8. Charlie #2
We traipsed upstairs to Brad’s stash of equipment. His room was definitely nicer than mine. Larger window. Less cobwebs in the corners. His massive suitcase gaped open on the bed, contents spilling across the duvet.
He scooped up several handfuls of salt from a bag and dumped them into my outstretched palms. The tiny crystals were cold, surprisingly heavy.
I shoved them into my pockets. They bulged awkwardly, making me look even sillier.
I felt ridiculous.
Yet… safer.
Maybe I could sprinkle salt around my bed tonight. Create a protective circle or some shit. Like something out of a paranormal film.
The absurdity hit me sideways. Me, on my hands and knees, drawing salt circles like a paranoid occultist. A laugh barked out of my throat before I could stop it.
Brad side-eyed me. “What?”
“Nothing.”
He rummaged through his suitcase, tossing aside rugby shirts and protein bars, then whipped out—
A gun.
I jumped backwards, hands shooting up. “What the fuck!”
Brad laughed. Actually laughed, waving the thing about like it was a toy. “Relax. I’m not going to shoot you.” He studied it, tilting it in the light. “Well, unless you jump in the way.”
“Why have you brought a gun here?” The words came out strangled. I stared at the weapon—sleek black metal, compact barrel. I’d never seen a gun before. Not outside of crime dramas anyway.
Brad grinned. He raised it, mimed shooting me.
I flinched.
His grin widened. “Jumpy.”
Asshole.
I gritted my teeth, forced myself to lower my hands. “Answer the bloody question.”
“It’s not a gun, you muppet. It’s a PolterPulse V2.
1.” He held it up proudly. “Laser plasma accelerator. Gerald’s latest kit from that guy I was saying about.
It can banish spirits for a short time—doesn’t kill them permanently, just disrupts their manifestation.
Sends them packing for a bit. Gives you breathing room. ”
“Can I have one?”
“No.” Brad’s smile turned nasty. “They only issued one, and I’m keeping it. You haven’t done the advanced training, so you’d probably fry your own brains with it or something. You’ll just have to stick close to me.”
I stared at him.
No thanks. I’d rather die.
“Right,” Brad announced, tucking the PolterPulse back into his belt. “Can’t get into the crypt yet, so next on our list is the basement.”
A prickle ran across the back of my neck. Cold. Like someone had blown gently against my skin.
I spun around.
Nothing.
The room was empty except for Brad’s scattered belongings. Yet the sensation lingered—a ghost of breath against my nape, raising goosebumps along my arms.
“Um… do we have to?”
Every horror film I’d ever watched flashed through my mind. Basements had a terrible reputation. Dark. Confined. Full of things that wanted to murder you. The smart characters never went into basements. The smart characters survived.
Brad smirked. “What, scared?”
“No.” Yes. Absolutely terrified.
“You can stand guard upstairs if you’re too chickenshit.” He snapped his suitcase closed with unnecessary force. “I’ll handle the real work.”
The insult stung, even though standing guard sounded infinitely preferable to descending into whatever hell waited below. But I couldn’t let him think I was useless. Not after spending all day on the sofa.
“The Lancasters said the basement’s blocked off,” I pointed out. “Remember? Evelyn mentioned it—door’s jammed shut at the bottom. None of the workmen could get it open.”
Brad shrugged, flexing his arms. The muscles in his shoulders bunched under his jumpsuit. “We’ll see about that.”
“Your brute-force approach didn’t get you very far at the crypt.”
He scowled. “That was different.”
Was it?
Brad strode past me, his trainers thumping against the floorboards. I followed, because what choice did I really have?
The corridor stretched ahead, darker than before. Afternoon was quickly bleeding into evening, shadows pooling in the corners. Brad didn’t slow down. He navigated the manor with confidence now, having memorised the layout during his multiple surveys.
We descended the spiral staircase—the same one I’d tumbled down this morning. My hand clutched the wobbly bannister, knuckles white. Each step creaked, the sound echoing up the stairwell.
At the bottom, Brad turned left. The corridor narrowed, walls pressing closer. Paint peeled in long strips, exposing bare plaster underneath. Dread mounted with each step. Not normal fear—something heavier. Secondhand, almost. Like wearing someone else’s anxiety. My head spun slightly.
The concussion. A sensible person would have insisted that they needed to go to the hospital.
Brad reached a door at the corridor’s end. Plain wood, unremarkable except for the way shadows seemed to cluster around it.
He twisted the handle.
Nothing.
“There’s no lock,” he murmured, running his fingers along the frame.
He tried again, yanking harder. The door shuddered, then gave way with a groan that scraped down my spine.
Cold air rushed out. Not the ordinary chill of an old house—this was wrong. It sank into my bones, made my teeth chatter.
Brad pulled the door wide. Stone steps descended into darkness.
“After you,” he said.