10. Charlie #2
A sound rippled through the attic. Soft. Almost like a… snigger?
I spun around.
Nothing. Just shadows pooling in corners. Those dust motes, again, drifting through weak sunlight.
“Did you hear that?!” I asked.
“What?”
Hmm. Maybe I’d imagined it. The house settling. My brain conjuring threats in the silence.
Brad sat cross-legged on one side of the trunk. I took the other, the floor hard beneath my ass. Our knees almost touched around the makeshift table. The board sat between us, waiting.
This was it. Proper ghost hunting. Something I’d have laughed at three days ago.
Now? Now I leaned forward, pulse quickening.
“We place our fingers on the planchette,” Brad said. “Light touch. Don’t push it, obviously—it’ll move on its own. If there’s a ghost here, of course.”
I nodded. Reached out. My fingertips brushed Brad’s as we both made contact with the plastic. His hands were warm. Solid.
Mine were trembling.
Brad cleared his throat, his voice taking on a formal quality to say, “Is anyone here? We mean you no harm. We wish to communicate with you.”
Silence answered. The attic held its breath.
We waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Dust continued its lazy drift. The planchette sat motionless.
My legs cramped. I shifted, trying not to break contact with the board. Brad’s jaw tightened. Professional pride, probably. The great Brad Harrington, unable to summon a ghost.
The guitar leaned against its box, strings gleaming dully in the half-light. I eyed it. Last time I’d played, something had happened. That sigh. Those swirling dust patterns. The touch that definitely hadn’t been my imagination.
Maybe music was the key.
“You know,” I said to Brad, keeping my voice casual, “you never told me what music you like, last night.”
I nudged my knee against his. Just slightly. Friendly.
Brad’s head snapped up. “What?”
“Music.” I held his gaze. “What do you listen to?”
He stared at me like I’d started speaking in tongues.
“Come on,” I pressed. “What do you listen to during all those workouts?”
His brow furrowed. Confusion flickered across his face, then irritation. “Workout playlists. Dance remixes. What the hell does that matter right now?”
“Just making conversation.” I nudged him again. “We’ve been sitting here for ages. Nothing’s happening.”
“That’s not how this works.” His fingers pressed harder against the planchette. “You can’t just chat during a séance like we’re at a coffee shop.”
“Why not? Maybe the ghost appreciates small talk.”
“Jesus Christ.” Brad pulled one hand back to rub his eyes. “This isn’t a social call, Charlie. We’re here to do a job.”
“Right. The job where we sit in silence while absolutely nothing happens.”
“We need to focus.” He replaced his fingers on the board. “Concentrate. Create the right atmosphere.”
“The right atmosphere,” I repeated. “Like playing music, maybe? Since that worked before?”
“We’re using the board first. Protocol.”
“Protocol. Got it.”
We sat there another five minutes. Ten. The planchette remained stubbornly immobile.
My butt went completely numb. Brad’s breathing took on that measured quality of someone actively restraining their temper.
A floorboard creaked somewhere behind me.
The planchette jerked.
“Don’t push,” Brad hissed.
“I’m not pushing.”
It moved again. Deliberate. Sliding across the board with purpose.
My heart kicked into high gear. “Holy shit.”
The planchette circled once, twice, gathering momentum. Then stopped.
“B”
“It’s working,” Brad breathed. Actual excitement crept into his voice.
The planchette glided to the next letter.
“R”
Then “A”
Then “D”
Brad’s eyes narrowed. “What—”
The plastic disc completed its journey. Letter by letter.
“B-R-A-D”
Space.
“S-M-E-L-L-S”
Silence crashed over the attic. Heavy. Pregnant.
Then I burst out laughing.
Couldn’t help it. The sound exploded out of me, high and breathless. I doubled over, forehead nearly hitting the board.
“Brad smells,” I wheezed between giggles. “The ghost just—it actually—”
“This isn’t funny.” Brad’s voice dropped to sub-zero temperatures.
“It’s hilarious.” Tears pricked my eyes.
“You moved it.”
“What? No!”
