After he’d gone, I lay back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. Whether it was my weariness or the events of the night, the room didn’t seem quite still. Images spun before my vision – George and Joplin frozen by the coffin; the blackened grinning face of the Bickerstaff corpse; the terrible ghost in its long grey shroud rising, rising towards the stars . . . The figures moved slowly round and round in front of me as if I was watching the least child-friendly carousel ride in the world.
Bed; I needed bed. I closed my eyes. It didn’t do any good. The images were still there. Plus, it made me remember the cold, yet wheedling voice I’d heard as I stood there in the pit, urging me to look at . . . To look at what? The ghost? The mirror?
I was glad I didn’t know.
‘Feeling rough?’ someone said softly.
‘Yeah. A little.’ Then something like a lift shaft opened in my belly, and I felt myself drop through it. I opened my eyes. The door was still closed. Two rooms away I could hear Lockwood and George talking in the kitchen.
There was a greenish light revolving on the ceiling.
‘Because you sure as hell look it.’ It was the lowest, throatiest of whispers; alien, but familiar. I’d heard it once before.
I raised my head slowly and looked at the coffee table, which now shone in emerald ghost-light. The substance in the jar was pulsing outwards from the centre like boiling water on the hob. There was a face within it, a leering face superimposed upon the plasm. The tip of its bulb-like nose pressed hard against the silver-glass; wicked eyes glittered; the lipless mouth champed and grinned.
‘You,’ I said. My throat was dry; I could barely speak.
‘Not the greatest welcome I’ve ever had,’ the voice said, ‘but accurate. Yes, I can’t deny it. Me.’
I struggled to my feet, breathing too fast, fierce exultation surging through me. So I’d been right: it was a Type Three. Fully conscious, able to communicate! But Lockwood and George weren’t here – I had to show them, had to prove it somehow. I started towards the door.
‘Oh, don’t bring them into it.’ The whispering voice sounded pained. ‘Let’s keep it intimate, you and me.’
That made me pause. Seven months had passed since the skull had last chosen to speak. I could well believe it would clam up the moment I opened the door. I swallowed, tried to ignore my heart hammering in my chest. ‘All right,’ I said hoarsely, facing it directly for the first time. ‘If that’s how you want it, let’s have some answers. What are you, then? Why are you talking to me?’
‘What am I?’ The face split open, the plasm parted, and I had a clear glimpse of the stained brown skull at the bottom of the jar. ‘This is what I am,’ the voice hissed. ‘Look on me well. This fate awaits you too.’
‘Oh, very sinister,’ I sneered. ‘You were just the same last time out. What did you say then? Death is coming? Well, so much for your predictions. I’m still alive, and you’re still just a dribble of luminous slime trapped in a jar. Big deal.’
At once the plasm drew together like two lift doors closing, and the face re-formed. Its reproving look was slightly undermined by the fact that its re-joined halves didn’t quite match, giving it a grotesquely lopsided appearance. ‘I’m disappointed,’ it whispered, ‘that you didn’t heed my warning. Death’s in Life and Life’s in Death – that’s what I said. Problem is: you’re stupid, Lucy. You’re blind to the evidence around you.’
Far off in the kitchen I could hear the clink of cutlery. I moistened my lips. ‘That claptrap means nothing to me.’
The voice gave a groan. ‘What, you want me to draw you a picture? Use your eyes and ears! Use your intelligence, girl. No one else can do it. You’re on your own.’
I shook my head, as much to clear my brain as anything. Here I was, hands on hips, arguing with a face in a jar. ‘Wrong,’ I said. ‘I’m not alone. I have my friends.’
‘What, fat George? Deceitful Lockwood?’ The face crinkled with merriment. ‘Ooh yes, brilliant. What a team.’
‘Deceitful . . .?’ Up until then there had been something almost hypnotic about the voice; I’d found it impossible to disregard. All at once the gloating quality of the whisper repulsed me. I backed away across the room.
‘Don’t look so shocked,’ the voice said. ‘Secretive, deceitful. You know it’s true.’
I laughed at the ludicrousness of it. ‘I know no such thing.’
‘So go on, then,’ came the whisper. ‘There’s a door, it’s got hinges. Use them.’
Too right I would. Suddenly I needed company; I needed the others. I didn’t want to be alone with the gleeful voice.
I crossed the room. My fingers reached for the handle.
‘Speaking of doors, I saw you once on the upstairs landing. Standing outside the forbidden room. You were dying to go through, weren’t you?’
I halted. ‘No . . .’
‘Good job you didn’t. You’d never have left alive.’
It was as if the floor beneath my feet tilted slightly. ‘No,’ I said again. ‘No.’ I fumbled for the handle, began to turn it.
‘There are other things in this house to fear, besides me.’
‘Lockwood! George!’ I wrenched the door open and found myself roaring the words right into their astonished faces. Lockwood was so surprised he spilled half his cocoa on the rug in the hall; George, who was carrying the tray, manfully juggled the crisps and sandwiches. I ushered them both inside.
‘It’s talking!’ I cried. ‘The jar is! Look! Listen!’
I gestured urgently at the glass. Needless to say, the ghost said nothing. Needless to say, the face was gone; the plasm hung there, dull and still, as interesting and active as muddy rainwater in a jam jar. In the centre of the mess, I could see the teeth of the skull grinning dimly between the metal clamps.
My shoulders sagged. I took a deep breath. ‘It was talking,’ I said limply. ‘Really talking to me. If you’d been here a minute earlier . . .’ I scowled at them, as if it was their fault they’d missed out.
They said nothing, just stood there. With the tip of his little finger, George nudged a sandwich back into position. Finally Lockwood moved across and put the mugs down on the table. He took out a handkerchief and wiped a splash of cocoa from his hand.
‘Come and have a drink,’ he said.
I stared at the grinning skull. Rage filled me. I took a swift step forward. If Lockwood hadn’t put out a hand, I believe I would have kicked that jar right across the room.
‘It’s all right, Luce,’ he said. ‘We believe you.’
I ran a harassed hand through my hair. ‘Good.’
‘Sit down. Have some food and cocoa.’
‘OK.’ I did so. We all did. After a while I said: ‘It was like the first time, down in the cellar. It just started talking. We had a conversation.’
‘A real back-and-forth conversation?’ Lockwood said. ‘A real Type Three?’
‘Definitely.’
‘So what was it like?’ George asked.
‘It was . . . irritating.’ I glared at the quiescent jar.
He nodded slowly. ‘Only, Marissa Fittes said that communicating with Type Three ghosts was perilous, that they twisted your words and played with your emotions. She said if you weren’t careful, you felt yourself falling slowly under their power, until your actions were not your own . . .’