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.