“You pushed the planchette.” He pulled his hands away, face darkening. “You’re taking the piss.”
“I swear I didn’t—”
“This is company time, Charlie.” He stood abruptly, the trunk scraping against the floor. “Do you have any idea how serious this is? How much the Lancasters are paying? And you’re playing stupid pranks like a bloody child. We’re working!”
The laughter died in my throat. Heat replaced it. Familiar anger, rising fast.
“Working?” I scrambled to my feet. “Like how you were working yesterday? When you were pressing yourself into me to sniff my hair?”
Brad’s face went blank. “What?”
“Oh, don’t deny it.” I stepped closer, pulse hammering in my ears. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. In the kitchen last night.”
He stared at me. Put on a good show of acting genuinely confused.
“The tea,” I pressed. “The way you kept touching me. Asking about music. Getting all close and—”
“Oh, come on.” His voice hardened. “I took a shower and went to bed. I was exhausted.”
“You…” The words stuck. “But… the basement… then I made you tea. And you kept touching me.”
“Stop it.”
“You asked me to play my music! You said—” My chest constricted. “You bloody well stood right next to me and—”
“Charlie.” Brad held up both hands. Warning. Distance. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but you’re wasting even more time now.”
“But… but—” The words tangled on my tongue. “Listen! You can’t be making eyes at me one day, literally sniffing my hair, then doing this the next, you sick fuck. It isn’t fair!”
Brad’s face transformed. Shock. Disgust. Something darker beneath.
“Bloody hell.” He laughed. Sharp. Brittle. “You’re honestly delusional. Listen, Charlie, sorry mate, but I have no interest in you. I’m not… you know.” His hand waved dismissively. “Gay.”
The word hit like a slap. Not the word itself—the tone. The hand gesture, as if being gay was something distasteful he had to wave away.
“If this is you struggling to ‘express your feelings’ again, you’re going too far, this time!” I practically screeched at him.
“What?!” Brad’s voice rose even higher.
“You know, when you apologised for the mixed messages. It’s okay if you’re scared, Brad. I was scared too.”
“What the actual fuck are you talking about?”
Fury roiled through me, hot and vicious. “You held me!” My voice shook. “You stroked my hair and said the ghosts wouldn’t hurt me while you were there!”
“I never—” He ran both hands through his hair. “This is insane. You’re insane. You’re making things up.”
“I’m not!”
“You clearly are!” He straightened to full height. All that rugby bulk, suddenly intimidating. “The only ‘feelings’ I have are about being stuck out here with some desperate, pathetic—”
He bit the word off. But I heard it anyway. What he’d almost said. What he’d stopped himself from saying.
“Say it,” I whispered.
“No.”
“Say what you were going to say.”
“Charlie—”
“Come on, Brad.” I moved even closer to him, something reckless unfurling inside me. “Don’t hold back now. Really express those feelings.”
His mouth worked. Hands clenched into fists at his sides.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally. Each word precise. Controlled. “I’m genuinely sorry if you’ve developed some kind of crush on me. But that’s not my problem, mate. That’s yours. And I’ll thank you to keep your hands off me and stop inventing scenarios in your head where I’m—where we’re—”
He stepped forward. Right into my space. Close enough that I could see the pulse jumping in his throat. Close enough to smell his aftershave.
His hand shot out. Snatched up the collar of my jumpsuit. Fisted it tightly.
“Just keep your distance,” he hissed, leering over me. “Yeah?”
Something invisible seized him.
Brad’s eyes went wide. His grip on my shoulder released.
His entire body lifted off the ground.
Just rose into the air, arms pinwheeling, mouth opening in a shout of shock or fear or both.
Then he flew.
Hurled backwards across the attic like a rag doll. His back slammed into a stack of boxes with a crash that shook the rafters. Cardboard exploded. Papers erupted like confetti. Brad disappeared into the mess, buried under decades of accumulated junk.
Silence.
I stood frozen, hand still raised where Brad had grabbed me.
What the fuck.
This time, I didn’t stop to help Brad.
This time I ran.