17. Charlie #3
“The twins can’t help but get carried away,” he sighed, watching the tools do loop?de?loops around Dave’s head. “Despite my very clear instructions not to actually hurt anyone.”
The pliers swooped low, tangling briefly in Dave’s grey hair. He batted at them with both hands, stumbling over his own feet.
I couldn’t help it. Laughter bubbled up, loud and extremely inappropriate, bursting out of me before I could stop it.
Brad whirled on me, face flushed with anger and confusion. “What’s funny about this?!”
Dave bolted from the lounge like a fox fleeing hounds. Tools clattered behind him—screwdriver bouncing off the doorframe, pliers skidding across polished floorboards.
Brad bolted after him. “Walk! Don’t run! That always makes it worse!”
I followed, pulse hammering. Familiar cold fingers wrapped around my arm, Bat’s pale face splitting with a grin that showed entirely too much enjoyment.
Dave stumbled into the main hall, skidding to a halt at the base of the grand staircase. His chest heaved. Sweat plastered grey hair to his forehead.
“Right. Right. I’m leaving. This is mental. Absolutely mental.”
He lurched towards the front door.
But movement at the top of the staircase froze us all.
Vivian appeared—blonde hair in perfect pin curls, crimson lipstick, a dove-grey dress. She struck a pose, one hand pressed to her forehead, the other clutching the bannister.
“Brace yourself,” Bat said, voice warm with obvious affection. “She’s about to perform.”
Vivian gasped—theatrical, overwrought. “No! Please! You can’t make me!”
Then she threw herself down the stairs.
Not fell. Threw.
Her body tumbled, dress billowing, limbs flailing in movements that somehow looked both genuine and impossibly choreographed. She shrieked—a blood-curdling sound that echoed off the high ceiling.
Dave pressed himself against the wall, mouth hanging open.
Brad raised the EMF reader with shaking hands.
Vivian landed in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs. Frozen mid-gasp, one arm flung dramatically across her face.
Then she vanished.
Just—gone. Empty space where her broken form had lain.
“I can’t—” Dave’s voice faltered. “Who—she just—is she—”
Bat murmured, “That’s her favourite scene from The Scarlet Widow. Won her a BAFTA.”
“She got a BAFTA for that?!”
Silence crashed through the hall.
Brad’s head whipped towards me. “What? BAFTA what?”
Dave stared at me like I’d started speaking Mandarin. Or lost my mind. Probably both.
Fire flooded my face. “I meant—that looked like Vivian Starling, right? I was just…”
Bat’s shoulders shook with silent laughter against my arm. “Smooth.”
“Shut up,” I hissed.
Brad’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t say anything.”
Arggg! Why was this so hard?!
Dave made another desperate lunge for the front door. Grabbed the handle, twisted hard.
Nothing.
He yanked again. Rattled the knob violently. “No. No, no, no. Open, you bastard!”
The door remained stubbornly locked.
“Just let him out,” I said, looking around at the seemingly empty hall. “Come on. He’s had enough.”
Brad whirled on me. “You’re talking to them?”
I shrugged. “It’s worth a try?”
Dave abandoned the door, wild-eyed, and sprinted down the corridor towards the back of the manor.
Brad cursed, chasing after him. “Sir! Please remain calm!”
I jogged behind, Bat drifting alongside me like we were on a pleasant countryside stroll rather than pursuing a terrified electrician through a haunted manor.
Dave burst into the kitchen, making a beeline for the back door.
Every cupboard door flew open at once.
The crack of wood against wood echoed like gunfire. Crockery floated out—teacups, saucers, plates, all lifting in perfect synchronisation. They circled the room, spinning lazily, catching the light.
“Tea, anyone?” Molly’s voice drifted from nowhere and everywhere. “Tea?”
A delicate porcelain cup floated directly towards me, hovering expectantly at chest height.
I reached for it automatically. Steam rose from tea that absolutely hadn’t been there seconds ago.
“Charlie! Put that down! Don’t encourage them!” Brad bellowed, eyes fixed on the floating crockery.
Dave pressed himself against the counter, tool bag still clutched to his chest like a shield. “This is mental. Harrison put you up to this, didn’t he? This is all some sick joke! You’ve got tricks everywhere, projectors, special effects—”
A plate shot forward, smashing against the wall centimetres from Dave’s head. Porcelain fragments rained onto the counter.
