Charlie
twenty-five
The thundering of footsteps downstairs jolted me awake.
For a disoriented moment, I had no idea where I was. Then the rafters came into focus above me, draped in cobwebs that swayed gently in some phantom breeze. The attic. Right.
Pale morning light streamed through the small window, painting everything in shades of grey. My neck ached from the awkward angle I’d been sleeping at, and my arm had gone completely numb under Bat’s weight.
Bat, who was pressed against me, solid and cool and—
The footsteps grew louder. Closer.
Fuck.
We’d stayed up here all of yesterday, hiding from Brad and the inevitable. I’d snuck downstairs to grab Bat’s guitar.
“Play something,” he’d said.
So I did. Started with the songs he’d requested, even having a crack at a Bush track he’d been obsessed with. My fingers fumbled at first, but he didn’t care. Bat had closed his eyes, swaying slightly, mouthing along to lyrics he’d never get to hear performed live again.
Then he’d asked me to play my own stuff.
“I don’t really… I haven’t written anything in ages.”
“Liar.” He’d nudged my knee with his. “I know you’ve got stuff in there.”
He wasn’t wrong. So I’d played him a half-finished thing I’d tinkered around with in my twenties, feeling exposed and ridiculous, but Bat had leaned forward, utterly focused.
When I’d stumbled over a chord progression, he’d hummed a melody that fit perfectly—something with an alternative edge that shouldn’t have worked but did.
We’d spent hours like that. Me playing, him singing bits and pieces, both of us riffing off each other.
At one point he’d taken his guitar and played me something fun and upbeat.
Raw, unpolished but good, the sort of thing that would’ve found an audience if he’d just had more time.
His voice had cracked on the high notes, rusty from disuse maybe, but I couldn’t look away.
The way he’d looked at me then—like maybe he’d found the point of music again, just for a moment—had stolen the air from my lungs. Had stolen my heart.
After that, we’d curled up together and I’d spent a good long while trying to explain things Bat had missed—short form video had broken his brain entirely (“So people just… watch strangers do dances? For hours? And this is entertainment?”), and he’d been genuinely distressed to learn about the decline of physical music media (“What do you mean people don’t own their music?
What if the internet gets hacked and everything gets deleted? !”).
Then we’d ranted about the absolute state of modern charts—him utterly baffled that songs could be written by committees of twelve people, me defending some pop whilst simultaneously agreeing that yes, most of it was soulless drivel.
Somewhere in there, I’d told him more about Dad.
About the gigs he used to take me to—tiny venues with sticky floors and speakers that rattled my ribcage.
How music had been our thing until he died, and then it became just my thing, this painful reminder I couldn’t touch without bleeding.
How I’d finally convinced myself it was useless, that I wasn’t special enough, that I should get a proper job and stop wasting my time on impossible dreams.
Bat had kissed me then, slow and sweet, and whispered that my dad would’ve been so bloody proud of me, regardless.
After that, we’d watched two rom-coms back to back, the mobile signal so glitchy it took almost six hours to get through them both.
Bat had opinions. Strong opinions about why The Holiday was “proof that rich people have no real problems.” Then You’ve Got Mail made him “weirdly nostalgic for dial-up tones and that three-minute wait for a single email.”
We’d fallen asleep tangled together, the blankets just enough to shield me from the attic’s glacial chill.
The footsteps hit the stairs. Attic stairs.
“Bat!” I hissed.
His eyes snapped open—brown and warm and completely alert.
The footsteps thundered upward.
Bat disappeared.
One second, he was solid beneath my palm. The next, nothing. Just cold air and the faint impression of where he’d been.
The door burst open.
Brad stood there, red-faced and furious, dressed in his ExorSquad uniform still even though we were fired. His hair stuck up at odd angles, and he had a smudge of what looked like black salt across his cheek.
“What the fuck?” He glared at me. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
I scrambled upright, the blanket pooling around my waist. “I—”
“You weren’t in your room. You weren’t in the kitchen. I checked the bloody garden, Charlie. I looked down the well.” He gestured wildly at the rafters. “And you’re up here? Why?”
Think. Fast.
“Spider,” I blurted.
Brad’s expression flattened. “Spider.”
“In my room. Massive one. On the pillow.” I widened my eyes, aiming for traumatised. “I couldn’t—I just couldn’t sleep in there. So I came up here.”
Brad looked pointedly at the cobwebs draping every surface, hanging in thick curtains from the rafters. Decades’ worth of spiders had clearly made this attic their kingdom.
