Page 3 of Spellbinding Spirit

Chapter 2

Catherine

Sebastian’s messages always makesme smile. I love hearing his stories about the crazy guests he deals with, but I honestly can't quite fathom how he does it. Working in customer service is something I could never do. The things he tells me about—the outrageous demands, the sheer rudeness of some people—are mind-boggling. I already find it challenging when I have to deal with an obnoxious student, but at least as a professor I have some authority. Sebastian, on the other hand,has to stay friendly and composed no matter how challenging a guest is.

Me

Have you spoken to your boss?

Please, please, please. There are so many stories surrounding the Greenview Manor Hotel and I’ve been itching to investigate it for ages. Now that Sebastian has been promoted to Front of House Manager I was finally brave enough to ask him if they would give me permission to carry out an investigation for at least one night.

Sebastian doesn’t believe in ghosts but he’s never made me feel silly about what I do. I think I could be a stripper in a nightclub and he would support me. Even though we live far away from each other he’s the kind of friend who I know would drop everything in the blink of an eye and drive all the way down here if I needed help. He’s my best friend but I was a bit nervous to ask him because I’d be invading his workplace and people might tease him about it. Judged by association.

Sebastian

Yes. Tommy said as long as it doesn’t impact the guests in the rooms below you can investigate for as many nights as you want. But he wanted me to remind you that he stayed in the flat in the attic and he never saw or heard a thing.

Yes!I am so excited, I want to scream. There is a legend of the ghost of a maid haunting the upper floors; I’ve read so manyaccounts of people who thought they heard or saw her—all the way back to 1918, only two years after she died.

"Are you ready?" Philip suddenly asks, his breath clouding the chilly air as I tug my jacket tighter and double-check the straps on my gear. Philip is a PhD student of mine and this is his first formal investigation. He has done a few private ones, which anyone can book, but never a scientific one.

"Sure," I reply and put the Greenview Manor Hotel from my mind for now. My heart's doing that annoying flutter it always does before we start. It's the second night of our investigation at Livemore Castle and to be honest last night was underwhelming. A few muffled bumps, maybe a creak or two, but probably just the wind squeezing through the ancient stone walls. Or maybe a fox. There’s always a mundane answer until there isn’t.

I've been doing this for over two decades, and yet each first step into the unknown still sends a thrill through me. Every time we set up in a place like this, a castle brimming with centuries of stories, I feel the pulse of possibility. The sceptic in me knows most reported hauntings are just products of overactive imaginations. People see what they want to see. Grief does strange things to the mind, after all. A shadow in the corner becomes a lost loved one; a draught from an old chimney feels like a ghost brushing past. And let’s not even get started on the way fatigue or stress can twist reality into something unrecognisable.

But then there are the moments that make the hairs on my arms stand up, moments that science can’t quite explain away. The shadow that moves against the light. The whisper you hear clear as day, only no one’s there. The feeling—not fear, not cold, butsomething else entirely—that creeps over you in a space like this. That’s why I do this. Not just to debunk or to reassure people that their house isn’t harbouring a poltergeist but to dig into the gaps where reason and mystery collide. And, yes, maybe, just maybe, to find proof that the impossible is possible.

Philip’s already gone ahead. I can see his torch bobbing against the crumbling path and I follow, the weight of my gear becoming less noticeable as my adrenalin spikes. His torch casts elongated shadows that flicker over the walls as we step deeper into Livemore Castle. The air is thick creating the kind of stillness that feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting. My boots crunch against the old stone floor, the sound ricocheting off the high ceilings. I glance at Philip; he’s got that look: half sceptic, half kid in a haunted house. I’d tease him but I’m probably wearing the same expression.

“Let’s set up here,” I say, stopping in the first room on the right. The moonlight filtering through narrow, diamond-paned windows illuminates the space enough for us to make out features without needing our torch. The beams glint off the ornate, dust-covered mirror leaning precariously against the far wall. The room smells faintly of mildew and damp wood but it’s not overwhelming. There have been reports of sightings in this room so it’s the perfect spot.

Philip nods and kneels to unpack the motion sensor while I busy myself with the EMF meter and a small glass jar. Inside the jar a feather rests atop a tiny wooden plank balanced on a pin. Primitive, sure, but incredibly effective. If there’s even the slightest disturbance in the air—something beyond the natural draught—it will show.

I place the jar in the centre of the room then pull out my digital recorder and settle it on a low wooden table near the mirror. “All right,” I say, setting up the night vision camera at the perfect angle. “Let’s see what stories this place has to tell.”

We retreat to the far end of the room and sink into old chairs that creak under our weight. The air feels heavier now, or maybe I’m just imagining it. Silence wraps around us, broken only by the tick of Philip’s wristwatch. I find myself staring through the lens of my nightvision camera at the jar in the centre of the room, the feather utterly still.

Philip shifts in his seat, his voice barely above a whisper. “Do you think the stories about the Grey Lady are true?”

I suppress a grin. “Well, there have been a lot of reported sightings that showed similarities. It could be people being aware of the myth, but myths usually leave out the tiny little details, and in this case a number of them reported that she had some of her strands of hair flowing loosely around her face whilst the rest of her hair was pinned up. What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, his eyes scanning the darkness beyond our torchlight. “Like you say, there’s usually some grain of truth in these legends, right? I mean, that’s why we’re here.”

“I think,” I say, leaning forward, “that people love a good ghost story because it’s comforting. It gives them a way to imagine something bigger than themselves. Death isn’t so scary if there’s something after it.”

Before Philip can reply, the first knock echoes through the room. It’s sharp and deliberate and cuts through the silence like a knife. I freeze, heart hammering against my ribs.

“Did you hear that?” Philip whispers, sitting bolt upright.

I nod and fumble for my recorder. “Stay still,” I murmur, pressing the record button. “Let’s see if it happens again.”

Another knock. This time, it’s closer and definitely not a settling beam or an old pipe. It’s deliberate.

Philip clears his throat. “Is there someone here with us?” he asks, his voice steady but quiet.

Knock.

My breath catches. Philip glances at me with wide eyes, a grin tugging at his lips. “No way,” he whispers, leaning forward. “Okay, uh, can you knock twice if you’re here to talk to us?”

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