Lockwood & Co. The Hollow Boy

The day got worse. Of course it did. By early afternoon, George and I had still found nothing (at least nothing, in my case, that we’d officially gone to find). It was time to get home to the office, but George wanted to do a final check on some obscure journals that were housed in another building, a few blocks from the main Archives. He said he’d follow later, so I tramped back alone to Portland Row. And when I entered the hall, the first thing I saw was Holly Munro, all outfitted in an agent’s work belt and rapier. She had a cool leather coat on, and black leather fingerless gloves; also a wool sweater I’d never seen before.

She saw me staring. “This sweater? I know. It’s not very flattering. It’s one of Lockwood’s old ones. He says it shrank in the wash. Still smells of him, though.”

Lockwood peered out of the living room, carrying a workbag in either hand. “Holly’s joining us tonight,” he said. “Where’s George?”

“He’s still looking. But—”

“We can’t wait for him. We’ll only have an hour or two before dark, at this rate. He can meet us at the house. I’ve got your bag here, Lucy. We need to get going, so now’s the time if you need to pee or anything.” He disappeared.

Holly and I stood facing each other down the hall. She had that little smile on, the default one that might mean anything or nothing. I could hear Lockwood rummaging somewhere in the next room, whistling tunelessly between his teeth.

“I don’t actually need to pee,” I said.

“No.” We stood there. Where had she gotten the gloves from? They looked suspiciously like the spare ones that I kept in my weapons locker. I recognized the sword for sure: it was one of the old blades we used for practice in the rapier room.

I took a breath. “So why—”

“Lockwood had—”

We’d both spoken at the same time. Now we both stopped—me the most decisively; after a pause, Holly resumed. “Lockwood had a difficult interview with Miss Wintergarden,” she said. “She’s demanding instant results. A most exacting lady. He says we need as many pairs of eyes as possible this afternoon, to try to find the Source before nightfall. I offered to come along, and he’s found me a few things to make sure I’m protected and kept warm. I hope you don’t mind this, Lucy.”

“No, not at all,” I said. Why should I mind? It was just like her to assume I had some problem with it. I gestured at her outfit. “Is this wise, though? What experience in fieldwork have you had?”

“I went out on plenty of assignments at Rotwell’s,” she said. “In fact, when I started out, I got my First and Second Grade certificates, and afterward did rapier training so that—”

“Yeah,” I said. “But you should know that this visitation isn’t a Type One or anything. It’s much more formidable than that.”

Holly Munro pushed a stray hair or two behind her ear. “Well, I’ve seen some things. I was there in the Holland Park Cellar case, when our party got blockaded underground by those seven spectral dogs. It was quite a tight spot. And after that—”

“I heard about Holland Park, Holly, and I can tell you the thing that makes the bloody footprints is ten times worse. I’m only saying. I don’t want to frighten you. I just wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

Her bland smile flickered. “I can only do my best.”

“I just hope it’ll be enough,” I said.

Lockwood came out of the living room, stepped between us, and swung his overcoat down off the rack. “Everyone happy?” he said. “Great. I’ve left a note for George. Jake should be here with the taxi any minute, so let’s get the equipment outside. Are those bags yours, Holly? Please—don’t bother yourself. Let me.”

Fifty-four Hanover Square was no more and no less welcoming than the day before. Dull shafts beamed down from the skylight high above, illuminating odd corners of the staircase, facets of wood, worn steps, random portions of the wall. I listened, as I always do when I enter such a house, but it was hard to hear with all Holly and Lockwood’s twittering: he softly explaining the locations of our previous vigil, she asking endless questions and laughing at his remarks. I tried to block it out, and simultaneously stifle the annoyance that twisted deeper in my chest. Annoyance had to be avoided, along with other negative feelings. Bad things happened to agents who didn’t keep their emotions under control.

I consoled myself with the thought that we’d soon be too busy trying to stay alive to worry about any of that. Plus, George would turn up, and the dynamics would change.

But George didn’t show.

We got on with it anyway, hunting for possible Sources, first in the basement, then in the attic. The basement I disliked intensely: two people, to my certain knowledge, had fallen to their deaths there. The kitchen itself, separated by a kind of arch from the bottom of the stairwell, was modern and inoffensive enough, but the tiled area made my skin prickle and our thermometers drop. We probed the tiles with penknives and tested the risers of the stairs, but found no hidden cavity where a relic of the original tragedy might be found. I tested the walls for hollow spaces; Lockwood got down on his hands and knees and crawled inside the little closets that had been built beneath the staircase itself, exploring them minutely with his flashlight. We found nothing. Holly Munro discovered a nearby storeroom containing a lot of old black furniture, but on inspection we thought it early twentieth century rather than Victorian.

