Page 9 of Bump in the Night

It’s hot in the attic—like fires have been stoked beneath the floorboards. We forge a path through the mounds of furniture slowly, my fingers clutching the back of Arthur’s shirt as we pass tangled piles of dining chairs, sun-faded oil paintings in burnished frames, bursting wooden closets, and fringed floor lamps.

“And I thought my bedroom was messy.”

Arthur hums. “These ghosts are hoarders. Who needs seven broken ironing boards? Especially in the afterlife.”

“Dunno. I don’t even iron my clothes in this life.”

His voice warms. “You’re a treasure, Penny Dreadful.”

After what feels like miles of narrow alleyways through the junk, we reach a small clearing. A circular antique rug lays flat on the floorboards, somehow dust-free, even as the rest of this stuff is caked in cobwebs. There’s an old fashioned record player on a stool, a record spinning aimlessly, the needle tipped off its edge. Everything glows with pale light.

“Is that thing plugged in?” I murmur, nodding at the record player.

“No.” Arthur sounds as pleased as I feel.

“Should we…?”

A strong arm bands across my front, searing me with warmth through my t-shirt. I fight the sudden mad urge to squirm against him; to grab onto his arm and never let go.

“I’ll do it,” Arthur says. “Stand back.”

My heartbeat goes all funny as he moves forward, hesitating before he steps onto the rug. It’s like I miss one heartbeat, then pump out three extra fast to catch up. I’m biting my lip so hard, I taste the coppery tang of blood.

As soon as he steps onto the rug, Arthur is lit up with that silvery glow too. It outlines his broad shoulders and slender waist; his dark hair and sharp jaw.

Something pulses low in my belly.

I stare at him so hard, I don’t blink. So hard, I’m surprised my favorite author doesn’t burst into flames.

What would he feel like, pressed against me? Or lying on top of me, weighing me down?

Oh god. Oh god, oh god.

It’s finally happening, I’m finally getting my ghostly encounter, and all I can think about is how badly I want to climb this man like a tree. To suck kisses on his throat.

I hate my brain sometimes.

“Ready?” Arthur’s hand hovers a few inches above the record player’s needle.

I swallow thickly, my throat so dry. Can I blame the dust? “Ready.”

There’s a soft crackle, and the record hums to life. It’s a slow, old-fashioned song, played on the piano with a man crooning about his lost love. The kind of tune I’ve always pictured playing in barracks’ bars during the second world war.

“Penny.”

I blink, and refocus on the hand reaching for me. Arthur stands on the rug with a small smile, one arm outstretched. His eyes glow silver.

“Dance with me,” he says.

My insides shiver.

“Is… is that still you?” Whelp, I’m taking his hand either way, stepping onto the antique rug. Arthur Carstairs draws me into his arms and spins us slowly, moving in tight circles like two dancers on a wedding cake.

“I think so,” he says.

“You don’t know so?”

White teeth flash in the corner of my eye as he smiles. “Your eyes are silver, Penny. I assume mine are too, since you asked. So tell me: do you feel like yourself?”

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