Page 8 of Purrfectly Haunted

We walk blindly out of the kitchen, James pulling me by the arm. A lone lamp is turned on in the large living area, beckoning us.

James finds his phone inside his bag. “Grab everything that looks like a weapon. She won’t catch us unaware twice.”

He turns on the flashlight app in his phone and we walk back to check the damage in the kitchen. There is a wide scorch mark at the centre of the room, a dent on the fridge’s door, and broken crystal all over the floor.

He chuckles. “Well, at least we have proof of what went down here.” He winces. “We were supposed to limit the damage to the house. But really, considering we were facing a ghost who was literally on fire, I think it could have been worse.”

I nod. “Do you think the guests heard the commotion?”

“I mean, I’d be surprised if they didn’t. She screamed like a banshee. Do you know more puns?”

I shake my head a little too fast. I don’t want to face the Burning Crone again, but what choice do I have? It’s our job. I don’t understand how James can be so flippant about it. He’s unbothered, even though the witch came after him only minutes ago. I wish I was like him, but I’m just me, a giant crybaby.

“Let me do a quick search on my phone,” he says. I wait patiently, clutching my PolterPulse—hopefully this one works better. “Aha! What is a witch’s favourite TV show?” He pauses. “A Game of Crones!”

We wait. James looks ready to fight, but I’m ready to bolt.

“A centuries-old witch probably doesn’t watch TV,” I say.

“How about...”

On and on it goes. James reads puns and jokes from his phone, and we wait for the Burning Crone to make herself known again. She doesn’t. The kitchen stays dark and quiet. Nobody comes to check on us even after all the commotion.

“Maybe... maybe we chased her out of the house?” I say eventually.

James hums. “Looks like it.” He paces the kitchen for a moment, then adds, “Let’s clean up this mess and go to bed. It’s getting too late to hunt another ghost anyway. The curfew ends at five.”

The clock on the oven says 03:57.

We look for a broom and a dustpan and then sweep the crystals shards and throw them in the bin.

Just as we’re about to exit the kitchen, James gasps, “Holy shit! It scared me.” A pair of eyes are glowing under the table. He aims the flashlight and it reveals a cat. “Huh. This one’s new.”

It’s a Russian blue with an adorable round face. Someone heard us, after all.

“Oh, hello you. Sorry for the commotion,” I say.

The cat slow-blinks at me—the equivalent of a smile in the feline world—and I have to resist melting into a pile of goo in front of James. We always had cats and dogs at home growing up, and I missed their company more than anything since I moved to my cramped apartment in the city.

“Move along now,” James says, shooing the cat with a lazy gesture. “Your mistress will have our heads if you get shards in your paws.”

The cat doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

James mutters something under his breath and he exits the kitchen. I follow on his heels, not wanting to be left behind in a haunted kitchen.

He takes a sniff of his torn t-shirt. “Fuck. I smell like smoke and sweat. Shower first.”

I resist the strange impulse to smell him—to know what he means, of course.

We pack away our devices and grab our bags. On the way to the bathroom, we cross paths with three other cats. They watch us from the dark, eyes glowing, but disappear every time James tries to shine the light on them.

“Fucking cats...” he mutters.

The communal showers are on the second level of the house. The shower floor is covered in deep green tiles and the stalls are the only thing that appear modern. There are vintage sconces on the walls and gilded mirrors, giving it the impression that we’re on the Titanic or a fancy hotel from another time entirely. Hopefully, we won’t hit an iceberg at the centre of Edinburgh.

The handbook says most spirits are tied to the location of their death, and I wonder...

“Do you think the ghosts of the Titanic still haunt the wreck in the abyss?” I ask out loud.