“It’s possible that the tiles themselves are the Source,” I said, “if that’s where the final act of the tragedy played out. We could lay a chain net here and see if the haunting still takes place.”

Lockwood rubbed dust off his trousers. “Good idea. But first, we’ll search the attic.”

In some ways the top of the stairs mirrored the bottom: the actual area of interest was very small indeed. The servants’ rooms lay beyond a paneled corridor and didn’t have much to do with the tiny attic landing, which was little more than a set of polished floorboards, perhaps twelve feet square, bounded on one side by the final neat elm balustrade. Wan blue sky showed through the skylight. As I’d done the day before, I looked over the banister and saw the stairs’ great flattened spiral corkscrewing smoothly down through the gray interior of the house, around and around, deeper and deeper, all the way to where shadows enfolded it in the basement four floors below.

It was a terrible drop. Poor Little Tom, to have fallen there.

If anything, the attic was even less fruitful than the basement had been. We found a cold spot, and a loose floorboard, which got Lockwood excited, but when we pried it up we found nothing but dust. A few spiders scuttled out, which might have meant something. There were no dried bloodstains, no dropped knives, no sinister fragments of clothing; and the rest of the landing was bare.

“Just a thought,” Holly Munro said, “but might the staircase itself be the Source? If the boy bled all over it, if the terror he felt as he ran up it was still fused into the wood…”

“…the whole thing could be the channel to the Other Side,” Lockwood said. He whistled. “It’s possible. Not sure how that’s going to go down with our client, if we tell her she needs to rip her precious staircase out.”

“I’ve never heard of a Source that big,” I said.

Lockwood was staring up at the sky beyond the glass; it was like a slab of uncooked bacon now—gray and pink, laced with pale striations. “There have been cases. George would know….I wish he’d hurry up. You said he only had a couple of journals to look through.” He checked his watch, came to a snap decision. “All right, we need to get cracking. We’ll lay out chain nets in the basement, like you suggested, and on the landing here. If that stops the haunting, all well and good; if not, we’ll think again. I want us to observe as we did yesterday, and not engage. I’ll take the basement this time, see if I spot anything different. Lucy, you can watch up here. Otherwise candles, defenses, everything as before.”

“What can I do?” Holly Munro asked.

I smiled at her, leaned against the banister. “Tell you what,” I said. “I’m really parched. Could you get the kettle on, do you think, Holly? And, if you can stretch to it, I’ll have a couple of biscuits, too. Thanks so much.”

Our assistant, after only the most minuscule hesitation, nodded. “Certainly, Lucy.” Smiling her compliant smile, she pattered down the stairs.

“She’s good,” I said. “I’m glad you brought her.”

Lockwood was watching me. “You need to be a bit more generous. She doesn’t have to be here tonight.”

“I’m just worried for her sake,” I said. “You felt the energy of the apparitions last night. She’s a novice at this. Look—she doesn’t even know how to attach a rapier to her belt. She nearly tripped over it then.” I allowed myself the smallest grin, saw Lockwood’s gaze on me, and looked away.

“Well, you needn’t worry too much,” he said slowly, “because I’ll keep an eye on her. She can stand beside me in my circle. That’ll keep her safe. You’ll be all right, I know. So get your chains set up now. I’ll see you downstairs in a few minutes.” And with that he was off, spiraling away down the stairs, his long coat drifting—and me watching him go, hot-eyed.

Nothing in the next few hours contributed much toward improving my mood. The house went dark, and our lines of snuff-lights bloomed into soft, pale life, marking the route for our ghosts. We ate, rested, checked our supplies. George didn’t turn up. This was perplexing; we worried that events in the containment zone had somehow spilled over to delay him. Certainly, I missed his company, as Lockwood remained distinctly chilly toward me over sandwiches and biscuits. Holly’s presence unsettled me. She was at once submissive and assertive, her inexperience overlapping with her smooth self-confidence. Both these aspects, in different ways, contrived to snare Lockwood’s attention. It left me out on a limb, feeling awkward and exposed.

