Charlie #3
“Charlie.” Bat’s voice cut through my spiralling thoughts. He wasn’t smiling anymore. “You’re here to exterminate us, not solve the mystery of my death.”
“But—but maybe solving it would move you on!” My voice reached crescendo levels of excitement. “Maybe that’s why you’re stuck here. You know, unfinished business! If we figure out what happened, you could finally—”
“Maybe I don’t want to ‘move on!’”
The snap in Bat’s voice stopped me cold.
He dropped his hold on me to turn away, facing the pond, and the spirit plants instantly faded from sight, leaving only dark weeds in their wake. Bat’s shoulders hunched. The windchimes continued their melody, oblivious to the tension.
“Sorry,” he said after a moment. “That was… sorry.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it.
Bat’s reflection stared back at him from the pond’s dark surface.
“It’s just… I’ve had a lot of time to think about this.
Years and years and years of thinking. And the thing is, what if there’s nothing?
What if I ‘move on’ and there’s just… emptiness.
A void. Nothing.” His voice dropped to barely a whisper.
“At least here, I exist. If we’re not scaring people away, I can read, listen to music and talk to the others and feel something, even if it’s just boredom or frustration or—” He broke off.
“What if moving on means I stop existing entirely?”
The grief rolled off him in waves. I felt it like a physical presence, cold and vast and terrifying—the fear of oblivion, of ceasing to be, of surrendering the only thing he had left.
Oh.
What did you say to that? How did you argue with someone’s fear of ceasing to exist when you couldn’t promise them otherwise?
I had no idea what came after. Nobody did.
And Bat had been stuck in this liminal space for decades, clinging to existence by his fingernails, knowing that letting go might mean vanishing entirely.
The weight of it hit me square in the chest. That fear. I knew that fear. Not the same, obviously—I wasn’t dead—but that gnawing terror of being nothing. Of not mattering. Of all your years adding up to zero.
Except Bat had already died once. Already lost everything. And he was terrified of losing what little he had left.
“Okay,” I said quietly. “Sorry. That’s fair, Bat. I shouldn’t have presumed that’s what you wanted.”
Bat turned back to me. “No, I’m sorry. You were just trying to help.” He stepped closer, close enough that I could see the dark circles under his eyes, that smudge of eyeliner. “You’re lovely, Charlie.”
Heat prickled across my cheeks. “Lovely?”
“The loveliest.”
My heart stuttered. Beat ten times faster.
The compliment shouldn’t have affected me so much. It was just a word. A compliment from a ghost who’d been dead for decades and probably didn’t even remember what normal human interaction felt like anymore.
But I absorbed it like a plant drinking in sunlight after months of drought.
When had I last let myself feel this? When had I last bothered with dates, with hookups even, with any kind of attention that made me feel seen and wanted?
So, so long. I’d been sleepwalking through my life, going through the motions, telling myself I was too tired or too busy or too broken to bother.
Bat reached towards me, took both my hands in his.
The garden exploded back into light.
Ghostly flowers bloomed in waves of luminous colour—roses unfurling petals of soft pink fire, every vine, every hedge, every blade of grass sparkling once again.
But I barely noticed any of it.
Because the light caught on Bat’s face.
His pale skin seemed to absorb the garden’s glow, reflecting it back in shades of rose and gold and violet. The sharp angles of his cheekbones softened. His dark hair framed features that looked suddenly, impossibly delicate. And his eyes—brown, warm, alive—shone with something I couldn’t name.
Not dead. Not for this moment, at least.
Just beautiful.
So beautiful, I had a mad urge to reach for that leather collar around his neck, to hook my fingers under it.
“Well, you’re lovely too,” I eventually croaked.
Bat blinked. “I am?” He sounded genuinely surprised. Like the concept really confused him.
“You are,” I confirmed, putting enough conviction behind the words for my sad emo ghost to believe them.
Bat’s lips curved into a smile.
A real one. Not the teasing smirk he’d worn earlier, or the polite expression he’d used when introducing me to the other ghosts.
This smile reached his eyes, crinkling the corners, lighting up his whole face.
Bat’s hands tightened around mine. Cold, long, callused fingers built for crafting beautiful music, unfairly wasted on death.
The garden’s light pulsed brighter, reflecting in his eyes, sparkling, dancing, dazzling.
“Charlie,” he said softly.
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Thump, thump, thump. My heart kicked against my ribcage like the opening beat of a song I’d forgotten I loved.
