Charlie #4
Fine. The sofa it was, then. I could sleep on the sofa. Brad could have his questions in the morning when I’d had time to pull myself together and think of a believable excuse for why I’d abandoned my bedroom to an eight-legged squatter.
A sudden black ball launched across the room.
I yelped, stumbling backwards into the door.
Not a ball. The cat.
The furry little beauty landed on the bed with surprising grace, seized the spider in its jaws, and—
Crunch.
I pressed my hand over my mouth, fighting nausea. Eight horrible legs being crushed between tiny cat teeth. Sliding down its throat in a mangled, twitching mass.
The cat looked pleased with itself. Tail wagging like a dog’s, whiskers twitching. It settled onto the duvet and stared at me expectantly.
Praise me. Pet me. Acknowledge my spider-murdering prowess.
I approached the bed cautiously, as if the cat might suddenly reveal itself to be another supernatural entity with questionable motives. But it just sat there, orange eyes tracking my movement, tail continuing its pleased little wag.
As much as I wanted to throw myself onto the bed, I was well and truly sick of my stupid uniform by then, so I stripped it off to pull on my pyjamas.
They were, tragically, Spider-Man themed, a joke Christmas present from Emily and Lily that I did not find funny.
They’d been the only clean option when I’d packed my bag.
“Hello, you.” I slid onto the mattress, and the cat immediately curled up on my lap. Warm weight, soft fur. “At least you haven’t disappeared on me.”
The purring started up like a tiny motor.
I stroked its ears, letting the repetitive motion calm my still-racing heart. The panic faded to background noise. My breathing evened out.
What could I do to help myself?
Right. The handbook.
I grabbed the ExorSquad manual from the bedside table, flipping through pages of Gerald’s questionable advice. Surely there had to be something useful in here. “What to do if a cute ghost kisses you then literally ghosts you” would be ideal, but I’d settle for anything remotely relevant.
Surprisingly, there was nothing for that particular problem.
I flicked to the final page to see what nugget of wisdom it offered.
Rule #666: When All Else Fails, Wail
If your equipment’s broken, your salt depleted, and that Entity Five is looking at you like you’re a three-course meal, there’s only one thing left to do: scream your fucking lungs out.
Loudly. Repeatedly. Without shame. Will it help?
Probably not. Will it alert someone nearby that you’re about to be violently disembowelled?
Maybe. Will it at least give you something to do in your final moments?
Absolutely. So, take a deep breath and let it rip.
If you’re going to die on the job, you might as well die loud.
Super helpful, that, Gerald. Ten out of ten, no notes.
I scanned through again, looking for anything about graves, bones, curses. The pages crinkled under my fingers. Most of the rules focused on equipment maintenance, client management, and creative ways to avoid death. Standard stuff.
Then—
Rule #243: Cursed Ground and Hungry Earth
Some burial sites retain the malevolent energy of those interred within. These locations are characterised by:
Refusal of plant life to grow
Unusual coldness even in summer months
A sensation of being “pulled” or “watched”
Living persons experiencing breathlessness, panic, or phantom choking
Do not attempt to dig up cursed remains. You are a Spirit Extraction Specialist, not an archaeologist. Disturbing cursed bones often releases whatever hex or malevolence was meant to stay buried.
If a client insists on exhuming cursed remains, refer them to a licensed occult archaeologist and remove yourself from the premises immediately. ExorSquad accepts no liability for operatives who ignore this rule and end up injured, dead, or incorporated into the cursed ground themselves.
I snapped the handbook shut, tossing it to one side.
Hard to concentrate on the investigation when Bat had disappeared on me.
The cat purred louder, kneading my thigh with its paws.
Was Bat disgusted with himself? Regretting his unlife choices? Had kissing me been some kind of ghostly mistake he’d immediately panicked about?
Honestly, I couldn’t help but be a bit annoyed at Bat. I didn’t ask for him to kiss me. He’d initiated the whole thing—the dancing, the hand-holding, the leaning in with those sad, kohl-rimmed brown eyes and that stupidly attractive pale face.
And now I sat here alone. Again. Story of my bloody life.
“What do you think, kitty-cat?” I asked the purring weight on my lap. “Did I do something wrong? Or does my sad boy emo ghost just have issues?”
Meow.
“I mean, he probably does, what with being murdered and doomed to haunt this manor forever and whatnot. That would probably do it.”
The cat meowed again, and I swore it sounded like it was agreeing. Like it understood every word and offered its feline sympathy for my romantic disasters.
The salmon treats!
I’d bought those earlier in town, along with the books and chess set. Where had I put them? I shifted carefully, trying not to disturb the cat too much, and leaned towards my jacket draped over the chair. Fumbled through the pockets until my fingers closed around the crinkly packet.
“Here.” I tore it open. The smell of processed fish filled the room. “Gourmet cuisine for his lordship.”
I tipped a few treats into my palm. The cat’s eyes widened, pupils dilating to black saucers. It leapt forward with outstanding enthusiasm, nearly knocking the rest of the packet from my hand.
Sharp little teeth scraped my skin as it devoured the treats. Then kept going. And going. Licking my fingers long after the salmon had disappeared. Licking rather enthusiastically. Too enthusiastically.
My palm. My wrist. Up my forearm.
The rough tongue dragged across my skin in long, deliberate strokes. Not catlike at all. More like—
“Okay, that’s enough of that.” I tried to pull my hand back.
The cat gripped my wrist with its paws, holding on, continuing its assault of hot, wet licks.
Suspicion crept up my spine.
The cat’s behaviour since it had appeared.
The frequency of it popping up to find me.
The way it hated Brad. How it had sat through entire conversations almost like it was listening.
The spider murdering with perfect timing.
Diligently cuddling me all night long. This weird persistence in grooming my arm like I was covered in the most delicious thing it had ever tasted.
Oh no. Oh, no, no, no.
“Please, please, tell me you haven’t been possessing this cat the whole time, Bat.”
The cat froze mid-lick.
We stared at each other.
Its ears flattened. Tail puffed. Eyes went wide with what looked unmistakably like alarm.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Bat!” I stood, dumping the cat onto the duvet. “Leave that poor animal alone and come back here!”
The cat meowed. Plaintive. Guilty.
“Now, Bat!” I threatened. “We need to talk.”