1. Thick thighs and pretty eyes
one
Thick thighs and pretty eyes
JAMES
“Now, ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll please look to your left, we’re arriving at our fifth stop.
This is one of Edinburgh’s most haunted locations,” says the Ghost Bus Tour hostess with an ominous voice.
“From whispers in the night, to soft touches on the back and apparitions at the top of the stairs, these ghosts have been around for far longer than you and I. They have terrified generations of visitors. Please behold, Lynch House!”
While the tour guide dramatically pauses so we can locate the house in question through the foggy windows, I try my best not to roll my eyes.
For some reason, my new boss thought it would be a good idea to send me a vague voice message, in which he’d promptly forgotten the address of my first job.
So, he just told me to get on the Ghost Bus and stop at the fifth stop.
You best believe I’ll bill the company for the expensive ride.
I crane my neck to look at the house as the bus takes a turn into the narrow street of Old Town Edinburgh, but a giant bloke is obstructing my view.
I glare at the back of his head for a heartbeat—a mess of light brown hair—before reaching over the aisle and thumping him on the back.
He jerks and looks at me over his massive shoulder.
He’s more youthful than I expected, early twenties at most, with a cute face considering his size.
“I can’t see,” I say, itching for an argument.
But the man just ducks his head politely, cramming his large body between the seats.
Dusk is descending over Edinburgh, accompanied by fog that could be a paid actor from the Ghost Tour company.
The double-decker bus stops by the pavement, and the centuries-old gray stone building stands proud, light glowing from every window.
There are at least five floors, and an actual tower with a spire on the left side of the house.
The roof slates are covered in green moss and a great number of chimneys rise above the skyline.
This place looks haunted alright, I think.
“This house was built in eighteen forty-four by Earl Fergus Lynch,” the hostess continues.
“Good old Fergus was a fan of the occult and a dark practitioner. He invited other nobles to partake in his seances to converse with spirits. The ghosts are said to have stayed behind long after the earl expired at the not-so-ripe age of fifty-five from syphilis. The house was passed down generations and rented out in the last decades, until the last son of the family died eight years ago. The house was bequeathed to a far-remote cousin who has since turned it into a hostel. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, you can now stay with the ghosts of Lynch House! Reports of the many sightings of the spirit activity in the house can be found in our book...”
I stop listening to the hostess as I stand up and make my way down to the bottom deck, my company-issued bag thrown over my shoulder.
They have turned off the lights for a spookier effect, and I almost trip twice on people’s outstretched feet in the aisle.
Tourists watch me as I walk around the hostess with her mic and reach the door.
My reflection appears in the glass window while I wait for the doors to open.
My black hair is elegantly mussed and the low collar of my ripped t-shirt shows the intricate tattoo on my neck—the ones on my arms are hidden under my black puffer jacket.
The piercings on my ears glint under the light above my head.
I might not be very tall, but at least I make up for it with my aura.
I glare at my reflection, the door isn’t budging.
“I’m getting out here,” I say to the driver.
The driver—a balding, middle-aged man—offers me toothy smile. “There’s no getting off this bus, mate. We’re the Ghost Bus Tour, not public transportation.”
I turn to offer him the full scope of my withering look. “Let me out.”
He must have decided it’s not worth antagonizing me further because seconds later the door opens with a plaintive groan. “Suit yourself.”
As I’m about to get out, there’s movement from the aisle. The hostess is trying to squeeze herself over an empty seat to allow the giant from the top deck to pass. He looks entirely self-conscious as the entire bus is watching him. When he reaches me, his eyes are downcast.
I harrumph and jump out on the streets. The big fella follows me, and the driver closes the door behind us with finality.
As if afraid we’re going to cause trouble, he drives away as the hostess is still reciting Lynch House’s apparently endless history of ghost activity.
The two of us find ourselves standing side by side on the pavement, facing the hostel.
“So, you’re my ExorSquad teammate,” I say as I eye him.
I should have noticed it sooner, he’s wearing the same uniform as me, dark-blue overalls with the logo of the company on it, a depressed-looking ghost. Except his look about to burst at the seams. He really is a broad-shouldered chap.
