Lockwood & Co. The Hollow Boy

Hold it. I suppose I should stop before things start getting messy, and tell you exactly who I am. My name is Lucy Carlyle. I make my living destroying the risen spirits of the restless dead. I can throw a salt-bomb fifty yards from a standing start, and hold off three Specters with a broken rapier (as I did one time in Berkeley Square). I’m good with crowbars, magnesium flares, and candles. I walk alone into haunted rooms. I see ghosts, when I choose to look for them, and hear their voices, too. I’m just under five feet six inches tall, have hair the color of a walnut coffin, and wear size seven ectoplasm-proof boots.

There. Now we’re properly introduced.

So I stood with Lockwood and George on the second-floor landing of the boardinghouse. All of a sudden it was very cold. All of a sudden I could hear things.

“Don’t suppose there’s any point trying to break down the door,” George said.

“No point at all….” Lockwood’s voice had that far-off, absent quality it gets when he’s using his Sight. Sight, Listening, and Touch: they’re the main kinds of psychic Talent. Lockwood has the sharpest eyes of us, and I’m the best at Listening and Touch. George is an all-arounder. He’s mediocre at all three.

I had my finger on the light switch on the wall beside me, but I didn’t flick it on. Darkness stokes the psychic senses. Fear keeps your Talent keen.

We listened. We looked.

“I don’t see anything yet,” Lockwood said finally. “Lucy?”

“I’m getting voices. Whispered voices.” It sounded like a crowd of people, all speaking over one another with the utmost urgency, yet so faint it was impossible to understand a thing.

“What does your friend in the jar say?”

“It’s not my friend.” I prodded the backpack. “Skull?”

“There’s ghosts up here. Lots of them. So…now do you accept that you should’ve stabbed the old codger when you had the chance? If you’d listened to me, you wouldn’t be in this mess, would you?”

“We’re not in a mess!” I snapped. “And, by the way, we can’t just stab a suspect! I keep telling you this! We didn’t even know they were guilty then!”

Lockwood cleared his throat meaningfully. Sometimes I forget that the others can’t hear the ghost’s half of the conversation.

“Sorry,” I said. “He’s just being annoying, as usual. Says there’s lots of ghosts.”

The luminous display on George’s thermometer flashed briefly in the dark. “Temp update,” he said. “It’s dropped eight degrees since the foot of the stairs.”

“Yes. That fire door acts as a barrier.” The pencil beam of Lockwood’s flashlight speared downward and picked out the ridged gray surface of the door. “Look, it’s got iron bands on it. That keeps our nice little old couple safe in their living quarters on the ground floor. But anyone who rents a room up here falls victim to something lurking in the dark….”

He turned the flashlight beam wide and circled it slowly around us. We were standing just below a shabby landing—neat enough, but cheaply furnished with purple curtains and an old cream carpet. Several numbered plywood doors gleamed dully in the shadows. A few dog-eared magazines lay in a pile on an ugly bureau, near where a further flight of stairs led to the top floor. It was supernaturally cold, and there was ghost-fog stirring. Faint wreaths of pale green mist were rising from the carpet and winding slowly around our ankles. The flashlight began to flicker, as if its (fresh) battery were failing and would soon wink out altogether. A feeling of unquantifiable dread deepened in us. I shivered. Something wicked was very close.

Lockwood adjusted his gloves. His face glowed in the flashlight beam, his dark eyes shone. As always, peril suited him. “All right,” he said softly. “Listen to me. We keep calm, we take care of whatever’s up here, then we find a way to tackle Evans. George, rig up an iron circle here. Lucy, see what else the skull has to say. I’ll check out the nearest room.”

With that he lifted his rapier, pushed open a door, and disappeared inside, long coat swirling behind him.

We got to work. George took out a lantern and set it on low; by its light, he busied himself with the iron chains, creating a decent circle in the center of the carpet. I opened my backpack and—with some difficulty—took out a large, faintly luminous glass jar. Its top was secured by a complex plastic seal and, inside it, floating in green liquid, was a leering face. And I don’t mean nicely leering. This was more the kind you get behind bars in a high-security prison. It was the face of a ghost—a Phantasm or Specter—tied to the skull that rested in the jar. It was godless and disreputable and had no known name.

I glared at it. “Are you going to be sensible now?”

