Page 53 of Dead Serious Case 4 Professor Prometheus Plume

I’m pretty sure this weekend is going to be unforgettable… for completely the wrong reasons.

13

My eyes flutter open halfway as I yawn. Daylight filters through the open curtains, which means I must have slept in. My arms are folded under the pillow cradling my head as I lie on my stomach. I hum and start to drift off, only to become aware of a quiet scraping sound. Frowning, I open my eyes fully and lift my head from the pillow a fraction.

Danny’s not in bed beside me, but I’m dimly aware of the sound of the shower, so I can only assume he’s in the bathroom. The scraping sound happens again, and I turn my head towards it, only to startle at the sight of what looks to be a young boy in our room.

I reach for my glasses and slide them on.

No, definitely not hallucinating. There’s a kid—aged around ten years old, I’d say—in my bedroom, mylocked from the insidebedroom. He’s short and skinny, with dirty blonde hair and freckles, and is wearing a coarse grey blazer over a knitted brown vest and a white shirt. His trousers are dark grey and stop above the knees, looking more like shorts, and on his feet are grey ankle socks and brown leather shoes with T-bars and buckled straps.

He doesn’t pay me any attention and, given that he’s currently pushing a very heavy antique dresser across the room without any trouble, I’m going to go out on a limb here and say I’ve encountered my first Ashton-Drake Manor House Hotel resident ghost.

I sigh as he continues to shove the dresser across the room. I guess I know how the furniture was moved yesterday, seeing as how I’m staring at the culprit.

“Are you going to put that back?” I ask him dryly.

He startles and stares directly at me, his hazel eyes wide.

“Are you talking to me?” he says in the high pitch of a young child.

“I don’t see anyone else rearranging the furniture.”

“Bloody hell!” he exclaims. “You can see me?”

“Of course I can see you, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t keep moving everything around.”

He winks out of sight like he’d been caught with a hand in the cookie jar but rather annoyingly leaves the dresser stranded in the middle of the floor.

I roll over onto my back and stare at the canopy of the bed above me.

“Fucking ghosts,” I bemoan loudly.

“That’s a bit rude,” Dusty says beside me.

I tilt my head and see her sitting on Danny’s side of the bed, her back propped against the headboard, her long legs stretched out in front of her, and her ankles crossed demurely to showcase a pair of ridiculously high, spiked platform stilettos that Lady Gaga would envy. Her dress squeaks slightly as she shifts, which is probably due to the fact it seems to be constructed of skintight latex in bubblegum pink and looks like it’s been painted on her body.

“Morning, Dusty.” I sigh. “How’s Dad?”

“Still sleeping,” she replies. “I looked in on him a moment ago.”

I frown and glance over at her. “Not to be rude, then, but why are you here?”

“I thought I’d check in on you after that fiasco last night.” She grins.

“Urgh, don’t remind me.” I cover my face with my hands in mortification. “Why is it I seem to be incapable of going out for a nice meal with my bloke without utter pandemonium ensuing? If it’s not me setting fire to the tablecloth with the decorative candles, then it’s cute little twinky receptionists slash waiters throwing puddings at us.”

“I’d say you’re being a little hard on yourself,” Dusty muses, “but you do seem to have a lot of, uh… unconventional dates.”

“You can use the word disastrous. I won’t hold it against you.” I pout, then frown as a thought occurs to me. “Why did you show up anyway? And what was with the singing and exploding confetti?”

“I, um…” Her eyes widen and she looks a little panicked. “I… just wanted to uh, congratulate you on–”

“On what?” I ask in confusion.

“Uh, you know… your romantic weekend away with no ghosts.”

“And you thought turning up and serenading me at dinner with a 1980s Cliff Richards top-40 hit and a confetti cannon was the way to go about it?”