2. Charlie
two
Charlie
The projection flickered against the grubby white wall—not even a proper screen, just one of those ancient pull-down things that probably predated the internet.
The image showed a crude diagram of a human figure surrounded by wavy lines that might have been drawn by a particularly untalented five-year-old.
“This,” Ted said, pointing at the wobbly lines with his pen, “represents negative spiritual energy.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. Three days ago, I’d signed my life away to Gerald’s shady operation. This morning, I’d endured the world’s most depressing tour of ExorSquad HQ.
The highlight: a tech specialist called Hollis who apparently lived in a broom cupboard.
Literally. Ted had knocked on the door, and a pale hand had emerged to snatch up my induction paperwork before the door slammed shut again.
“You can call him for help and advice on any of the provided equipment,” Ted had said cheerfully, “or to consult his database of paranormal entities.”
Then we’d visited the storage room to collect my “uniform”—navy blue overalls that smelled faintly of mildew and someone else’s sweat. Lovely.
“Do I have to wear them on duty?” I’d asked.
Ted had shuddered. “Oh, I definitely think you’ll want to. Haunts can get messy.”
Finally, he’d led us towards the “conference room” for training. My heart had lifted. I’d pictured something corporate and clean—a long, polished table, ergonomic chairs. Fancy pens and paper. A water cooler, at the very least.
The reality: a windowless room barely larger than my flat’s bathroom, dominated by a folding table that looked like it might collapse if you breathed on it too hard. Five plastic chairs, two of them cracked. A portable fan that wheezed asthmatically in the corner.
Ted had begun his presentation by clarifying that he had no personal experience of haunts himself, “so please try not to ask too many questions.”
Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.
Luckily, I wasn’t alone in this hellscape.
I had a friend—well, a fellow trainee called Gary, which was almost the same thing.
He sat beside me, arms folded, sporting the most impressive moustache I’d seen outside of a period drama.
A proper seventies porn?star number that kept catching my attention at wildly inappropriate moments.
“As you can see from this diagram,” Ted continued, clicking to the next slide, “entities feed on fear. The more afraid you are, the stronger they become.”
Gary’s moustache twitched. He rolled his eyes.
The new image showed a stick figure running away from a blob with fangs. Actual fangs. On a blob.
“So the trick is to remain calm at all times.” Ted’s voice carried the conviction of someone reading from a script they didn’t believe. “Show no fear. Maintain professional composure.”
“Right,” I said. “Because that’s easy when you’re facing down a literal demon, which according to you, we will be.”
“Well, it’s all in the handbook.”
Ah yes, the handbook. About a hundred pages of spiral-bound A4 paper.
Photocopied nonsense, complete with smudged diagrams and sections that looked like they’d been written by different people who’d never communicated with each other.
The cover featured the ExorSquad logo and the inspiring title: Employee Safety Manual and Operational Guidelines (Revised Edition).
“Gerald always likes you to have read at least the first ten rules before we send you out.”
I dutifully turned the pages.
Rule #1: The Entity Is Always Lying
Whether it’s claiming to be a murdered Victorian child, a wronged lover, or the ghost of bloody Henry VIII himself, do not believe a word of it.
Spirits lie. They lie about their deaths, their motivations, and especially about what will make them leave.
That weeping woman isn’t sobbing because she misses her long-lost fiancé, she’s sobbing because she’s bored and you’re entertainment.
The only truth you can trust is this: they don’t want to go, and they’ll say anything to stay.
So when the ghost swears on its eternal soul that it just needs you to dig up its beloved locket from beneath the rose bush, save yourself the blisters. Zap first, ask questions never.
“What if it’s not lying?” Gary asked. His voice matched his appearance—flat, bored, like he’d already accepted the futility of existence. “Statistically, some percentage of entities must be telling the truth.”
Ted blinked. “Sorry?”
“Basic probability. If every entity lies one hundred percent of the time, that’s actually valuable information. But if even one percent tells the truth, your rule is useless.”
“I… well, you see…” Ted fumbled with his papers. “It’s more of a guideline than—”
“So it’s not actually Rule Number One, then.”
“It’s all in the handbook,” Ted repeated, a bit desperately this time.
I liked Gary.
The next slide appeared. A photograph of what looked like someone’s nan’s living room, except the wallpaper seemed to be bleeding.
“This is a Class Three entity,” Ted said. “Note the physical corruption of the environment. In cases like these, you’ll want to refer to page forty-seven of your handbook, subsection B.”
