Bat
twelve
Ifloated.
Not with ghostliness—though obviously, yes, technically with ghostliness—but with happiness.
Charlie. Lovely, blue-eyed, musically gifted Charlie had just touched me. The real me. Not Brad’s borrowed body, but me. Pale skin and black wristbands and all the parts of myself I’d thought no one would ever see again.
And he’d agreed to play my guitar. Sort of. With conditions. But still.
The euphoria lasted approximately one minute before Charlie had insisted—insisted—on checking whether Brad was dead or not.
Which, fair, I suppose. I had hurled the bastard across the attic.
I dematerialised to follow him back inside. It wasn’t entirely clear if Charlie understood I’d still be there, invisible and drifting along behind him like the world’s most hopeful stalker. But oh well.
My house. My rules.
Charlie hurried back up to the attic, taking the stairs two at a time. He found Brad sitting by the Ouija board, holding his head gingerly. A trickle of blood ran down from his temple.
“Are you alright?” Charlie crouched beside him. “Should I try to call someone? Do you have a concussion? Can you see straight?”
Too many questions. Honestly, I’d already told him the asshole was fine. Why the devil did he care so much?
Brad put on a brave face. What a hero. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
“You were thrown across the room.”
“Happens.” Brad touched the wound, winced. “Occupational hazard. This is nothing compared to—”
“Brad, you’re bleeding.”
“I’ve had far worse on the rugby pitch.” Brad stood, swaying slightly. Gripped the wall for balance. “Besides. This confirms it. We’re dealing with at least a very dangerous Level Four entity.”
Level Four entity.
My highest qualification ever. Go me.
I smirked from my invisible vantage point near the ceiling. Considered spelling out something rude on the Ouija board again but decided against it. Regretfully.
Charlie hovered uncertainly. “Are you sure you don’t need—”
“I just said I’m fine.” Brad’s tone turned sharp. “I’ll handle this. You can go… do something else. Somewhere else.”
The dismissal landed like a slap, Charlie’s expression shuttering. “Right. I’ll leave you to it, then.”
He retreated. Down the attic stairs, footsteps quick and tight. When he reached the bottom, I materialised directly in front of him.
“Boo!”
He shrieked.
Those gorgeous baby-blue eyes snapped wide behind his gold-rimmed glasses. His whole body jerked backward, hand flying to his chest.
Oops.
“Shh!” I pressed a finger to my lips. I didn’t want Brad deciding to follow him.
“Are you kidding me?” Charlie hissed. “You can’t jump scare me then tell me to shh!”
“Come to the library.” I glided past him, already moving down the corridor.
“That’s not my favourite place.” His feet remained planted firmly on the ground.
I stopped. Turned. Floated back to him.
“I meant what I said, Charlie. I won’t let anything in this house hurt you.” If I can help it.
Charlie raised a sceptical eyebrow but started walking. He kept side-eyeing me as we moved through the corridors.
“What?”
“Sorry. It’s… it’s the um, floating. It’s sort of cool? But mainly creepy.”
I grinned at him. Forced my feet to the floor and mimicked taking steps. The sensation felt strange. Foreign. Clumsy. I’d gotten so used to drifting that actual walking required conscious effort.
“The only silver lining to being dead.”
It came out flat, not the joke I’d intended, and Charlie’s gaze sharpened. Curiosity flickered across his face—the desperate, burning kind. He wanted to ask: how did you die? When? Why are you still here?
I would want to ask those things too, if I were him.
“Are the other ghosts like you?”
“Like me?”
“Able to show themselves. Possess people. Throw dickheads across attics.”
I grinned at him. “Nah. I’m definitely special.
Lots of the ghosts here are wisps. They might manage the occasional door slam if they’re really worked up.
Me?” I flexed my fingers, watching them solidify and fade.
“I can do a lot more than that. But it’s not unlimited.
Takes energy. The more I do—appearing, moving things, possessing assholes—the more drained I get.
Need time to recharge between performances. ”
“Recharge how?”
“Existing. Resting. Being quiet.” I pulled a face. “Not my strong suit.”
Charlie’s expression shifted—part fascination, part scientific curiosity. Like he wanted to pull out a notebook and start taking notes. “So you’re basically running on batteries.”
We entered the library.
Lady Grimthorne sat in her usual armchair beside the fireplace that hadn’t been lit in many, many years. She looked exactly as she always did: stern face, steel-grey hair pulled back severely, high-necked gown that rustled when she moved. Her dog-eared copy of Dracula lay open in her lap.
“Morning,” I said cheerfully.
Charlie looked at me funny. Then looked at the armchair. Looked back at me.
“Lady Grimthorne, would you be so kind as to introduce yourself to Charlie?”
