4. Charlie #3
Except for the dust. Except for the touch. Except for—
Stop it.
“I heard music,” Brad said, his gaze sweeping the attic. “Like a guitar?”
I held up the instrument, forcing a casual shrug. “Found it. Thought I’d check if it still worked.”
His face fell. Actually fell, the disappointment so visible it would’ve been funny under different circumstances. “Oh. I thought…”
“What? That it was a ghost? Chilling in the attic playing a tune? Do you think it takes requests?”
“Never mind.” He moved further into the attic, pulling out that stupid Kestrel meter. “You get the measurements for up here, at least?”
“Yeah.” I patted my clipboard. “All documented. Can we go?”
I needed to get away from this place. Away from whatever I’d felt—or imagined I’d felt. Away from the impossible touch and the longing that hadn’t been mine.
Brad marched around the attic. “Temperature’s consistent,” Brad muttered. “No cold spots. EMF baseline. Nothing.”
“Great. Fantastic. Let’s go, then.”
He shot me a look but headed towards the door without argument. Small mercies.
I followed, the guitar tucked under my arm. Maybe if I took it downstairs, found a quiet moment away from Brad’s scrutiny, I could try playing again. See if…
What? See if the sentient dust motes came back? See if I could feel that touch again, that overwhelming rush of emotion that definitely wasn’t mine?
Ridiculous. My mind had played tricks in a creepy attic. Panic response. Imagination running wild in isolation. Nothing supernatural about it.
Except I could have sworn—
No! Stop!
The stairs groaned under our combined weight. Brad descended first, his footsteps heavy and certain. I followed more carefully, testing each step before committing my weight.
Something sleek and dark slipped between my legs.
My foot skidded. The guitar banged against the wall. I grabbed the bannister—a wobbling, ancient deathtrap—and caught myself before gravity could finish what the thing had started.
Fur. I’d felt fur.
A rat. Had to be a rat. Old houses were riddled with them.
Except rats didn’t move like that. Didn’t have that fluid, deliberate grace.
I looked down.
A cat stared back at me. Black as shadow, slender. A tom, by the look of him—all sleek lines and sharp features. His eyes caught the dim light, reflecting gold.
Not a rat, then.
My heart rate slowed. Just a cat. Probably wandered in through some broken window. Nothing sinister about a cat.
He was rather handsome, actually. I crouched, extending my free hand.
“Hello there.”
The cat’s tail swished. He stepped forward, sniffing my fingers with regal suspicion.
And that’s when Brad’s boot connected with the cat’s ribs.
Not hard—the cat twisted mid-air, landed on his feet with a hiss that echoed through the stairwell. But hard enough. Deliberate enough.
Fury ignited, lava hot. “What the hell, Brad?!”
The cat didn’t bolt. It should have bolted—any sensible animal would’ve fled from the hulking brute of a man who’d just kicked it. Instead, he launched himself upward, claws digging into my jumper as he scrambled into my arms.
I caught him on instinct. The cat’s body vibrated with a low growl, pressed against my chest like he belonged there.
“What was that about?” I glared up at him. “You just kicked him! For no reason!”
“Cats always get in the way.” Brad continued down the stairs without breaking stride. “Go put the mangey thing outside.”
The dismissal in his voice—the casual cruelty—made something snap.
“You go outside.”
Brad stopped. Turned. “What?”
I stood, cradling the cat with one arm, the guitar tucked awkwardly under the other. The cat’s claws dug through fabric into skin, anchoring him. His little heart hammered against my palm.
“This cat probably lives here. You’re just a guest.”
“Seriously?!” Brad’s face flushed crimson. He muttered something under his breath about why he only worked alone, something about other people being idiots.
“I’ve had enough for one day,” I snapped. “It’s gone five. I’m not working anymore. Unless Gerald is going to pay me overtime.”
Brad absolutely glowered at me. For a moment I thought he might actually argue, might pull out some clause from the ExorSquad handbook about dedication and professionalism. But he just jerked his head in a sharp nod.
“Fine then. I’m going for a run.”
He thundered down the remaining stairs, each footfall a small earthquake. A few moments later, the front door slammed hard enough to rattle the windows.
“Hope you trip and die,” I whispered.
The cat made a sound against my chest—half purr, half chuff. Almost like a laugh.
I looked down at him. His golden eyes stared back, impossibly knowing. The corner of his mouth curved up in what could only be described as a smirk.
“Did you just…?”
The cat blinked slowly. Pointedly. Then he tucked his head under my chin and began to purr in earnest, the vibration rumbling through both our bodies.
Right. Anthropomorphising animals. Another classic stress response. The cat hadn’t laughed at my death wish for Brad. Cats couldn’t laugh. Couldn’t understand human speech.
And ghosts weren’t real.
Right?