6. Charlie
six
Charlie
Ileft the kitchen.
The cat followed, silent padding footsteps behind me as I moved down the corridor. The banging continued—irregular thuds that seemed to come from deep below. Each one made the floorboards vibrate slightly under my feet.
The basement door loomed at the end of the hall. Plain wood, paint peeling, brass handle tarnished with age. Nothing special about it. Nothing to explain the cold dread pooling in my stomach.
Another bang. Louder this time. Closer.
My hand hovered over the handle.
A scraping sound joined the thuds. Metal dragging across stone, slow and deliberate. Sound that bypassed logic and went straight to the primitive part of my brain that still remembered predators in the dark.
Behind me, the cat erupted.
Yowling. Hissing. A sound that scraped at my nerves and set my teeth on edge. The tiny creature threw itself at my legs, clawing at my jeans, desperate and frantic.
“Bloody hell—”
I scooped him up. He writhed in my arms, a ball of black fur and panic, trying to twist away from the door. His eyes were wild. Terrified.
The banging intensified. Three rapid thuds, one after another. The lights flickered.
“Hey. Hey, it’s alright.” I held him close, one hand stroking his head, his little heartbeat rapid against my chest. “It’s just a basement. Nothing down there but junk and maybe some mice.”
The cat stilled slightly, but his body remained tense. Coiled.
“Look, mate.” I kept my voice low, soothing. Trying to convince myself as much as the cat. “There’s no such thing as ghosts. Whatever made that noise? Probably just pipes.”
Meow!
He did not agree with me.
Another bang.
“The best way to conquer fear is to face things head-on, yeah? That’s what my dad used to say.” I scratched under the cat’s chin. “Walk towards the thing that scares you. Prove to yourself it’s not as bad as your brain makes it out to be.”
The cat cocked his head. Stared at me with unnerving amber eyes.
Like he knew I was talking complete bollocks.
Because I was. When I saw spiders, I didn’t walk towards them. I ran. Fast. In the opposite direction. Usually I left the room entirely and didn’t come back until someone else dealt with it.
Face your fears. Right.
“Besides.” I shifted the cat in my arms. The scraping sound continued, rhythmic now. Insistent. “I work for ExorSquad. This is literally my job.”
Not really a lie. But… I’d been here less than twenty-four hours. Had exactly zero training beyond Ted’s disastrous PowerPoint presentation. And Brad—my actual partner—had buggered off entirely.
The cat’s claws flexed against my chest.
Another series of bangs erupted from below. Faster. Harder. Almost frantic.
“Let’s just have a quick look, yeah? Then we’ll go find you some more salmon.”
I reached for the handle again.
The cat went absolutely mental.
Thrashing. Claws out. A yowl that sounded almost human in its desperation. His back paw caught my neck, sharp and sudden. Pain bloomed hot across my skin.
“Ow! For fuc—”
The banging stopped.
Just. Stopped.
Complete silence filled the corridor. No creaks. No groans. No phantom scraping sounds. Even the ambient noises of the house—the distant tick of pipes, the whisper of wind through old windows—seemed to pause.
The cat went limp in my arms. Gave a single, soft meow.
I touched my neck. My fingers came away with a thin smear of blood.
“Alright, alright,” I said. “Point taken.”
The cat blinked at me.
“And anyway.” I stepped back from the door. “I’m off the ExorSquad clock. Brad’s gone. The Lancasters aren’t paying me overtime. So really, there’s no logical reason for me to go snooping around in a creepy basement when I could be relaxing.”
The cat purred.
“Right. Exactly.” I turned away from the door, carrying the cat back towards the kitchen. “Let’s go check all of the other kitchen cupboards to see if there’s any stashes of biscuits somewhere.”
How was my fellow trainee and biscuit-lover Gary getting on at Cornwall’s most haunted hotel? Hopefully they had digestives for him, and not just rich tea.
A low creak echoed behind me.
Like wood shifting against a frame.
Like a door beginning to open.
I held the cat very tightly to my chest and didn’t look back.
Purring woke me.
Low. Rhythmic. A motorboat vibrating against my ribcage.
I cracked one eye open. Pale morning light filtered through the grimy window, painting everything in shades of grey and dust. The black cat sat on my chest, kneading the duvet with its paws, staring at me with those unsettling amber eyes.
“You came back.”
The cat blinked slowly. Continued purring.
Last night, after the banging from the basement had stopped, the cat had vanished. Just slunk off into the shadows somewhere, leaving me alone when Brad finally returned from his marathon run—sweaty, red-faced, and mercifully too knackered to talk much.
We’d eaten dinner in near silence. Tomato pasta. No cheese. The Lancasters hadn’t exactly stocked the fridge and cupboards for us, as much as Gerald had encouraged me to steal anything I could find. Brad had scarfed his down without complaint, but mine had tasted like cardboard and sadness.
