George glared at him from behind his little spectacles. ‘Dozens of agents get killed every year because they don’t bother with the correct precautions! It won’t take a minute, and it’s better to be safe than sorry.’
‘Well, I think we need to go straight to the heart of things and hunt the enemy out,’ Lockwood said. ‘What do you think, Lucy?’
‘I’m just wondering whether we should pay a visit to this new library,’ I said. ‘According to Whitaker, the hauntings only began when it was built. Maybe the construction work disturbed something – perhaps that’s where we’ll find the ghost.’
Lockwood nodded slowly. ‘That’s not a bad point, Luce,’ he said. ‘We’ll sneak a look in the library on the way to the classroom. Take some readings there. Speaking of which – what’s the temperature now?’
George, who’d been grumbling under his breath because we’d ignored his advice, unclipped his belt thermometer and checked the luminous display. ‘Sixteen degrees.’
‘OK. Keep an eye on it. Let me know if it starts changing.’
A sudden, unexpected fall in temperature is one sure sign of upcoming supernatural activity. Sometimes it’s a hint that saves your life. In the case of the Bay House Horror I saw the temp plunge ten degrees when I walked into that attic bathroom. It gave me just enough time to draw my sword before the Wraith stepped through the tiles.
But sixteen degrees seemed safe enough. Adjusting our bags, keeping our hands close to our belts, we set off up the corridor.
It was clearly an original part of the school, with oak panelling covering the lower half of the plastered walls. Ranks of notice boards and photographs rose almost to the ceiling. There were sports teams, prize winners and whole-school photos, with massed ranks of pupils and teachers staring at the camera. It was too dark to make out the details. To keep our senses sharp, we mostly kept our torches off – flicking them on occasionally to check the signs outside each door.
‘Class 1A, IB…’ Lockwood murmured. ‘1C… the science lab… Where is this library, anyway?’
A sound echoed in the darkness – a deep, harsh creaking, instantly cut off.
I stopped short. ‘Was that your stomach, George?’
He looked at me blankly. ‘Was what my stomach? I didn’t hear anything.’
‘Nor me,’ Lockwood said. ‘What did you get, Lucy?’
That’s my Talent, you see. I hear things other people don’t. ‘A horrid wrenching creak. Sort of like a rusted door hinge, or a coffin lid opening.’
‘What?’ George said. ‘And you thought that was me?’
‘Your belly makes weird sounds when you’re hungry.’
He paused. ‘Fair enough. I suppose it does.’
‘Where was this noise?’ Lockwood asked.
‘Somewhere up ahead, maybe. I don’t know.’
‘Good. So we’re going in the right direction.’
We continued steadily, our boots ringing faintly on the wooden flooring, and soon came to the end of the main corridor. Side passages branched out left and right. Ahead of us was a prominent glazed door, somehow more modern than the ones we’d passed. There was an engraved wooden sign on the wall. Lockwood shone his torch on it.
‘Ernest Potts Memorial Library,’ he read. ‘Here we are, then.’
As he spoke, a cool breeze flowed over us, a stirring of the air. We swung our torches wildly up and down the passages, but saw nothing.
‘Temperature’s down,’ George said. ‘Eleven degrees now.’
‘Rapiers at the ready,’ Lockwood said. He opened the door.
Nothing jumped out at us, which is always nice. The library was large and airy, with pleasant, trendy shelves of light-coloured pine. It smelled new. Rows of neatly ordered books covered the walls. Tall windows looked out over a small, drab playing field. There was a half-moon in the sky over London, lighting the room with a feeble glow.
Wordlessly George opened his bag, took out a length of iron chain, and began laying out a protective circle in the centre of the floor. Lockwood didn’t protest. He looked and I listened for danger. We didn’t get anything.
A small plinth hung on the wall between the central windows. On it was a marble bust of a stern, well-fed, Victorian-looking man sporting an enormous pair of mutton-chop whiskers. I went to take a look.
‘Ernest Potts,’ I said, reading the plaque below it. ‘Headmaster, 1925–1957. He looks a dreadful old grump.’
‘What sideburns!’ Lockwood said, marvelling. ‘You could stuff a cushion with the hair on them. I wonder if—’
‘Hold it!’ I said. ‘I hear something.’
Silence in the library. We listened. We stood dead still.
Out in the corridor, beyond the half-closed door, there came a soft, intermittent chinking sound. Not far off, and coming closer. And with it now: the sound of footsteps, limping footsteps – a firm step, then a drawn-out drag, as if a lame leg were being laboriously swung along the floor…
‘Got it,’ Lockwood whispered suddenly. ‘I hear it too. Get inside the chains.’
We stepped into the circle.
‘Temperature’s dropping,’ George muttered. ‘Seven degrees… Now six…’
We took our rapiers from our belts.
Closer, closer came the horrid dragging footsteps. Closer came the clinking sound.
‘Keys,’ I breathed. ‘It sounds like keys.’
‘Five degrees,’ George said calmly. His breath was pluming in the air.
We stood and faced the door.
The footsteps stopped. Thin threads of ghost-fog came trickling round the side of the door. Cold blistered my skin.
Something struck the door on the outside, making the wood reverberate. It struck the wood again.
‘Lockwood,’ I hissed. ‘What do we do?’
‘We sit tight,’ Lockwood said. ‘It’s loud, it’s scary, but it’s not actually attacking us directly. If it comes into the room, that’s a different matter. Wait and see.’
Even as he spoke, a third colossal bang resounded on the door. Flakes of plaster fell from the ceiling and the floor shuddered. George and I flinched back inside the circle. We raised our rapiers, tensed our muscles, waited –
Waited…
Nothing came through.
Silence fell outside the door. A pressure lifted from the room. The little trails of ghost-fog dwindled and were gone.
We each exhaled long and loudly. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath.
‘Temp’s back to ten degrees,’ George reported.
Lockwood nodded. ‘It’s over. For now.’ He stepped out of the circle, strode to the door and flung it open. We emerged into the darkened corridor, shining our torches all around. Straight ahead, and to left and right, the passages stretched away. All was still.
‘Nothing,’ George said.
‘Not quite,’ Lockwood said soberly. ‘Look at this.’ He angled his torch beam at the wall beside the door, shining it on the wooden plate, the one that said Ernest Potts Memorial Library. The sign didn’t look quite as smart as it had before: two great deep gashes had been scored diagonally across the wood, carving through the words. A knife might have done it. Or claws. Or long sharp fingernails. There were lots of possibilities, basically, and none of them too pleasant.
‘Is it just me,’ I said, ‘or is something not very happy about this nice new library?’
George was squinting at the sign through his thick round glasses. ‘Either that or it doesn’t like this Ernest Potts geezer. Look at the way his name’s sliced up.’