Lockwood had laid out a silver chain net on the basement tiles with, a little way off, a loop of iron chains. True to his word it was a capacious one, just right for two. As night set in, he and Holly retired to it, still chatting softly, while I had to trudge off to my lonely vigil at the other end of the stairs. Part of me knew I was being unreasonable. Nothing Lockwood was doing was essentially wrong. But the rightful pattern of events—of him and me working side by side—had been disrupted, and my disapproval chafed at my belly, as if I’d swallowed a bucketful of sharp stones.

Up on the attic landing, I sat inside my iron chains, between two shuttered lanterns, with my rapier set out in front of me like a dessert fork at a table. A chain net lay close by, in the center of the floor. I got out a book. I’d known I was in for a long wait, so this time I’d brought something to keep me occupied. It was a battered paperback thriller from Lockwood’s shelves. Perhaps it had once belonged to Jessica, or to his parents, Celia and Donald Lockwood, the eminent psychic researchers, who had died in some tragic incident long ago….

Anger surged through me. I shut the covers with a snap. In thirty seconds that single bald paragraph in the Archives had told me more than Lockwood had managed to in all the months I’d lived with him! The names of his parents! The circumstances of his sister’s death! It would have been funny if it weren’t so pathetic! What was he scared of? He seemed quite incapable of properly opening up, of giving me the trust that I deserved. Oh sure, he was charming enough, when he wanted to be. But it meant nothing. You could see it in his behavior now, the ease with which he mollycoddled his new assistant, while turning his back on me.

They were probably still chatting down in the darkness, side by side. Me, I had no one. I didn’t have George. Heck, I didn’t even have the skull (since Holly was unaware of my connection with it, we couldn’t easily bring it along this time). There was nobody here to talk to. I was entirely alone….

I shook the self-pity away. No, I was being stupid. Lockwood’s behavior didn’t mean anything. I turned the lantern up a notch and opened the book.

I didn’t care.

Even so, black thoughts lingered over me as I began to read.

And so the night progressed, following its familiar pattern. Across long hours, the atmosphere of the house declined, insensibly, like a noble family brought low, down the generations, to a state of inbred madness and decay. The air grew cold and clammy, bringing hints of foul sensations.

Everything was happening exactly as before.

I kept my head down, chewed gum, turned the pages of the book.

Midnight came. Doors opened between worlds. Presences arrived.

I waited. Only when the crash in the basement told me Lockwood’s lantern had blown over did I pick up my sword and get to my feet.

Silence rose through the building, pouring up over the stairwell, blanking everything out. I waited for what I knew was coming, rushing toward me up the stairs.

Waited…

Out went the candles on the flights below me. Out, out, out, out…one after the other, fast as you can blink. And up swept the shapes, just as before, the frail lad stumbling, and the monstrous hulk behind him, hand grasping for his flowing hair. This time I heard them as they came: the wrenching rasps of the pursuer, the despairing panting of the doomed boy. Up to the top; and here he was, framed for an instant in my sight: a lad no older than Lockwood, with a beautiful, bone-white face and lips drawn back in terror. I felt—in that moment—as if his eyes met mine, as if he looked out beyond the hideous replay of the chase and saw me. Then he was gone. The brutish shape behind fell on him as they reached the banister; bright streams of other-light enveloped them in the moment of their final struggle. A thrust, a scream that pierced my heart, and the landing went pitch-black. From further down came crashes, the splintering of wood as something hit an intervening level—then a sickening impact far below.

I took a handkerchief out of my pocket and wiped the sweat off my face. I was cold and shaking, sick with pity. I flicked the lanterns high—and stopped, looking at the floor.

There were bloodstained footprints all around my circle. Not over by the silver net, but close beside the chains. Thick and bloody, and overlapping, like someone was pacing there. Desperate to get in. Desperate for a connection….

When I closed my eyes, I still saw that poor pale face.

“I think it’s in the basement.” Lockwood spoke quite matter-of-factly; he seemed as calm and unmoved as ever. “I saw the figure hit the ground—not where my net was, in the middle of the tiles, but over by the wall where the arch leads to the kitchens. I don’t think we checked there. That’s where the Source must be. I’ll dig around.”

We’d rendezvoused in the room of paintings, where Lockwood had made us all a reviving cup of tea. Holly Munro looked like she needed it. Her customary smile was gone; her face was strained. “It was horrible,” she said. “From beginning to end. Quite horrible.”