The toothless lips grinned awfully. “I’m always sensible! What do you want to know?”

“What are we dealing with up here?”

“A cluster of spirits. They’re restless and unhappy and…Hold on, I’m getting something else—” The face contorted suddenly. “Ooh, that’s bad. That’s real bad. If I were you, Lucy, I’d find a window and jump out. So what if you break both legs in several places? It’s better than staying in here.”

“Why? What have you found?”

“Another entity. Can’t tell what it is yet. But it’s strong and hungry, and…” The bulging eyes looked sidelong at me. “No, sorry, there’s a limit to what I can sense, imprisoned in this cruel jar. Now, if you let me out, on the other hand…”

I snorted. “That’s not going to happen, as well you know.”

“But I’m an invaluable member of the team!”

“Says who? You spend most of the time cheering when we nearly die.”

The rubbery lips screwed tight in outrage. “I hardly ever do that now! Things have changed between us. You know that’s true!”

Well, it was sort of right. Things had changed between us and the skull. When it had first begun talking to me, some months before, we’d viewed it with suspicion, irritation, and distaste. However, as the weeks passed and we’d gotten to know it properly, we’d learned to really despise it, too.

George had long ago stolen the ghost-jar from a rival agency, but it was only when I’d accidently twisted a lever in the lid that I realized that the spirit trapped there could actually speak to me. At first it was simply hostile; gradually, however, perhaps out of boredom or a desire for companionship, it had begun offering help in supernatural matters. Sometimes this was useful, but the ghost was untrustworthy. It had no morals worth speaking of, and more vices than you would think possible for a disembodied head floating in a jar. Its evil nature affected me more than the others, for I was the one who actually talked to it, who had to put up with the gleeful voice echoing in my mind.

I tapped the glass, making the face squint in surprise. “Concentrate on this powerful spirit. I want you to locate its Source—find where it’s hidden.” With that, I stood up. George had finished the circle around me. A moment later Lockwood emerged onto the landing and joined us both inside the chains.

He was as calm and composed as ever. “Well, that was horrible.”

“What was?”

“The decor in that bedroom. Lilac, green, and what I can only describe as a kind of bilious off-yellow. None of the colors went at all.”

“So there’s no ghost there?”

“Ah, there is, as it happens. I’ve fixed it in position with salt and iron, so it’s safe enough for now. Go and look, if you like. I’ll replenish supplies here.”

George and I took our flashlights but didn’t switch them on. We didn’t need to. We were in a paltry little bedroom. It had a single bed, a narrow dresser, and a tiny window, black and studded with rain. All this was illuminated by a horizontal orb of other-light that hung above the bed, merging into the pillows and bedsheets. In its center reclined the ghost of a man in striped pajamas. He lay on his back, as if asleep, his limbs hovering slightly above the sheets. He had a small mustache and rumpled hair. His eyes were closed; his toothless mouth sagged against a stubble-dusted chin.

Cold air streamed from the apparition. Twin circles of salt and iron-filings, emptied by Lockwood from the canisters on his belt, encircled the bed. Whenever the pulsing aura drew too close, the particles of salt ignited, spitting out green fire.

“Whatever they charge for a room in this place,” George said, “it’s way too much.”

We withdrew to the landing.

Lockwood had refilled his canisters and was reattaching them to his belt. “See him, did you?”

“Yes,” I said. “Think that’s one of the missing men?”

“Definitely. The question is, what killed him?”

“The skull says there’s a powerful spirit here. Says it’s a bad one.”

“That’ll be on the prowl at midnight. Well, we can’t wait till then. Let’s see if we can hunt it down.”

We checked the next bedroom, and the bathroom next to that. Both were clear. But when I opened the fourth door, I found two ghosts within. One man lay on the single bed, much as the Visitor had in the other room, only curled on his side, with one arm bent beneath his head. He was older, thickset, with sandy hair cut very short, and dark blue pajamas. His eyes were open, staring into nothing. Close by—so close that their auras of other-light nearly touched—stood another man. He wore pajama bottoms and a white T-shirt. He looked as if he had just gotten out of bed, clothes rumpled, straggle-bearded, long black hair all tangled. I could see the carpet showing through his feet. He gazed up at the ceiling as if in mortal fear.