“Right,” he said slowly. “So you, with your crippling arachnophobia, decided the dusty attic full of cobwebs was the safe option.”
Bollocks.
“I had my eyes closed the whole time,” I tried.
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m an exhausted liar. There’s a difference.”
Brad pressed two fingers to his creased forehead. “Look, I don’t care what weird breakdown you’re probably having over your goth ghost boyfriend. Just make sure you’re all ready to go when the mechanic arrives. It won’t take long to change those tyres, especially if I help him.”
His gaze raked over me—skinny, uncoordinated, absolutely useless with anything mechanical. The judgement was palpable. He definitely knew I’d never changed a tyre in my life.
“So get ready to leave,” Brad continued. “Pack your stuff. Say your goodbyes. We’re leaving the second those tyres are on. I’m getting Gerald to send me to Cornwall tomorrow. Even if Gary isn’t already dead, Gerald will need me there.”
He stormed off, his footsteps retreating down the stairs with considerably less urgency than they’d arrived with.
I stayed frozen for a moment, listening to him go. When the sound faded completely, I finally exhaled. Then I forced myself to my feet to stretch. My spine cracked in about six places.
“Boo.”
I yelped and spun round. Bat floated near the window, grinning like an absolute bastard.
“You—” I pressed a hand to my racing heart. “Bloody hell, you nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“That was the idea.” He drifted closer, his form more translucent in the morning light. “Though your scream needs work. Very undignified.”
“I didn’t scream.”
“You absolutely did.”
I grabbed the blanket and stood, wrapping it round my shoulders like a cape. “Right. Well. I suppose I should go pack, then.”
Bat’s smile dimmed slightly. “Suppose you should.”
“But…” I hesitated. “You’re going to haunt me for the next couple of hours, yeah?”
His smile returned, softer this time. “Definitely planning on it.”
The reception area felt cavernous and cold. Our bags were already loaded in Brad’s car.
Bat’s guitar was in there too. I’d hesitated before taking it downstairs, but Bat had looked at me with those wide brown eyes and said, “Please. Just… play it sometimes. Think of me.”
Like I’d be able to think of anything else.
Brad had raised an eyebrow when he’d seen me carrying it down. “Taking souvenirs now, are we?”
“It’s—”
“I don’t care.” He’d waved me off. “We’re getting fuck all pay for this job now, thanks to the Lancasters. Take that whole bloody chandelier if you want.”
Now rain hammered the front windows, sheets of water obscuring the courtyard beyond. Thunder rolled overhead, deep and ominous, like the manor itself was growling.
“We can’t catch a break,” Brad muttered. He stood near the door, arms crossed, jaw tight. His gaze kept darting to the storm, then to his watch. “Bloody typical. Weather like this, we’ll be crawling back to London for hours.”
I said nothing. The journey stretched ahead of me—three, maybe four hours of rain-slicked motorways and Brad’s commentary on my various failings. What a delightful way to end this trip.
Bat hovered near the staircase, horribly translucent in the grey light. He looked wretched. Each time I glanced his way, he forced a smile that made everything worse.
Thunder cracked directly overhead. The lights flickered.
“Just splendid,” Brad said.
Headlights cut through the rain. Two beams swinging toward the gate.
Brad straightened. “Finally. About bloody time.”
I squinted through the downpour. Wrong shape. Too sleek, too low to the ground. A Mercedes, all gleaming silver paint and tinted windows. Certainly not a mechanic’s van.
The car idled at the gate. Harrison jumped out, rain immediately plastering his hair to his skull. He fumbled with the padlock, yanked the gate open, then jogged back to the driver’s seat. The Mercedes rolled through, tyres splashing through puddles.
“I thought maybe we’d dodge seeing them again,” I said, sighing. “At least that corridor is looking spotless.”
The car pulled up in the courtyard. Both front doors opened. Harrison emerged first, then Evelyn, clutching her handbag over her head. But the rear door opened too.
A man climbed out. Tall. Thin. Black suit, white collar stark against the storm’s grey backdrop.
It took me a moment to place him. Then recognition hit like a slap.
“Shit.”
“What?” Brad rounded on me.
“That’s Father Ashworth. From St. Augustine’s in the village.” My mouth fell dry. “I met him when I went for supplies. He’s the priest.”
Brad’s frown deepened. “What the hell is he doing here?”
Father Ashworth carried a small black briefcase with him, head bowed against the rain. Harrison hefted something from the boot—a power tool, orange and black, unmistakably an electric saw. The scream of its blade sliced through my imagination.
