music player.
The way his deep brown eyes would widen.
That smile on his face again—the one that made him look less like a tortured emo ghost and more like an excited kid on Christmas morning.
Stop it, I told myself firmly. You barely know him. He’s dead. You’re broke.
None of that seemed to matter to the stupid, reckless part of my brain that was currently in control.
The man tilted his head, considering. “Ah, well. We get them donated occasionally, but nobody buys that sort of thing nowadays. Usually just bin them, to be honest.”
“Right,” I said, violently shoving away the disappointment seeping through me.
The man handed over the bulging carrier bags. Through the shop window, the high street stretched out, leading to the winding road back to Grimthorne Manor.
Back to Brad, who would definitely be angry at me for taking so long.
Back to Lady Grimthorne and the twins and Molly and all the others.
Back to Bat.
My stomach did something complicated that had nothing to do with hunger.
“But…” I said, turning back to the counter. “If you do get any music players donated—cassette, CD, vinyl—could you hold onto them? I’ll check back in a couple of days.”
The man’s eyebrows climbed towards his hairline. “You staying around here?”
“Sort of. Up at the manor.”
His expression shifted. Something between concern and curiosity flickered across his features. “Grimthorne Manor?” He crossed himself. “With all them workmen running off scared?”
Word travelled fast in small towns, apparently.
“I’m staying there, yeah.”
“Well.” He scratched his chin again. “I’ve heard some stories about that place. You be careful there, mind. Hold on a second… Do you want this?”
He pointed to something in the “discount bin” beside the counter, a.k.a. a cardboard box with a handwritten sign: EVERYTHING 50P.
Inside, buried beneath VHS tapes of recorded Coronation Street episodes and a guide to Windows 95, sat a slim book.
The Grim History of Grimthorne.
The cover showed an amateur photograph of the manor, slightly out of focus, its grey stone washed pale by overexposure. But unmistakeable.
I snatched it up. “What is it?”
“Well, it’s not what you’d call a real book, I guess. Some local loonie wrote it. Self?published. Only printed fifty copies or something daft. But I thought you might be interested.”
“I’ll take it.” I practically shouted the words, waving my debit card in the air.
“Please do,” the man said, clearly delighted to be rid of it.
I tapped my card against the reader for the extra fifty pence, then clutched the book like treasure.
The photo on the back showed an elderly man with wild white hair and round spectacles, grinning manically at the camera.
The bio beneath read: Alan Cromwell is a local historian and professional paranormal investigator.
Perfect. I could skim it tonight, maybe learn something useful. Look busy and vaguely competent in front of Brad.
The supermarket trip passed in a blur of fluorescent lights and too-bright aisles. I spent way over Brad’s allotted thirty pounds—closer to forty-five by the time I’d loaded the trolley with pasta, chicken, bread, cheese, crisps, and approximately twelve boxes of teabags. Molly’s fault, that.
Outside, that church spire caught my eye again. The stonework glowed honey-gold in the afternoon sun, ancient and solid and strangely inviting.
I wasn’t sure why, considering the way my arms screamed with my numerous heavy bags, but my feet started moving.
My family had never been one for church. Not even Midnight Mass at Christmas. Mum had called organised religion “a convenient fiction for people afraid of the dark.” Dad had simply shrugged and said he preferred lie-ins.
But I’d always found churches oddly soothing. The quiet calm. The hushed voices. The soft music drifting from unseen places. Like stepping into a bubble separate from the rest of the world.
The heavy wooden door groaned open.
Inside, the air sat cooler. Stained glass windows cast coloured patterns across flagstone floors, and rows of pews stretched towards an altar draped in white cloth.
Empty, except for a figure near the front.
A priest, tall and thin, dressed in black with a crisp white collar. He turned as I entered, his face breaking into a performative smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Good afternoon.” His voice echoed slightly. “Welcome to St. Augustine’s.”
“Hi.” I shuffled forward, suddenly aware of how loud my trainers sounded on the stone. “Sorry, I’m just… passing through the area.”
“Of course.” He clasped his hands together, studying me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. “Father Benedict Ashworth. And you are?”
“Charlie Hayes.”
“Well, Charlie.” Father Ashworth’s gaze travelled down to my jumpsuit, lingering on that bloody silly ghost. “Do let me know if I can help.”
An idea sparked. I dropped my bags and pulled out The Grim History of Grimthorne, turning it around to show him the author photo. “Actually, I picked this up at the charity shop. Apparently this guy is local? Do you know him?”
Father Ashworth’s expression curdled. “Alan Cromwell.” He said the name like it tasted sour. “Yes, I’m… acquainted with him.”
“Acquainted?”
“He had the audacity to ask to hold a book signing here once. On Halloween. Completely tasteless. I caught him outside once peddling them, spouting all sorts of nonsense to my churchgoers about the Witch of Grimthorne.”
“Oh?” I said, interest piqued. “A witch?”
“The man is a charlatan. A fraud,” Father Ashworth snapped. “He peddles superstition and nonsense to vulnerable people, charging them exorbitant fees for his so-called ‘readings.’” His eyes flicked back to my uniform. “ExorSquad. What is that, exactly?”
My face burned. “It’s, um. A company.”
“What sort of company?”
I straightened slightly, trying for confidence.
“I’m a Spirit Extraction Specialist.” The words nearly made me laugh.
Spirit Extraction Specialist. Gerald really had a gift for corporate doublespeak.
“I’m new to the job,” I added quickly. “But I’ve been called in to assist with Grimthorne Manor. Because it’s… haunted.”