10. Charlie
ten
Charlie
The corridor stretched ahead, dim and unwelcoming. My breath misted in the frigid air.
It was bloody freezing.
I hugged myself, bare arms prickling with goosebumps beneath my thin T-shirt and pyjama bottoms. Last night had been worse, though. Proper Arctic. I’d wrapped myself in every blanket I could find and still shivered myself into fitful sleep.
The cat had saved me. Crept through the door sometime after midnight and burrowed under the covers. Pressed its warm little body against my chest and purred like a tiny furnace.
Surprisingly effective heating system, that cat.
Gone when I woke, naturally. Hopefully off somewhere eating spiders.
My dreams had been… unpleasant. The maid kept appearing, her face shifting between concerned and grotesque. Offering tea. Always offering tea. In one version, I’d accepted the cup, and—
No. Not thinking about that.
I counted doors. Brad said end of the corridor, second floor. Blue tiles.
There. The last door on the left stood slightly ajar.
I pushed it open.
“Oh.”
The bathroom belonged in a period drama. High ceilings, ornate cornicing, black and white checkered floor. And in the centre, like a porcelain throne, sat a magnificent clawfoot tub.
Massive thing. Deep. The enamel gleamed despite the house’s general state of decay.
I pulled out my phone. There was no signal, but I could prep Lily’s next challenge.
I crouched by the tub and zoomed in on one of the clawed feet—just the curve of brass and porcelain, the texture looking almost reptilian. She’d never guess.
A shower attachment hung from exposed copper piping—no curtain, no glass screen. Water would spray everywhere. But who cared?
Yet… that tub.
When was the last time I’d had a proper bath? My flat’s bathroom had a shower cubicle the size of a coffin. This… this was luxury.
I locked the door. Tested it twice.
The taps squeaked when I turned them. Water spluttered, coughed, then gushed out in a steady stream.
I stuck my hand under the flow.
Hot. Gloriously, miraculously hot.
Steam rose as the tub filled. I watched the water level climb, telling myself I’d stop at a sensible depth. Shallow. Safe. No drowning-by-ghost depth.
The water climbed higher.
Just a bit more.
Higher.
Look, if I was going to die in a haunted manor, at least I’d die clean and comfortable.
I stripped off my pyjamas and stepped in.
Heat enveloped my feet, my calves, my thighs. I sank down slowly, letting the water claim me inch by inch.
“Oh god.”
The words escaped on a sigh. My muscles unknotted. Tension I’d been carrying since the horrible events of yesterday morning melted away.
I slid down until water lapped at my collarbones. Let my head rest against the curved edge of the tub. Closed my eyes.
Silence settled. Peaceful. Still.
Maybe ghosts didn’t bother people in baths. Maybe there were rules. Ghostly etiquette.
A bar of soap sat in a dish beside the tub. Proper soap, not the cheap stuff. I lathered up a sponge and dragged it across my chest, down my arms.
The simple pleasure of being clean. Warm. Safe.
My hand drifted lower. Across my stomach. Lower still.
I touched myself. Just idly at first. No particular intent.
But my cock had other ideas.
Heat that had nothing to do with bathwater pooled low in my belly. My hand moved with more purpose, grip firming.
Images flickered behind my closed eyelids. Brad’s face, close to mine in the kitchen. His breath on my neck. The way he’d kept touching me—casual brushes that felt anything but casual. The way his elbow had happened to knock into mine.
He’d thought he was being subtle.
He wasn’t.
I should still hate him. Should remember what an absolute tosser he was. The homophobia, the arrogance. The “alpha male” ridiculousness.
But yesterday, something had shifted. Something had changed in his eyes when he looked at me, and my stupid, lonely, pathetic self latched onto it like a drowning man to driftwood. No. I wouldn’t indulge in this dangerous line of thought.
Those thighs, though…
Fuck.
Brad’s weight pressing me into a mattress. His hands pinning my wrists. His solid weight, all muscle and heat, grinding against me. Those thick thighs forcing mine apart. That smirk of his, but different now, heat behind it instead of mockery.
I stroked myself faster, faster, faster, the water sloshing against the sides of the tub.
With all my willpower, I forced my imagination to blur Brad’s face. Features smoothing into something generic, unknown. Plausible deniability. Not fantasising about your awful, despicable colleague. Just some random bloke. Could be anyone.
I squeezed my eyes shut tighter.
A sensation ghosted across my nipple. Feather-light. Electric.
My back arched. Water splashed.
Not my hand. Both my hands were… occupied.
Just my imagination. Brain supplying helpful details.
Another touch. Fingertips traced down my ribs. Circled my navel.
Real. That was definitely real.
My eyes flew open. Bathroom empty. Steam curling. Nothing there.