I leaned against the table with my cup. “You saw something, eh?”

“It wasn’t what I saw; it’s what I felt. The presence of the thing.” She shuddered.

“Yeah, it gets you that way,” I said, “the first few times. What do you want me to do, Lockwood?” I didn’t look directly at him.

“Even if I don’t find anything downstairs, I’ll soak the area with salt solution, and lace it with iron. That should be enough, but I’d like you to salt-wash the attic landing too, please, Luce, just to be on the safe side. If I find the Source, all well and good. Otherwise we’ll treat the whole staircase the same way. You can stay here, Holly. You look exhausted.”

“I’ll do my share,” Holly said. Her voice was all weak and quavering. She made it sound like it was a big deal, like she had only one leg and we were making her dance a hornpipe up the stairs.

I rolled my eyes, drained my drink, and went off to get the job done.

On the attic landing I kicked my circle of chains to one side, got out my water bottle and a canister of salt, and began mixing some solution in a plastic bowl from one of my bags. Perhaps I stirred it harder than was strictly necessary. Some slopped over the sides and landed on one of the bloody marks, which fizzed and bubbled like soup on a hot stove. I found a cloth wipe, carried the bowl over to the head of the stairs. Then I got on my knees and, slapping the cloth around angrily, began wetting the floor.

Trouble was, this was Lockwood’s solution to every haunting. Eradicate the ghost. Don’t engage with it. Destroy it. Cooke’s ghost was dangerous, yes. We had to stamp it out. But that meant Little Tom had to go as well, without a second thought. I could talk to the foul skull in the jar till I was blue in the face, because it was safely constrained, but Lockwood would never let me try the same techniques in the field. It was such a waste.

I understood why he was so hard-line about it. Or did I, quite? Her younger brother was unable to stop the attack….Was it still grief that affected him? Or a deeper guilt?

I sat back on my heels and wiped my hair out of my eyes. It was then I noticed that the bloody footprints had vanished. All across the landing, at the head of the stairs, the boards were clean once more. I checked my watch. Yesterday it had taken more than fifty minutes longer for them to go. That was a clear shift in the pattern of the haunting. I listened, newly alert. And now, as I sat there, I felt a pricking in my fingers, and cold air gently brushing my face. And noises, too. Something breathing—

Or mimicking the sound of breathing. Remembering what it was like to be alive.

I leaned over, turning the lanterns low. I closed my eyes and counted slowly up to seven, listening to the light, shallow, frightened gasps. It sounded like a panting dog.

I stood up, opening my eyes. I’d given myself time to adjust to the dark. Even so, it took me a few seconds more to notice the outline of a person standing below me on the stairs.

The other-light that had spun about him earlier had shrunk down almost to nothing. Like a bonfire’s ash the morning after, he glowed with the faintest, grayest haze. I saw nothing of the face. But the thin shoulders were clear enough, and the poor bent frame, and the slight tilt of the head as he looked at me.

“Tom?” I said.

I knew without turning around that my circle had broken when I’d kicked it; that it was just a tangled mess of chains. No worries. I could get to it if need be. And right now I didn’t want to, because I knew that all the iron would stifle my senses, make it hard to hear.

“What do you want, Tom?” I said. “How can we help you?”

Was it my imagination, or had the glowing figure shifted? I thought it had.

“Where’s the Source?” I asked. “What ties you here?”

Sounds tickled my ear: they were horribly faint and frail, but I was close to hearing them, I knew I was. I stepped a half pace closer to the stairs.

The shape moved in answer to me, drifting up a step.

“How can we help you?”

No words came, just a sad, soft cry, mournful and pathetic. It was like some wild animal, mute and terrified, hanging back from human contact. But the thing about animals was, you could tame them. You just had to prove they could trust you. I moved closer, holding out my hand.

“Tell me what I can do.”

I definitely heard something then: it might have been words, but they slipped by too fast, making me bite my lip in frustration. A thought occurred to me: my rapier was of iron, just like the chains. Its aura would be working against me right now, muting the sounds, repelling the pathetic ghost, repelling its confidence. The answer came with sudden clarity. I cast the sword aside—and the moment I did so, I had my reward. The serving-boy’s pale face swam suddenly into view, as if illuminated by a greasy shaft of light. It was just as pitiful as I remembered: big black eyes, glittering with sadness; tears running down the cheeks.