He stepped closer. Just half a step, but all at once, the space between us felt charged. Electric. The windchime’s haunting melody became distant static.
Bat’s gaze dropped to my mouth.
Heat flooded through me despite the cool evening breeze, despite the chill of Bat’s touch. My pulse hammered in my throat, my wrists, everywhere. Every point where our skin connected felt like fire and ice simultaneously.
He was going to kiss me.
The thought crashed through my mind with absolute certainty. A ghost was going to kiss me. I was standing in a haunted garden lit by spectral flowers, about to be kissed by a dead man.
This was insane.
I didn’t move.
One of Bat’s hands lifted slowly, hesitantly, to cup my jaw. His thumb brushed across my cheek. A shiver trilled through me.
He leaned in.
Time stretched. Contracted. The garden held its breath.
Then Bat’s cold lips pressed against mine.
Soft. Impossibly soft for someone dead. I gasped against his mouth—I couldn’t help it—and instantly the kiss deepened.
Bat’s tongue swept past my parted lips, cold and demanding.
His hand slid from my jaw into my hair, fingers tangling in the curls.
His other hand released mine to grip my waist, pulling me closer.
Cold. He was so cold. But his mouth moved against mine with desperate heat. His lips parted my own, tongue sliding against mine with an urgency that made my knees weak, like he was starving for this. For touch. For connection. For something after decades of nothing.
My hands found his shoulders, his neck, threading into his long dark hair. Thick, soft, real. This ghost was real under my fingertips, as tangible as any living person I’d ever touched.
Bat made a sound—half gasp, half moan—and pressed closer. The garden blazed brighter around us, flowers erupting in wild cascades of light.
Then…
He vanished.
One moment he was there, holding and kissing me like his afterlife depended on it.
The next, nothing.
My hands clutched empty air. The garden plunged into darkness, all the spirit plants winked out of existence. Just dead hedges and bare trees and earth stretching away into shadows.
I stood alone by the pond, lips still tingling, heart racing.
“Bat?”
Silence. Even the windchimes had gone quiet. Traitors.
“Bat?” I called again, louder this time.
Nothing.
Panic flared in my chest. I spun in a circle, searching the darkness for any sign of him. Any flicker of movement or pale skin or dark clothing.
“Bat!”
Had he run out of ghostly energy? Used up whatever reserves he had manifesting physically, dancing with me, kissing me?
Somehow, I didn’t think that was it.
Maybe I was a really shit kisser? Didn’t live up to his expectations?
I couldn’t help the hurt that twisted through my ribs. I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly aware of how cold it was. How dark. How utterly alone I was, standing in this dead garden.
“Bat? Are you still here?” I asked the empty air, feeling foolish.
The pond reflected nothing but stars.
I headed back towards the manor, unnerved and cold without Bat’s presence beside me.
The entrance corridor greeted me with high-pitched giggling. Rosemary and Henry, probably tormenting some piece of furniture or preparing another prank for Brad. The sound echoed off the walls, bouncing between the portraits of stern-faced ancestors.
Should I look for Bat? Go room to room calling his name like some pathetic loser?
Bat? Bat, where are you? Please come back, the ghost I’ve known for approximately six hours that just snogged me and now I’m emotionally invested!
Dear lord. The other spirits would have a field day with that. No. Absolutely not.
I dragged myself up the stairs, gripping the banister tightly in case the twins decided it would be entertaining to push me.
I reached our corridor to find light spilling out from beneath Brad’s door.
I tiptoed past. The last thing I needed right now was an interrogation about where I’d been, why I looked like I’d just been thoroughly kissed by a dead musician, whether I’d made any progress on the actual investigation we were supposed to be conducting.
I slipped into my room as quietly as possible, easing the door shut behind me.
Flicked the light switch.
The brightness stabbed my eyes after the dimness of the corridors. I blinked, waiting for my vision to adjust.
Took one step forward.
Froze.
Another motherfucker of a spider.
This one clung to the bedpost, eight horrible legs creeping steadily towards my pillow. Thick-bodied and dark, the sort that looked like it could take a chunk out of you if it wanted.
A half-shriek escaped before I could press my knuckles against my mouth.
My chest tightened. Breath came in short, sharp gasps. Not now. Not now. I couldn’t have a full panic attack over a bloody spider when I’d just spent the evening dancing with ghosts and investigating cursed graves and—
The spider moved. One leg extended, then another, inching closer to where my head would rest.
I backed towards the door slowly. Carefully. Every muscle locked tight.