My dread crystallised into something sharp and cold.
The trio hurried towards the entrance. Brad stepped back as they pushed through, bringing a gust of wind and rain with them.
Evelyn’s eyes widened when she saw us lingering there.
“We’d hoped you’d already be gone,” Harrison said bluntly. Water dripped from his hair onto the flagstones.
Brad’s spine straightened. “I told you, the mechanic said afternoon.”
Father Ashworth’s gaze found mine. Something calculated flickered behind the performative warmth. “Hello again, Charlie.”
My hands clenched. “What’s going on?”
Brad echoed me, sharper. “Yeah. What’s going on?”
Father Ashworth set his briefcase upright, smoothing his wet robes with a theatrical flourish. “I’m here to cleanse this house of its demons.”
Silence. Rain drummed against the windows.
Evelyn shifted her weight, guilt written across her face. “Father Ashworth reached out to us a couple of days ago. And after we spoke to him about the situation, he very generously offered to help.”
“How kind,” I said to the priest, voice flat. “I remember everything you said to me that day, about people taking advantage of vulnerable clients. Really charitable of you to give up your time like this.”
Father Ashworth’s fingers stilled on his robes. A flash of something crossed his face—irritation, maybe. I’d bet my last quid there was a hefty church donation in the Lancasters’ future.
“Please know that we’re really grateful for your efforts,” Evelyn said quickly, addressing Brad and me. “Both of you. What you apparently discovered about the basement—that might end up helping us enormously.”
My blood turned to ice. Behind me, Bat gasped.
“What… what do you mean?” The words barely left my throat.
“When you told us yesterday that the source of the house’s evil was in the basement.” Evelyn gestured vaguely towards the floor. “We passed that information to Father Ashworth. We’re here to open it so he can perform the exorcism.”
“No!” The word tore out of me.
“No!” Bat’s shout overlapped mine, inaudible to everyone but me.
“That door needs to stay sealed,” I said, not caring how deranged I sounded. “If whatever’s down there gets out, it could kill us all. You don’t understand—”
A crash erupted from upstairs. Then another. Glass shattering? Something heavy hitting the floor?
I spun towards Bat, his face the very picture of alarm.
“The library,” he said, head tilted towards the high ceiling.
Harrison lifted the electric saw. “Right. I don’t believe we’re going to find anything in that bloody basement, but let’s get this over with. You two stay here. Better yet, go wait in your car for the mechanic.”
“Absolutely not.” Brad moved forward. “You three have got no idea what you might be dealing with. We need to stay as backup.” He tapped his utility belt.
“We don’t need—”
“This is our job, mate. You hired us for a reason—”
Bat’s hand touched my shoulder. “I’m going upstairs.”
I didn’t think. Just moved. Brad and Harrison’s argument faded behind me as I followed Bat towards the staircase, trying to stop my trainers squeaking on the flagstones.
Bat didn’t look back. He drifted ahead of me, flying up the stairs, his form flickering like a faulty lightbulb. Another crash from the library.
The library doors stood open. I skidded through them, chest heaving, just as a leather?bound volume sailed across the room and slammed into the far wall.
Lady Grimthorne stood in the centre of the chaos, books scattered at her feet, her translucent hands clutching at her gown. Her usual composure had shattered completely. She paced in tight circles, head jerking from side to side.
“They can’t! We must stop them!”
Another book flew from the shelf, the spine crackling against the doorframe inches from my head, and I ducked instinctively.
Bat materialised fully beside me. “Lady Grimthorne, please. Calm down. Stop throwing the books!”
“We have to do something!” She whirled towards us wildly. “He mustn’t be allowed out!”
The naked terror in her voice sent a violent, visceral shiver through me, the dread pooling in my stomach growing stronger.
“I know.” Bat’s voice hardened. “But screaming about it isn’t going to help.”
“You don’t understand.” Her hands trembled as she pressed them against her chest.
“What don’t I understand?”
Lady Grimthorne fell utterly still. Then she drifted towards the tall windows overlooking the garden, her back to us. Rain streaked down the glass, blurring the gloomy landscape beyond.
“Lady G?” Bat moved closer, his voice softening.
Silence stretched between them. Only the rain and my laboured breathing filled the space.
“He was such a nice boy,” she whispered, so quietly that the words barely reached me. “Kind. Generous.”
“Who was?” Bat asked.
She didn’t turn. Her reflection in the rain-soaked window showed a face carved from grief.
“Cornelius. Cornelius Grimthorne, who is currently locked in that basement.” The words fell like boulders. “My son.”