Dave screamed.
Bat leaned against the kitchen island, watching the chaos with obvious satisfaction. “Remember that this is pretty much our only entertainment. Though, maybe if we had a television…”
I rolled my eyes and shook my head.
Brad caught the movement immediately. Stepped closer, EMF reader forgotten in his grip. “Charlie. What’s going on? Can you see something? Someone?”
“No. Just processing the insanity.”
Lady Grimthorne’s imperious voice cut through the chaos, though I saw no sign of her. “What is this racket? Some of us are trying to read!”
The lights flickered violently—on, off, on, off. Shadows jumped across the walls.
Dave let out a strangled yelp, kicking out at something near his ankle. “Something bit me! Jesus Christ, something bit me!”
Rosemary’s giggle echoed from beneath the table.
Dave staggered forward, collided with the table edge. His arms windmilled. He crashed sideways, hip slamming against wood.
Henry’s laughter joined his sister’s.
Brad finally snapped. Yanked the PolterPulse V2.1 from his belt, thumbing the activation switch. The device hummed to life, neon blue light pulsing along its barrel.
“Everyone DOWN!”
He fired wildly.
Blue light flooded the kitchen in blinding bursts. ZAP. ZAP. ZAP.
The beam passed through floating crockery, through empty air, through—
Cold slammed into my side. Bat’s arm wrapped around my waist, yanking me sideways.
Teacups crashed to the floor. Saucers shattered.
Dave scrambled backwards on his ass, shoes squeaking against tile. “You’re all insane! Harrison’s insane! This whole place is insane! I’m going to the police! I’m suing you for this shit!”
He lurched to his feet, sprinted for the back door. Fumbled with the lock. Hands shaking so badly he could barely grip the bolt.
Then, finally—he got it open.
A cheer erupted around us—childish voices, Molly’s pleased hum, Lady Grimthorne’s haughty approval, Vivian’s theatrical applause.
Dave bolted through the doorway without looking back.
Brad lurched towards the door, PolterPulse still raised, shouting after him. “Wait! Please don’t call the police! They’re such a pain!”
The back door swung shut.
Silence crashed through the kitchen.
I stood in the wreckage—broken crockery everywhere, cupboard doors hanging open, frost clinging to the windows. My teacup sat perfectly intact on the counter, steam still rising. Maybe I could enjoy it in just a moment.
Brad and I stared at each other across the destroyed kitchen.
Bat stood right by me, arms crossed, grin unrepentant. “So. Impressed?”
I tried to glare at him. Failed spectacularly when my mouth twitched.
The sound of a van engine roaring to life shattered the quiet. Tyres screeched on gravel, the noise fading rapidly into the distance.
Brad slowly holstered the PolterPulse. Turned to face me fully. “Right. Well. That went about as expected.”
“He’s not coming back, is he?”
“Would you?”
Bat shrugged, examining his fingernails with studied nonchalance. “They never come back. If we do our job correctly.”
Brad’s gaze snapped to me. Eyes narrowed.
“What are you looking at? There’s still one left, isn’t there?” His voice dropped, sharp with suspicion. “You can see them.”
My breath snagged. “What? No. I—”
“Don’t lie to me, Charlie.” Brad stepped closer, combat boots crunching on broken porcelain. “What can you see? What are they doing?”
Bat raised his eyebrows, leaning back against the counter. Watching me with obvious curiosity.
“I can’t see anything!” The words tumbled out too fast, too defensive. “Same as you. Exactly the same. Flying crockery and… and that woman on the stairs. Vivian, maybe. That’s it.”
“You started saying all that random shit about her winning a BAFTA.”
“Well… my mum was a big fan of hers!”
“I don’t buy this.” Brad’s hand visibly tightened on his PolterPulse. “There’s something you’re not telling me. And I’m going to find out what.”
The front door creaked open. Footsteps echoed through the hall—measured, cautious.
Harrison appeared in the kitchen doorway.
He froze, eyes sweeping over the carnage.
Shattered porcelain crunched beneath his polished shoes as he stepped inside. His gaze tracked across open cupboard doors, scattered cutlery, the frosty windows. His mouth hung open.
“Yeah… So look, Harrison,” Brad said. “Dave isn’t coming back.”