Afterwards, we’d agreed to hunt for phone signal instead of ghosts.
A mutually beneficial task. The only thing we’d managed to coordinate on all day.
We’d been without data or Wi-Fi for almost twelve hours by then. Proper millennial crisis territory. One more hour and we’d have had full-blown panic attacks, probably started drawing on cave walls or something equally primitive.
Brad had suggested the east wing. I’d countered with the west. We’d split up, both of us wandering the upper floors with our phones held aloft like dowsing rods, desperate for that single bar of salvation.
I’d found it, eventually. A spot on the third-floor landing, right next to a portrait of some sour-faced Victorian bloke in a cravat. Two bars. Flickering, but persistent.
Brad had joined me there. We’d sat on the dusty floorboards, backs against opposite walls, and scrolled in silence for an hour.
Emily had texted asking if I had any more guesses for Lily’s picture. Two friends had posted engagement photos. My mum had sent a message with seven grammatical errors asking when I’d visit next.
I’d replied to Emily. Ignored the rest.
Brad had eventually grunted something about an early start, and we’d headed down to bed.
And now the cat was back, nuzzling into the crook of my neck, warm and solid and impossibly friendly.
I’d never met a friendlier cat. Most strays I’d encountered had been feral, skittish things that hissed if you got within three metres. This one acted like I’d adopted it years ago.
“Alright, alright.” I shifted, and the cat hopped off me, tail high. “I’m up.”
I swung my legs out of bed. My breath fogged in the cold air. Christ, it was freezing. The radiators probably hadn’t worked since the 1950s.
I peeled off my pyjamas, shivering as the frigid morning air hit my skin. Goosebumps erupted across my arms, my chest, down my stomach.
The cat watched from the end of the bed.
Just… stared.
Right at my dick.
Its tail flicked. Back and forth. Almost… appreciatively?
“Oi.” I grabbed a pillow and held it strategically. “Pervert.”
The cat’s whiskers twitched.
I turned away, rummaging through my bag for clean clothes. The navy-blue ExorSquad jumpsuit stared up at me from the bottom. Polyester. Badly stitched. With the company logo emblazoned on the arm.
I’d sworn I wouldn’t wear it.
But my favourite jeans were filthy from yesterday and I hadn’t brought that many spare clothes with me. Was there a working washing machine in this manor? Probably not. Definitely not.
Bollocks.
I pulled the jumpsuit on, zipping it up to my collarbone. It fit poorly—too tight across the shoulders, too loose around the waist—and made me look like a discount Ghostbuster.
But it would save my own clothes from getting ruined, at least.
A knock at the door made me jump.
“Yeah?”
Brad pushed inside, holding a steaming mug. “Morning.”
I blinked. “Morning.”
He crossed the room, extending the mug towards me. Tea. Actual tea, with milk by the looks of it.
“Thought you might want this.”
Warmth bloomed in my chest. Not from the tea—I hadn’t even taken it yet—but from the gesture itself.
Maybe this was a peace offering. Maybe Brad wasn’t a complete wanker after all. Maybe we could grow to be friends out here, despite the homophobia and the cat kicking and the general air of barely contained hostility.
“Cheers.” I took the mug, wrapping my fingers around its warmth. “That’s actually—”
A spider crawled over the rim.
Big. Black. Eight spindly legs moving in perfect synchronisation as it perched on the edge, inches from my face.
My heart stopped. My brain short-circuited.
Everything narrowed to that spider. That horrible, monstrous spider. Right there. Right there.
I screamed.
Dropped the mug.
It hit the floor and exploded. Porcelain shards scattered across the floorboards. Boiling tea splashed everywhere—across my jumpsuit, across my trainers, pooling in the gaps between the wood.
Brad doubled over laughing. Great, heaving belly laughs that shook his entire frame.
“You should see your face!”
“You asshole!” My voice came out strangled, high-pitched. “You absolute bastard! You fucking—”
“Christ, Charlie, it’s just a spider.”
“It’s not ‘just’ anything!”
“Listen, mate, you need to conquer this stupid fear if you’re going to survive this job.” Brad wiped tears from his eyes, still grinning. “Can’t have you screaming every time you see something with eight legs.”
The spider hadn’t died in the carnage. Of course it hadn’t. It crawled towards my foot, navigating the puddle of tea with deliberate intent.
I jumped backwards. Slammed into the broken wardrobe.
The spider kept coming.
Then the cat moved.
A black blur. Lightning fast. It pounced, scooped the spider up in its mouth, and swallowed.
Just like that.
Gone.
The cat licked its chops, looking smug.
Brad’s laughter stopped. “For fuck’s sake, what’s that rodent doing in here?”
I stared at the cat. The cat stared back, tail swishing.