“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.