She snapped the book shut. “Introduce myself?” The words came out shrill. Affronted. “To the Spirit Extraction Specialist?”
I rolled my eyes. “Calm down. It’s the least you could do after you scared him. He promises not to throw salt in your face, don’t you, Charlie?”
Charlie squinted adorably at the armchair as if he could force his eyes to see her through sheer willpower alone. “Umm… sure?” He patted his pocket where I knew Brad’s salt still resided. “As long as she doesn’t come too close.”
The lady of the manor made a noise. Indignant. Offended. “Can he possibly imagine I’d move from my chair?”
I snorted. Several other residents of the manor enjoyed sitting in the armchair during her absences just to wind her up. To be fair, her reactions were priceless.
“Well? Will you say hello?”
She scoffed. Then sighed. Then finally said, “Fine.”
She revealed herself to Charlie.
I watched his expression shift from confusion to shock to wonder. His lips parted. His eyes went even more enormous behind his glasses.
Lady Grimthorne materialised gradually. First a shimmer in the air. Then an outline. Then colours bleeding through until she sat there in full ghostly glory, translucent but unmistakably present.
“Lady Grimthorne,” she addressed him curtly. Chin lifted. Posture impeccable even in death. “My full title at all times, if you please.” I tried not to smirk. She got super pissy when we called her Lady G.
Charlie appeared too stunned to reply.
I nudged him with my elbow.
“Hello.” His voice came out strangled. “I’m… I’m Charlie. And you can call me… Charlie.”
Oh my god, he’s so cute I want to eat him.
No, Bat. Bad Bat. Bad, bad Bat.
Charlie continued to stare at her, unblinking. “So… Lady Grimthorne, as in like, the Grimthornes who built this place back in seventeen forty-seven?”
“My husband and I built this manor, yes.” She sniffed. “Though not with our own hands, obviously.” The words dripped with dry aristocratic disdain. “We owned the entirety of the town.”
“The little town you drive through to get here?”
“Grimthorne town, yes. It was all ours.”
I cleared my throat. “That was more normal back in Georgian times, I guess.”
Charlie scratched his head. “Normal… right…”
Lady Grimthorne suddenly straightened in her chair, fixing me with a sharp look. “Speaking of normal behaviour, Bartholomew, that dreadful Judy has stolen Flowers in the Attic again.”
I sighed. Rolled my eyes so hard they practically fell out of my skull. “Stolen, or borrowed?”
“If a book isn’t returned within two weeks, I consider it stolen.” Her voice could have frozen hell over.
“That book is trash anyway. Just let Judy keep it.”
Lady Grimthorne’s expression turned scandalized. She clutched her copy of Dracula protectively to her chest as if I’d suggested burning the entire library.
Then she turned to Charlie with renewed interest. “I don’t suppose you’ve brought any books with you? Preferably something with dashing heroes and proper romance. None of this modern drivel about vampires sparkling in sunlight.”
Charlie looked genuinely apologetic. “Sorry, I haven’t brought any books with me.”
“And what about the other gentleman?”
Charlie laughed—a bright, musical sound that made something warm unfurl in my ice-cold chest. “I’ll be sure to ask him.”
I would bet Brad hadn’t read a book since the last decade. I glanced around the library, taking in the floor-to-ceiling shelves stuffed with volumes. Me, on the other hand—I’d read each of these at least twice. Turns out, eternity was bloody long.
“Right, let’s go,” I said, already heading toward the door.
“Where?”
“To meet the other ghosts, of course.”
* * *
The piano room had seen better days. Much better days.
The grand piano sat in the corner, its black lacquer dulled and keys yellowed with age.
Heavy curtains hung in tatters at the tall windows, and it was behind these that Rosemary and Henry lurked; their little Victorian shoes poked out beneath the fabric.
“Come on, you two. Stop hiding.”
Rustling. Giggling. Then two pale faces peered around the curtain’s edge.
Charlie tensed beside me, but to his credit, he didn’t run, only glanced between me and the curtains.
Rosemary stepped out fully, her dark pigtails swinging, followed by Henry. Charlie gasped.
“Charlie, meet our twins, Rosemary and Henry.”
They offered him little waves with far too big smiles, probably sizing him up to be easy prey.
“Rosemary,” I said sternly, “what do you have to say to Charlie?”
She stared at the floor, scuffing one polished shoe against the dusty floorboards.
“Sorry,” she mumbled eventually, “for biting you.”
Henry bounded forward with more enthusiasm. “Will you play the piano, Bat? Please?”
“Maybe soon,” I promised. “If you behave.”
As we left the piano room, Charlie fell into step beside me. I was still finding the whole feet?on?ground thing awkward.
“How many instruments can you play?”