The damp autumn air hung heavy over Sick-a-Moor Castle, a crumbling Victorian pile that smelled entirely of wet spaniel and damp wallpaper. Philomena adjusted her tweed flat cap, checked the readings on her EMF scanner, and cleared her throat.
‘Right then, Sean,’ Philomena said, tapping the plastic casing of her device. ‘The local parish newsletter swears the East Wing is rife with poltergeist activity. Cold spots, knocking sounds and unexplained nocturnal moans.’
Sean, who was currently struggling to untangle a thermal imaging camera from his knitted scarf, grunted softly.
‘Sounds like my uncle Hector after a heavy Sunday roast, to be perfectly honest.’
‘Let’s hope your uncle Hector isn’t prone to throwing heavy oak furniture,’ Philomena replied, stepping over a puddle of murky water leaking from a rotted ceiling beam. She raised the scanner. ‘According to the vicar’s wife, the spirit here is quite partial to hurling the parish silver.’
‘Grand,’ Sean muttered, finally freeing his chin from the scarf. He clicked the thermal camera on. The screen bloomed into a grainy wash of deep blues and purples, reflecting the freezing, unheated corridors of the castle. ‘Well, there’s definitely a cold spot. Mind you, that’s just because half the lead is missing from the roof.’
They crept further down the gallery. The floorboards groaned beneath their heavy rubber boots, a sound that seemed to echo a fraction of a second too long in the emptiness. Philomena led the way, holding a silver crucifix in one hand and a cheap butcher’s thermometer in the other. She stopped outside a rusted iron door, holding up a single finger to signal silence.
A distinct, rhythmic thudding echoed from within the gloom.
‘Did you hear that?’ Philomena whispered, her eyes wide with theatrical terror. ‘That is a classic level-three manifestation. Prepare the salt ring and hold the night-vision camera steady.’
Sean fumbled with his backpack, dropping a bag of flour, three batteries and a damp egg sandwich onto the floor.
‘I can’t find the salt, Philomena. Will half a packet of cheese and onion crisps do?’
‘Just open the bloody door,’ Philomena hissed.
He kicked the heavy iron door open, while she struck a dramatic exorcist pose with her crucifix extended.
‘In the name of the realm, yield, foul spirit!’
The beam of Sean’s torch swept across the dusty room, past cobwebs, rusted lawnmowers and ancient paint tins, before settling on the source of the supernatural terror.
Sitting atop a faded velvet armchair was a rotund, one-eyed ginger tomcat. The creature was methodically bumping its head against an empty tin of sardines, creating a hollow thud every ten seconds. As the light hit its single eye, the cat let out a long, desperate, nocturnal moan.
Philomena slowly lowered her crucifix. The EMF beeped once, indicating a low battery.
‘Frightening,’ Sean remarked, crunching on a crisp. ‘Shall we tell the vicar we exorcised it, or just leave him the sardine tin?’
