Bat
fourteen
Because I was a mature adult who understood boundaries, I decided not to harass Charlie the very second he returned to the manor.
Well… not as me, anyway.
The cat, however, greeted him as soon as he stepped foot in the courtyard. His delight at seeing him confirmed this was an excellent choice.
Good thing I’d pounced on the opportunity to possess the creature again as soon as it wandered back into our gardens. It had been coming here for years, hunting our rats and mice. I’d watched it many a time, envious of its freedom to leave whenever it pleased.
Bat-as-the-cat followed Charlie and his many bags into the house, weaving between his legs, making him laugh as he almost tripped over me. The sound warmed my ice-cold dead heart.
Charlie quickly hid half the bags in his room before heading to the kitchen to cook chicken pasta while I lay on the countertop, flicking my tail, eyeing up the cheese he’d left out.
Brad finally appeared, only grunting as Charlie placed a bowl of pasta in front of him rather than thanking him for the meal he’d just slaved over.
This man, honestly. If I’d had someone like him cook for me when I was alive—actually cook, not just microwave Supernoodles—I’d have been on my knees with gratitude. And something else too.
Just to wind Brad up, I sat on the table with them, body pressed against Charlie’s arm.
Charlie scooped up a forkful of pasta. Paused. Set the fork down again. “So, my visit to town was useful in more ways than one!”
Brad chewed mechanically, staring at nothing.
“I found a book about the manor! Written by a local.”
My ears pricked forward. What book? What local? In all my years here, I’d seen plenty of historians and enthusiasts turn up, notebooks clutched to their chests like shields. Most of them never made it past the front gate.
“Brilliant,” Brad said flatly. “Does it have pictures?”
Charlie ignored the sarcasm, scrambling to his feet. “Hold on, I’ll go get it.”
He left his pasta untouched, racing from the kitchen with a shocking amount of enthusiasm. I stared mournfully at the abandoned bowl. Still steaming. Smelling like garlic and butter and everything I’d forgotten about being alive.
Brad held his fork out at me like he’d stab me with it if I tried.
I hissed at him.
“Piss off, you mangy—”
Charlie burst back in, slamming a book down on the table with dramatic flair.
The Grim History of Grimthorne.
I groaned. Well, attempted to. It came out as more of a strangled mewl.
Bloody hell. It had been a while, but I did know that book.
Hadn’t read it—only heard of it when, years ago, the author had somehow breached the perimeter to come to the door, begging to be allowed entry to take photos.
The owners at the time had slammed the door in his face.
I’d watched from the library window, amused by his persistence as he argued through the letterbox.
Charlie dropped back into his seat, vibrating with excitement. “The priest I spoke to mentioned this guy. Alan Cromwell. Apparently he wrote all about ‘The Witch of Grimthorne.’”
Brad tilted his head, actually looking interested for once. “Huh.” He shovelled down another spoonful of pasta. “Nice one, Chaz. This could definitely be the work of a witch.”
I tried to roll my eyes but found I couldn’t. Bloody cat physiology. There was no “Witch of Grimthorne” haunting this manor, unless Alan was counting Lady G, and she’d hex him into next week for the suggestion.
But for some inexplicable reason, Charlie beamed with pride.
My tail lashed. I almost bit him to remind him that Brad was a twat and we didn’t care about his opinion. My poor, lovely Charlie, clearly so starved for approval he’d lap up even the tiniest crumb from this homophobic rugby has-been.
But fuck, now that I knew Charlie enjoyed being praised, I couldn’t stop the thoughts from flooding my mind.
Oh, what I would do to tell him how good he looked on his knees for me, watch him go pink and needy from nothing but my voice.
What I would do to play him like an instrument, to work him up so slowly, praising every whimper and moan until he fell apart for me.
My fantasy was interrupted by something terrible happening.
Brad slid his bowl next to Charlie’s and moved to sit next to him.
For a horrible moment, their arms brushed.
Brad lurched his arm away like Charlie had the plague.
I couldn’t help it. A hiss tore from my throat before I could stop it.
“Shh,” Charlie soothed, petting my head. His fingers stroked behind my ears, and I melted despite myself. “You’re all right.”
The two of them started poring over the book, heads bent close together. Too close. I didn’t like it. Didn’t like Brad’s thick fingers turning pages that Charlie should’ve been reading alone. Didn’t like the way Charlie leaned in, eager and attentive.
I couldn’t get a good enough view to read it, even when I climbed onto Charlie’s lap, kneading his thighs.
Luckily, Brad enjoyed narrating.
“We know all this. Grimthorne Manor was built in seventeen forty-seven by Lord Reginald Grimthorne.” Brad’s finger traced the text.