“Tell me,” I said.

“I’ll tell…”

A thrill ran through me. He’d answered! I was doing it! Just like I had with the old man in the chair. My theory was right. You could make contact with them, if only you were prepared to open yourself up, to take that risk.

A voice called my name from far away. It was Holly Munro, a level or two below. The ghost wavered, its face growing dim, as if sucked back into shadow. I cursed. Even now, without meaning to, our assistant was managing to mess things up….

“Don’t go,” I said. I took a couple more steps forward.

The boy shrank back; then, slowly, light returned to the face. It smiled.

“I’ll tell…”

A slam of a distant door; the noise reverberated through the house. Again the ghost became faint. I grimaced with irritation. More voices—through the haze of my concentration I recognized George down in the hallway, and Lockwood answering him. Ignore it! The ghost was smiling at me. If I could just get it to speak again…

“My name is Lucy,” I said. “Tell me what you need.”

The smiling ghost floated nearer, flecks of blond hair quivering like a burning crown upon its brow. The body was indistinct, the arms trailing at its side.

“I need…”

“Where’s Lucy?” That was George. I heard Holly’s murmuring answer, then George’s voice coming echoing up the stairs. “Luce!”

“Ignore it…” I was smiling too, trying to keep the connection. The cold was painful now; it hurt my skin. And how watery and hesitant my smile was beside the boy’s grin. How expectant it was, how avid.

“I need…”

“Hey, Luce! We got it wrong! Robert Cooke isn’t the big one! He’s the little ghost!”

I looked at the shimmering figure, smiling at me four steps down.

“The kid stabbed the servant! Little Tom was just the guy’s nickname because he was such a big bloke! The kid was crazy! He stabbed Tom, who chased him through the house. They got upstairs, and Tom was weak from loss of blood. He grappled with the kid, who pushed him over the top. We so got it all the wrong way around!”

The ghost fluttered closer.

“I need…”

We so got it all the wrong way around.

Oh lovely. I took a slow step back.

The ghost opened its mouth.

“I need YOU!” it said.

It smiled. It lifted its arms. They ran with blood.

Then it flowed up the stairs toward me.

I fell back, shrieking, scrabbling at my belt.

The first thing I found, I threw, almost directly at my feet, beneath the bloody, reaching hands. It was nothing but salt. The capsule shattered. The ghost blinked out and at once, like an interrupted strip of film that had been cut, spliced, and then re-formed, was there again, behind me, blocking my path to the rapier, net, and chains. I darted away, reaching for a flare, tripped over my bowl of salt solution, and fell back hard against the banister. Footsteps, flashlights, voices from below. My legs were wet. So were the ghost’s eyes, wet with tears; bloody footprints appeared behind it on the floor. I reached for the flare, but my fingers were numb with cold and panic; I couldn’t pull the canister free. In came the ghost, still smiling, grappling at the air. With a cry I threw myself away from it, over the banister; I swung out and over the awful drop, grasping the wood, twisting around to hang there as the shape drew near. It stretched out and over me, long arms spread wide; eyes cavernous, lips parted in a hateful, imbecilic smile. Someone was rushing up the stairs. Blood fell from the curling fingers; drops fell on my jacket, fizzing and steaming. The ghost leaned closer. A vast weight pressed down on me, willing me to topple backward into space—

Quite how Lockwood managed to leap so far, I never understood. He’d been miles off on the stairs, coming up them three at a time. Now he vaulted up and over the final curling rise of banister, cutting off the corner entirely. His momentum carried him forward like an arrow, over the hideous gulf. He was practically horizontal as he passed me, rapier slashing, coat stretched out like wings. The blade of the sword sliced through the space between me and the stooping figure. The ghost snapped back out of sight. Lockwood followed it; I heard his gasp of pain as he landed; then scuffles, thuds…and sudden silence.

I dangled alone over the drop. “Lockwood…” I called.

No good. My fingers were too numb, the wood too smooth. I began to slip….

Then my wrists were firmly caught, and there was Holly Munro bracing herself against the balustrade and calling out, and here was George flinging himself alongside her, grabbing at my arms and pulling; and together, not gently, like fishermen dragging in a catch, they scooped and gathered me in slow, ignominious stages up and over onto the landing.

Where I saw Lockwood lying facedown on the boards.