“There are two death-glows,” Lockwood said. “One’s much brighter than the other. Different dates, different incidents. Something killed both these men while they were sleeping.”

“I’m just glad neither of them slept naked,” George said. “Particularly that hairy one. Let’s pen them in. They look passive, but you never know. Got your iron, Lucy?”

I didn’t answer him. Spectral cold was beating upon me, and with it came echoes of emotion: of loneliness and fright and sorrow, as experienced by the lost men in these rooms. I opened myself up to it. Out of the past I heard the sound of breathing—the steady breathing of a person heavily asleep. Then came a slithering—a soft, wet flapping noise, like a landed eel.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something on the ceiling.

It beckoned to me, pale and boneless.

I jerked my head around, but there was nothing there.

“You all right, Lucy?” Lockwood and George were at my side. Over by the bed, the ghost of the bearded man stared upward. He was looking at the same spot on the ceiling where my eyes had rested a moment before.

“I saw something. Up there. Like a hand reaching down. Only it wasn’t a hand.”

“Well, what do you think it was?”

I gave a shiver of disgust. “I don’t know.”

We penned in the two ghosts and checked the final bedroom on the floor. It had no dead occupants, which made a nice change. Then we considered the final flight of stairs. Greasy filaments of ghost-fog were pouring down it, cascading like water in a weir, and the beams of our flashlights seemed to warp and twist as they probed the darkness.

“Yup, that’s where the action is,” Lockwood said. “Come on.”

We gathered what remained of our stuff. From the depths of the ghost-jar, the grotesque face watched us keenly. “You’re not going to leave me behind, are you? I’m hoping for a ringside seat when you perish horribly.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Have you located the Source of all this?”

“Somewhere above. But you knew that already, didn’t you?”

I slung the jar unceremoniously into my backpack and hurried after the others. They were halfway up the stairs.

“Didn’t much like the way Evans said he’d come back to sweep us up in the morning,” George whispered as we neared the final landing. “It sort of implied there wouldn’t be much of us remaining. But I suppose he’s exaggerating.”

Lockwood shook his head. “Not necessarily. Some spirits suck so much energy out of their victims, the bodies go all dry and papery, like empty shells. That might explain why the police couldn’t find any remains. Evans has probably burned them on that fire downstairs. Or folded them up and put them in a box under his bed. Or hung them neatly in a wardrobe, like a collection of unusual, slightly pimply suits. I’m not making it up. That’s happened.”

“Thanks, Lockwood,” George said, after a pause. “That makes me feel so much better.”

“But what do they get out of it?” I asked. “Mr. and Mrs. Evans, I mean?”

“I suppose they help themselves to the victims’ money and belongings. Who knows? They’re obviously quite mad….”

Lockwood raised his arm; we halted on the topmost steps. The landing was similar to the one below. It had three doors, all of which were closed. The temperature had dropped again. Ghost-fog flowed across the carpet like boiling milk. The whispering of dead men rattled in my ears. We were close to the heart of the haunting.

All of us moved slowly, as if great weights bore down on us. We looked carefully, but saw no apparitions.

“Skull,” I said, “what do you see?”

A bored voice came from my backpack. “I see great peril,” it intoned. “Great peril very near. You mean to say you can’t? Honestly, you’re rubbish. You wouldn’t notice a Wraith if it strolled up and dropped its pelvis in your lap.”

I shook the backpack. “You dirty old pile of bones! Where is this peril?”

“Not a clue. Far too much psychic interference. Sorry.”

I reported this. Lockwood sighed. “All we can do is pick a door,” he said. “Well, I guess there’s one for each of us.”

“I’ll go for this one.” George advanced confidently to the door on the left. He flung it open with a dramatic flourish. “What a pity,” he said. “Nothing.”

“That was so obviously a broom closet,” I said. “Look, the door’s a different shape and hasn’t got a number or anything. Really, you should choose again.”

George shook his head. “Not a chance. Your go.”

I chose the door on the right. It had a sticker with the number 1 on it. Holding my rapier in front of me, I pushed it open. It was a small bedroom with a sink and mirror. Standing in front of these, faintly luminous, was a skinny, bare-chested man. His chin was white with shaving foam; he held a cutthroat razor in his hand. As the door opened, he turned and looked at me with sightless eyes. Sudden fear poured through me. Fumbling at my belt, I located my supplies of salt and iron filings and emptied them out across the floor. They created a barrier the spirit could not cross. It hung back, circling from side to side like a caged beast, staring at me the while.