But the touches continued. A palm pressed flat against my chest. Something—someone—caressed my hip beneath the water.
“Fuck.”
Ghost. Had to be a ghost. Watching me. Touching me.
What are you doing? Stop this, Charlie. Stop this right now!
The phantom hand slid lower. Curious. Tentative.
My hips bucked involuntarily.
Ahhhh, that felt good.
Wrong. This was so incredibly wrong. Perverted on multiple levels. A violation of… something. Everything.
But I didn’t stop.
Couldn’t stop.
My hand resumed its rhythm. Slow at first, then faster as the ghostly touches grew bolder. I bit my lip. The sensations multiplied. Intense, overwhelming. Everywhere at once. Lips that weren’t there brushed my throat. Hands that didn’t exist explored my body with increasing confidence.
This was insane. I was wanking with a ghost. Letting a ghost touch my body.
Heat coiled tighter, tighter, rational thought dissolving into pure sensation.
My rhythm stuttered, then increased. Faster. Harder.
My breathing came ragged. Close. So close, until—
A moan escaped me, low and desperate, as I spilled into the water, pulse hammering in my throat, body liquid, boneless.
Another sound answered mine.
Right in my fucking ear.
Not a scary moan.
No.
A sex moan. Rough, breathy, satisfied.
My eyes snapped open.
Empty bathroom. Steam curling. Water settling.
My breath caught sharp and held, heartbeat stuttering.
Holy shit.
I just… A ghost just…
We just…
Heat flooded my face that had nothing to do with hot bathwater. Mortification crashed over me in waves.
I’d encouraged it. Hadn’t stopped when I realised. Had actively continued whilst knowing full well something invisible was touching me.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
I launched myself out of the tub. Water cascaded everywhere. My feet nearly slipped on the wet tiles.
I grabbed the towel, wrapped it around myself, and stared at the empty space where something definitely lurked.
What exactly did one say in this situation?
That was it. A step too far. They could bite me, giggle at me, offer me tea, terrorise me down staircases, but this crossed every possible line into absolutely fucking not territory.
“I hope you enjoyed the free show, you fucking creep.”
The kitchen felt cavernous in the morning light. Empty chairs lined the long table, and I slid into one near the window, eyeing the bowl of cornflakes I’d poured with suspicion. After the bathroom incident, I was freshly re-traumatised.
Brad slouched at the far end, spooning cereal into his mouth mechanically. His hair stuck up at odd angles and dark circles shadowed his eyes.
He barely glanced up when I sat down.
“You okay?” I asked warily.
“Think I’m coming down with something.” He scraped his spoon against the bowl. “I’m still so tired, even though…”
He trailed off, and we finished in silence. The scrape of spoons. The tick of a clock somewhere in the manor. Great start to the day.
“So, what’s the plan?” I asked, while I washed up our bowls.
Brad leaned against the doorframe, and some of the exhaustion seemed to lift from his shoulders. “First, we’re going up to the attic. With a Ouija board.”
“We are?!” The words burst out, high and eager. Like a kid promised a trip to the seaside.
Brad’s eyebrow twitched.
Heat shot up my neck. “Well… I’ll bring the guitar to play. The ghost up there liked it last time, I swear.”
He grunted. “Yes, fine, bring it if you really want to.”
With great effort, I suppressed a sigh. Grumpy Brad was definitely back. Maybe he really wasn’t a morning person?!
I fetched the guitar from my room and met Brad at the bottom of the stairs. He carried a zipped canvas bag that clinked with equipment. We stood there in our matching navy ExorSquad jumpsuits. The ridiculous logo. The cheap polyester. Something about it made me smile.
“What?” Brad said.
“Nothing.”
We climbed. The stairs groaned under our weight, each step a warning. The house watched us ascend. I felt it, that awareness in the walls.
The attic door hung slightly open. Same as before.
Brad stopped in front of it. Ran his fingers along the frame, examining the hinges. “We don’t want to be locked in here again.” He pushed the door wider. It shrieked. He crouched, inspecting the latch mechanism. “Nothing wrong with it.”
The attic stretched before us, exactly as I remembered. Long and low. Boxes stacked haphazardly. Furniture hulking under tarps. Cobwebs draped from rafters like rotting lace.
Dust coated everything. Thick. Waiting.
I already had the heebie-jeebies. Setting down the guitar, I grabbed the nearest old suitcase—luggage so ancient the leather had cracked into a crazy-paving pattern—and wedged it against the door. Take that, ghostie.
Brad hauled a steamer trunk into the centre of the space. Muscle flexed in his arms as he positioned it just so. From his bag, he produced a wooden board—letters and numbers burned into its surface in an arc. A plastic planchette clattered after it.
A Ouija board.
An actual, honest-to-god Ouija board. Like we were in a horror movie.