17. Charlie #2
“Right.” Harrison rubbed the back of his neck.
“Do me a favour and hold back on telling Evelyn that, if she calls you. She’s…
well, she’s already fixated on this place being haunted.
It’s causing her so much anxiety, the doctor has prescribed pills.
” He paused, glancing at his shiny wristwatch.
“Anyway… I’ve also swung by today because I have a new electrician coming any second. Taking a look at the wiring.”
Brad frowned. “I thought you were holding back on work until we’ve sorted this all out for you?”
“We’ve got deadlines.” Harrison’s voice tightened.
“Investors breathing down my neck. Grimthorne needs to start making money as soon as possible. We can’t keep haemorrhaging cash whilst—” He stopped himself, jaw working.
Guilt flashed across his face, and something told me Evelyn didn’t know about today’s electrician visit.
“I have to go wait by the gate for him.” Harrison shuffled off, with Brad staring after him.
I cleared my throat. “In other news, I think I found our witch’s grave last night.”
Brad spat his mouthful of cereal back into the bowl. Milk dribbled down his chin.
Smug satisfaction warmed my chest. “Yep. There’s a rock marker in the garden with her initials on it. Near a weird patch of dead earth where nothing grows.”
Brad wiped his face with the back of his hand. “Huh.” He pushed away from the table. “We should go back there immediately, with the kit. But we’d better stick around for this electrician first.”
“Yeah? To jump in the way of any flying hammers?”
Brad grunted, cracking his knuckles. “Well, I didn’t spend three years playing flanker for nothing.”
“Better you than me.”
A few minutes later, the crunch of tyres on gravel announced Harrison’s return. The front door opened. Voices drifted down the hall—Harrison’s clipped tones and a deeper rumble. They appeared in the doorway moments later.
The electrician looked exactly like my mental image of a workman. Late fifties, maybe. Hi?vis vest over a faded band shirt—Oasis, I noted—and cargo trousers stained with what might’ve been paint or plaster. A worn leather tool bag hung from one meaty shoulder.
His gaze swept the kitchen, lingering on our jumpsuits, and the embroidered ghost logo.
Harrison shifted his weight, colour rising in his cheeks. “These are the, er, the two ghost hunters I mentioned.”
The electrician’s mouth twitched. His eyes crinkled at the corners, fighting down obvious amusement. “Right…” The word stretched out, loaded with scepticism. “Well, I’m Dave.”
Leaning against the kitchen counter, nursing my coffee, I offered a small wave. Brad just crossed his arms, biceps straining against his sleeves.
Harrison checked his watch again, the gesture hurried, anxious.
“Listen, now I need to take an international call. Very important investor. Can’t risk the awful signal here, so I’m going to quickly drive up to that spot near the top of the hill in town where it’s almost guaranteed.
” He glanced at Dave, almost apologetic. “Though… will you be alright here?”
Dave barked out a rich, genuine laugh. “Jesus, Harrison. I’ll be fine. Been fixing up all sorts of houses for thirty years, and I’ve never seen a single ghost.” He set his bag down with a thud. “Don’t you worry about me.”
Relief flooded Harrison’s features. He grinned, stepping forward to clap Dave on the shoulder with force. “Finally. A man of reason.” He shot Brad and me a look I couldn’t quite decipher—embarrassment, frustration?—then swept out of the kitchen.
The front door slammed. Dave picked up his bag, straightening and rolling his shoulders. “Right, then. Let’s see what disasters we’re dealing with.”
Brad abandoned his cereal bowl in the sink with a clatter. “Wait! We need to come with you.”
Dave paused, tools in hand. “What? Why?”
“Because workmen coming here tend to trigger ghost activity.” Brad’s tone brooked no argument. “Stay here, Charlie. I need to grab more kit.”
He thundered off upstairs before Dave could respond.
I offered Dave a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”
Dave just stared at me, baffled. “You lot are having me on.”
“I wish.”
He shook his head, muttering something about con artists, and headed for the lounge.
I followed, hovering in the doorway as Dave unloaded his tools before approaching the wall socket nearest the window.
He crouched, unscrewing the faceplate. The torch clicked on, beam sweeping over ancient wiring inside the wall cavity.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Dave muttered. “This is all original. Cloth-covered cables. Surprised this place hasn’t burnt down yet. This manor is a deathtrap!”
He pulled out a voltage tester, pressing it against the exposed connections. Nothing sparked or hummed ominously, which I took as a good sign. Dave made notes on a pad, squinting at the wiring diagram.
“Charlie!” Brad’s voice bellowed from somewhere upstairs. “Where are you?”
“Front lounge!” I shouted back.