“Classic Georgian architecture, blah blah blah. Oh, here we go. ‘Local legend speaks of a witch who cursed the Grimthorne line after Lord Reginald’s son refused to marry her.’”
“Scandalous!” said Charlie. “Though I’m sure there was more to the tale than that.”
Brad turned the page. “Says here she lived on the outskirts of the village. Margery Darke.” He snorted. “Great name for a witch. ‘Villagers reported missing livestock and pets in the months following the rejection. Children fell ill with mysterious fevers. Crops failed.’”
Charlie leaned closer, squinting at the text. “That all sounds a bit… I mean, what exactly are Alan Cromwell’s sources for all this?”
“It gets better,” Brad said, grin spreading across his face.
“Listen to this. ‘Margery was known to lure men to her cottage with promises of ale and comfort, only to bewitch them into her bed. Many a husband returned home in the early morning hours, unable to recall the night’s events, smelling of herbs and sin.’”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
I’d had enough.
I slunk off Charlie’s lap, landing on the floor with a soft thud. Neither of them noticed. Too engrossed in Alan Cromwell’s absolute bollocks.
In the corridor, I released my hold on the cat. It shook itself, gave me a baleful look, then trotted off.
I counted to twenty. Slow. Deliberate. Letting my irritation settle into something I could control.
Then I materialised.
Just for Charlie.
I made sure Brad wouldn’t see me—a little trick I’d perfected over the years. Selective visibility. Energy draining as hell, but worth it.
Charlie’s eyes widened the second I appeared next to the doorframe.
“There’s no witch here,” I said flatly. “You’re barking up the wrong tree.”
Charlie opened his mouth. Closed it. Glanced at Brad, who remained oblivious, still reading with the dedication of someone who’d just discovered their life’s purpose.
“Um…” Charlie cleared his throat. “This is all very interesting, Brad, but maybe we need to keep an open mind?”
“Nah.” Brad didn’t even look up. “You’d be surprised how often it’s a witch. This makes perfect sense. Angry women make the most powerful ghosts.”
“Brad’s an idiot,” I said.
Charlie bit his lip, but I caught the grin he tried to hide.
“Especially when they’re burnt at the stake,” Brad continued, warming to his theme. “That makes them super pissy.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “The last witch execution in Britain was in seventeen twenty-seven.”
Charlie’s gaze flicked to me, then back to Brad. “Actually, the last witch execution in Britain was in seventeen twenty-seven.”
Brad’s head snapped up. “How do you know that?”
Charlie looked at me.
I shrugged. “History books?”
Charlie shrugged at Brad. “History books.”
For a moment, Brad just stared at him. Then he jumped to his feet, chair scraping against the floor. “Right. We need to go find this bitch.”
“You mean witch?”
Brad shook his head like Charlie had said something incomprehensible.
Charlie glanced at me, then back at Brad. “Well… my paid workday is technically over, so I think I’ll wash up, then go upstairs to get signal. I might read a bit more of the book. But you can obviously do whatever you want.”
Brad grunted. “Suit yourself.”
He stormed off, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.
Finally. Cheerio, Brad, you bellend.
“There’s no witch here,” I repeated.
Charlie snapped the book shut. “We’ve sent Brad on a wild goose chase, then.” He pushed back from the table, gathering the bowls. “Come upstairs to my room.”
I swallowed the “Baby, I thought you’d never ask,” that threatened to escape and followed him up the stairs.
His small space already smelt like him. A sugary, fruity sweetness. His rucksack sat in the corner, clothes spilling out. Next to it were the bags he’d carried up here earlier.
“So.” Charlie turned to face me, hands shoved in his pockets. “I only got eighty pounds for all that stuff you gave me.”
“Eighty!” I grinned. “Nice! So you managed the television, yeah?”
“Ha ha. Have you heard of this little thing called inflation?”
“Guess I’ll never get to see how Friends ended, then.”
“Well, you won’t believe this, but Ross and Rachel get together, Monica and Chandler adopt twins, and Phoebe marries Paul Rudd,” Charlie said, dumping the shopping bags onto the bed. “Also, Joey gets his own spin-off show that everyone pretends never happened.”
“Devastating,” I said. “My entire afterlife, ruined.”
Charlie snorted, pulling items from the bags one by one. Salmon treats. A battered chess set. Colouring books. Several thick paperbacks with shirtless men on the covers. And there—tucked at the bottom—science fiction novels with worn spines and cover art that screamed space battles.
My throat tightened. He really got me everything I asked for. Aside from the TV. But he’d made an effort. Carried it all back here, for me.