Even the bag on his shoulder—company issued, too—looks smaller than mine when compared to his body.
“Aye.” He clears his throat. “Ewan—Ewan Hamilton. And you’re James Sato, right?” He has a Scottish accent. A local, then.
“Right. I don’t need a partner for this job, but the boss said something about doing a PR stunt, so here you are. Try not to mess this up for the both of us.”
Again, I expect him to square off with me, but he just remains expressionless. “Alright.”
The house looms in front of us, imposing and quite frankly alluring for a supposed haunted building.
There are people dancing behind one window, others running in and out of the main entrance, laughter spilling out of the open door, and Halloween decorations visible even from outside.
The sign hanging above the street says in bold pink letters: Lynch Hostel.
A metal-work cutout of a cat balances in the wind.
I push through the door and Ewan follows me.
We step into another world entirely. The entry hall is vast, with a shining crystal chandelier high above our heads and sprawling stairs rising to the upper floors of the house.
But the luxury ends there. The marble floors are covered by mismatched carpets, and the hall has been transformed into a lounge area, with couches and chairs of different styles.
A crowd of people are playing cards around a coffee table, luggage stacked by their sides.
Suits of armour line the walls, but someone dressed them up with funny hats and scarves.
One is even wearing nipple patches over its chest plate.
A modern reception desk has been added to the right side of the entry hall. A young woman with purple hair sits behind it, petting a fat calico cat who is napping by her keyboard. Her eyes widen slightly and she blushes as they travel over Ewan’s massive frame.
“Hi! Welcome to Lynch Hostel. What can I do ye for?” she says to him.
I scowl. I’m not used to being ignored.
I clear my throat. “We’re the ExorSquad team you requested.”
“Oh! For real?”
I keep my expression neutral, which means my resting bitch face must be on full display. “Yes. For real.”
“I wasn’t sure if you guys were the real deal. You aren’t scammers, are you?” she asks with a laugh.
I say nothing. I might need this job right now but I’m not stooping so low as to offer an obvious lie.
Ghosts, really? The first job I did for ExorSquad last week was absurd.
They sent me to the penthouse of a rich widow who was certain her dead husband was haunting her shoe closet.
I had to pretend to wave around the fancy-looking equipment the company gave me, reading the energy in the room or whatever.
There was no ghost, obviously. I made up some bullshit about her husband disliking her shopping addiction and pretended he’d moved on to the other side.
The boss wasn’t happy—he called my ghost hunt anti-climatic.
The silence stretches, and the receptionist stands up abruptly.
“Come get me if anyone’s at the counter,” she says to the calico cat.
The cat, surprisingly, opens its eyes for brief moment, as if listening attentively, then it offers her a slow blink.
To us, she adds, “Follow me, please. I’ll take you to Lana. ”
The purple-haired receptionist walks in front of us with, in my opinion, more sway in her hips than necessary. I glance at my new teammate, wondering if he’s susceptible to her charms, but I find him still looking at the cat with a fond smile on his face.
She leads us up the stairs and to the upper floors. On the way, we meet another cat, a gray tabby. It watches us, perched on a banister. Ewan pets it gently as he walks by, but I give it a wide berth. I can feel its eyes on my back. Cats are uncanny, and they give me the creeps.
The rest of the hostel is pretty much in the same vein as the main hall, full of antiquities and mismatched decor, giving the impression that we walked into the home of maximalist wizard and their interior design partner.
The door to the office on the second floor is wide open, and the receptionist leaves us with a wink after knocking.
Lana Lynch, the hostel owner and our client, welcomes us with a bright smile. Like her home, she’s... a lot. She has carrot-orange curls, gold-rimmed glasses, sparkly eyeshadow, and a long, green dress. She could be somewhere between her thirties and early forties.
“You must be my ghosts experts!” she squeals with an American accent. “We’ve been expecting you. Such a relief, I’m at my wits end.”
She walks around her massive mahogany desk and that’s when I notice another cat sitting on top of it like an alabaster statue. Its heterochromatic eyes—blue and green—are on us, unblinking. The tip of its right ear is missing. A shiver slithers down my spine. How many cats are there?
“Yes, Ma’am,” Ewan says when I fail to answer.