1. Charlie #3
The article was brief, mentioning an upcoming exhibition at Chetham Library featuring recently recovered occult items from the famous Elizabethan mathematician and occultist Dr. John Dee’s collection.
However, the centrepiece—a rare obsidian scrying mirror worth hundreds of thousands of pounds—remained missing, presumed stolen.
Police sources suggested the theft was an inside job, carried out by someone with extensive knowledge of the collection’s history and security arrangements.
A grainy photograph accompanied the text: the ancient mirror freshly unearthed, still caked in dirt, lying on a tarp beside the excavation pit. Even in the poor-quality newsprint, something about it seemed to swallow the light around it.
Footsteps near the door. I quickly shoved the clipping back under the invoices, heart hammering against my ribs. Nosiness would certainly be another strike against me.
Gerald shuffled back in, cigarette dangling from his lips like a permanent fixture. He threw himself back into his chair.
“Right,” I said, attempting to sound casual. “So… you mentioned a competitive salary. How much more than minimum wage are we talking?”
Gerald’s answering laugh was more of a wheeze. “Ah, right, so it’s competitive because it comes with so many benefits.”
I fought desperately not to roll my eyes. I wasn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t reach over and stub his cigarette out on my forehead.
“Oh? Such as?”
“The travel,” he said proudly, ash tumbling from his cigarette onto the desk. “At ExorSquad, we have cases coming in from Land’s End, Penzance, all the way up to Scotland.”
I smiled, trying to inject some enthusiasm into it. “Well, as you can see from my CV, I do love travel.”
What I didn’t mention was that I didn’t own a car. Could barely afford the Tube half the time, let alone petrol and insurance and all the other financial black holes that came with vehicle ownership.
“Do your employees usually take the train?”
Gerald shrugged. “If they fancy it. As long as they get there on time.”
My mind whirred with possibilities. Maybe I could somehow wrangle some side benefits out of this.
Take a job in Edinburgh, stop off to see Emily on the way.
Kill two birds with one stone. Show up at her door looking professional and employed, sweep Lily into my arms, prove I wasn’t the complete disaster everyone thought I was.
“And all expenses are paid?”
Gerald’s expression darkened. “Not exactly.”
“What do you mean?”
“We provide uniforms, training, equipment, and employee support during business hours.”
I blinked at him. Surely I was confused? “So, just to clarify, you don’t pay our travel if we’re sent up to Manchester, or the middle of Wales even?”
“That’s correct.”
“And what about food?”
“What about it?”
“Do you offer, like, a five-pound lunch budget or something?”
Gerald barked a laugh that dissolved into a wet cough. He hacked for several seconds before recovering enough to speak.
“No… look, if the homeowner doesn’t offer you something to eat, just help yourself to whatever is in their kitchen.” He pointed his cigarette at me. “But be sneaky about it, mind.”
This time, I couldn’t suppress my sigh.
“I have one final question,” Gerald announced.
“Shoot,” I said.
“Do you have any phobias?”
My stomach swooped. A flash of memory—dark and cramped, stone pressing in, something bursting under my palm, movement everywhere, too many legs—
I swallowed hard. Forced my face into neutral lines.
“No. Nothing like that.”
The lie came out smooth. Natural. I’d had years of practice pretending certain things didn’t bother me, didn’t send ice flooding through my veins at the mere thought.
Gerald studied me for a beat too long, those milky eyes unreadable through the cigarette smoke. Then he nodded. “Immediate start?”
My mouth opened before my brain could catch up. “Yeah. Absolutely.”
Gerald stubbed out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray shaped like a miniature coffin. He wiped his tobacco-stained fingers on his trousers and extended his hand across the desk.
“Then welcome to the team, Charlie.”
My hand remained frozen in my lap.
This was insane. Utterly, completely insane. They wanted me to travel the length of Britain on my own money, steal food from clients’ fridges, and perform elaborate theatrical productions designed to con desperate, grieving people out of their hard-earned cash. All for minimum wage.
The ethical implications crashed over me like a wave of filthy water.
I didn’t believe in ghosts. Obviously. The supernatural was nonsense, stories people told themselves to feel less afraid, to cope with loss, to inject meaning into random tragedy.
And ExorSquad clearly preyed on that vulnerability.
They probably had a whole arsenal of tricks—cold reading, hidden speakers, all the classic mentalist techniques repackaged as “spirit extraction.”
It was despicable.
Morally bankrupt.
A complete and utter scam.
But then again… if people were stupid enough to fall for this?
I reached across the desk and shook his hand.