I flipped to page forty-seven. Subsection B consisted of three words: Run Very Fast.
“Is this a joke?” I held up the handbook.
“What? No. That’s genuine advice.” Ted tilted his head, frowning. “Class Three manifestations are extremely dangerous. The survival rate is—”
“Survival rate?!” Gary leaned forward.
“It’s all in the—”
“The handbook, yes.”
I turned the pages all the way to Rule #412.
Rule #412: Do Not Accept Food or Drink from Spirits
No matter how polite the entity seems, no matter how lovely that spectral cup of tea looks, do not consume anything offered by the deceased.
We’ve lost three operatives this year alone to “just a biscuit” or “one sip of wine.” Side effects include: uncontrollable vomiting, temporary possession, permanent possession, spontaneous combustion, and an inexplicable compulsion to waltz.
Besides, ghost food tastes like disappointment and ectoplasm.
(Note: This rule does not apply if you are already dead. In which case, carry on.)
“Three operatives,” I read aloud. “This year alone. To ghost biscuits.”
Gary’s moustache twitched again. “What kind of biscuit?”
“I don’t think that’s the relevant question,” Ted said.
“I’m just saying, if I’m going to die via haunted confectionery, I’d like to know if it’s at least a decent digestive or just a basic rich tea.”
“The type of biscuit doesn’t matter when you’re spontaneously combusting!”
“Matter of opinion.” Gary slouched lower in his chair. “I’d rather go out in flames after a good biscuit than live after eating a rich tea biscuit. That’s not living, that’s just existing.”
Ted clicked to the next slide, which showed what appeared to be a blurry photograph of a torch. Just a torch. Nothing else.
“Your standard issue equipment includes one torch, one EMF reader—that’s electromagnetic field—one canister of sanctified salt, one vial of holy water, and one backup vial of holy water in case you drop the first one.
” He spoke faster now, like he wanted to get through this before we asked more questions.
“The salt creates barriers, the water weakens entities, the EMF reader detects spiritual activity, and the torch helps you see in the dark.”
The projection clicked to a new slide. A photograph of the “standard-issue torch,” except this one appeared to be melting.
“Sometimes,” Ted said, his voice very small, “the equipment malfunctions.”
Gary stood up, his chair scraping vehemently against the floor. “I need to take a piss,” he said, and walked out.
Ted looked at me. I looked at Ted. The fan wheezed its death rattle.
“Do you want to take a break?” he asked.
I eyed the door. Maybe now was the time to make a run for it. These people were even more insane than I thought.
But…
My empty bank account. My disappointed mother. My younger sister with her perfect doctor life and perfect doctor husband and perfect daughter. My failed attempts at every other career path I’d tried.
The one-in-three chance I wouldn’t see next year if I kept eating instant ramen every evening.
“No,” I said. “Let’s keep going.”
Ted’s shoulders sagged. He clicked to the next slide. The image showed a house engulfed in flames.
“Now,” he said, “let’s talk about what to do when a haunt gets out of control.”
It was over. Finally.
I suspected Ted cut the session short around the time Gary started yawning with the subtlety of a foghorn. The dramatic head tilt. The drawn-out groan. The performance earned him a pained look from our lecturer, who’d been mid-sentence about containment protocols.
“Right,” Ted said, clicking off the projector. “I think that’s enough for today.”
Gary had stood before Ted finished speaking.
We shuffled back into the reception area. Shouting erupted from Gerald’s office.
I froze. Ted didn’t even glance up from organising papers on his desk.
“Gary?!” The voice wasn’t Gerald’s. Younger. Sharper. “You’re going to send Gary to Cornwall’s most haunted hotel? He won’t last an hour!”
Gerald’s raspy voice rumbled something indistinct. Then I caught, “I’d send Raul but I need him at the Cotswolds. It’s an emergency. The owner’s threatening to go to another company if I can’t deliver by tomorrow.”
A snort. “Raul? He’s an idiot. Been here three months and thinks he knows more than me.”
“He’s a glorified babysitter for the new kid I hired today. Liam Locke. It’s probably just a Class Three spirit down in Cornwall, anyway.”
“That’s irrelevant! If we’ve just lost Camille there, then we need me at the hotel. Have you seen Gary? The man can barely climb a flight of stairs!”
“Lost” Camille?
“He’ll be fine. He looks vaguely intelligent.”
A snort. More mumbling. Then, “—want me to go with that other new guy? You know I only work alone!”
My gut twisted. Was that me?!