Footsteps thundered overhead. Brad appeared moments later, festooned with his usual arsenal plus several new additions. Something cylindrical dangled from his utility belt, gleaming dully in the morning light.
I pointed at it. “What’s that thing?”
“Temporal Distortion Logger.” Brad lifted the device with reverence. “Measures otherworldly energy fluctuations across multiple dimensional planes.”
Dave straightened from his crouch, shoulders shaking.
Laughter bubbled out of him—proper belly laughs that echoed off the high ceiling.
“So, tell me, exactly how much are you two goons conning out of Harrison Lancaster? I’m getting close to retirement, see, so I might need a side gig to keep me from getting too bored. ”
Brad’s lips pressed into a thin line. Colour flooded his neck, rising up towards his ears.
A very unexpected pang of sympathy for him struck me.
Now that I knew ghosts existed—now that I’d kissed one, for fuck’s sake—the mockery stung differently.
Brad might be an arrogant prick, but his profession wasn’t bullshit, and he was being paid minimum wage by Gerald to be here, risking being thrown across attics by angry ghosts.
Dave chuckled again, returning his attention to the wall socket.
The cold hit me first—a sudden drop in temperature that made my breath mist in the morning light. I glanced at Dave, still crouched by the wall socket, oblivious. But the air around him shimmered, frost patterns creeping across the windowpane behind his head.
I nudged Brad, pointing.
Brad’s expression shifted instantly from sullen to alert. He yanked out the SpecterTrack Monitor, fingers flying across buttons.
A whisper ghosted across my left ear. “So, you think dear Dave is ready for the show of his life?”
I nearly jumped out of my skin. I couldn’t help it—I glanced around, searching for Bat’s form. Nothing. Just empty air and the weight of his invisible presence somewhere nearby.
Brad’s head snapped towards me. “What?”
“Nothing. Just… cold.”
Dave straightened, rubbing his arms through the hi-vis vest. “Yeah, a bit nippy in here, isn’t it? Go put a jumper on over that silly costume, lad.”
Before I could respond, a thunderous BANG erupted from directly overhead. Then another. And another. Like someone dropping bowling balls on the ceiling.
Dave’s eyes widened. “What was that?”
Brad already had the EMF reader out, pointing it at the ceiling. The needle swung wildly, pinned at maximum.
“Significant electromagnetic disturbance,” Brad announced, voice tight with professional satisfaction. “Class Four activity at minimum.”
The painting above Dave’s head—a pastoral landscape in a gilt frame—suddenly swung violently to the left. Then right. Then left again, banging against the wall with each oscillation.
Dave stumbled backwards, gaping. “Right. Very funny. Which one of you is doing this?”
I raised my voice, addressing the empty room. “Yes, I’d like to know that too.”
Bat’s voice drifted past my ear again, amused. “Not me. That’s Molly—she’s very particular about wonky pictures. Drives everyone mad.”
“She can come sort out my flat for me, if she’d like,” I muttered.
Brad whirled on me. “What are you on about?”
Blood drained from my face. Fuck. “Nothing. Just… thinking out loud.”
Dave edged towards the doorway, tools forgotten. The painting finally settled at a perfect right angle, then went still. The temperature plummeted further. My teeth chattered.
Brad swept the SpecterTrack Monitor across the room, stopping abruptly near Dave’s tool bag. The device shrieked—a piercing electronic wail that made us all flinch.
“Two distinct signatures,” Brad breathed, staring at the readout. “Child-sized.”
Dave’s leather bag twitched. Jerked sideways an inch.
“What—” Dave started.
The screwdriver floated out first, spinning lazily in midair. Then the pliers. The voltage tester. One by one, tools lifted from the bag, circling Dave’s head like demented satellites orbiting a planet.
Dave’s face went chalk-white. He stumbled backwards into the fireplace, hands raised defensively. “Holy shit! How—how are you doing this? Wires? Magnets?”
A child’s giggle echoed through the room. High-pitched. Delighted. Rosemary.
Dave’s wild gaze fixed on Brad. “You’ve rigged this place! Just what are you playing at? You trying to get me to tell Harrison Lancaster to keep paying you to fuck about here?”
“Sir.” Brad’s voice crackled with genuine offence. “You’re witnessing legitimate paranormal activity! You need to leave the property and leave this to us trained professionals.”
The screwdriver shot forward, whistling past Dave’s ear with millimetres to spare. It embedded itself in the doorframe with a solid thunk.
Poor Dave screamed—a proper, full-throated bellow of terror.
Something grabbed my arm.
I startled, jerking sideways, but then Bat materialised beside me. Solid. Visible—at least to me. His pale face bore an expression caught between amusement and exasperation.