I wiped my ice-cold brow. “Well,” I said, “mine’s done.”

Lockwood made a slight adjustment to his collar. He regarded the final door. “So…my turn, is it, now?”

“Yep,” I said. “That’s Room Two, by the way, the one Evans mentioned.”

“Right….So there’ll probably be a ghost or two inside….” Lockwood didn’t look the happiest I’d ever seen him. He hefted his rapier in his hand, rolled his shoulders, and took a deep breath. Then he gave us his sudden radiant grin, the one that made everything seem okay. “Well,” he said, “after all, how dreadful can it actually be?”

He pushed open the door.

The good news was there weren’t a couple of ghosts inside. No. The bad news was we couldn’t count how many. It was packed with them: they filled the room, that host of pajamaed gentlemen. Some were bright, others much fainter. They were gaunt, unshaven, hollow-cheeked, and empty-eyed. Some looked as if they’d just been awakened from deep sleep. Others had died in the act of dressing. They overlapped each other in that mean and dowdy space, crammed between the dresser and towel rack, between bed and washbasin. Some looked at the ceiling; others drifted haltingly, staring toward the open door.

They were all victims—but that didn’t make them safe. I could taste their resentment at their fate, the force of their blank hostility. Cold air lapped at us: the edges of Lockwood’s coat fluttered; my hair brushed against my face.

“Careful!” George cried. “They’re aware of us! Get a barrier down before—”

Before they moved, George was going to say. But it was too late.

Some ghosts are drawn to living things—perhaps they sense our warmth and want it for themselves. These men had died lonely deaths—the urge for warmth was strong in them. Like a tide, the host of luminous figures surged forward: in an instant they were through the door and out onto the landing. Lockwood dropped the canister of iron that he was about to pour, and swung up his rapier. My sword was out too: we wove them in complex patterns, trying to create a solid defensive wall. Some spirits fell back; others moved deftly left and right, out of rapier range.

I grabbed at Lockwood’s arm. “They’ll surround us! Downstairs! Quick!”

He shook his head. “No, there’s nothing down there! And if they follow us, we’re trapped. We’ve got to find the cause of all this. We’ve got to keep going up.”

“But we’re at the top of the house!”

“Are we? What about that?”

He pointed. I looked, saw a narrow wooden attic hatch, high up in the ceiling.

“George,” Lockwood said calmly. “Pass me the ladder, please.”

“What ladder?” George was busy throwing a salt-bomb; it ricocheted off the wall, peppering the Shades with particles of bright-green fire.

“Pass me the ladder, George.”

George waved his hands above his head in panic. “Where from? Down my trousers?”

“There’s one in that closet you opened, you twit! Quick!”

“Oh, yes. I remember.” George leaped for the little door.

Ghosts pressed in on us. Their whispering had become a roaring. At my side I saw the outline of a man in a vest and jogging pants. He shimmered toward me; I slashed the rapier diagonally, slicing him in two. The two halves tumbled, flowed together, re-formed. Beyond, Lockwood had brought lengths of chain from his bag; he was dragging them into a rough circle in the middle of the landing.

In a moment, George was back; he had the ladder, the kind that expanded on telescopic legs. He jumped into the center of the circle, next to Lockwood and me. Without words, he extended the ladder up toward the ceiling, balancing its end against the rim of the attic opening, just below the hatch.

All around us, the landing had filled with eerie light. Figures flowed toward us, white arms reaching. Ectoplasm fizzed against the barrier of chains.

Up the ladder we went, first Lockwood, then George, then me. Lockwood reached the hatch. He shoved it hard. A band of blackness opened, expanding slowly like the edges of a paper fan. A smattering of dust fell down.

Was it me, or had the assembled ghosts below us suddenly grown quiet? Their whispering stilled. They watched us with blank eyes.

Lockwood pushed again. With a single crash, the hatch fell back on its hinge. Now there was a hole, a black slot gaping like a mouth. Chill air poured down from it.

This was where it stemmed from, the horror of the house. This was where we’d find the cause. We didn’t hesitate. We scrambled up and, one after the other, were swallowed by the dark.