Lockwood & Co. Book Three: The Hollow Boy (19 page)

Up on the attic landing, I sat inside my iron chains, between two shuttered lanterns, with my rapier set out in front of me like a dessert fork at a table. A chain net lay close by, in the
center of the floor. I got out a book. I’d known I was in for a long wait, so this time I’d brought something to keep me occupied. It was a battered paperback thriller from
Lockwood’s shelves. Perhaps it had once belonged to Jessica, or to his parents, Celia and Donald Lockwood, the eminent psychic researchers, who had died in some tragic incident long
ago….

Anger surged through me. I shut the covers with a snap. In thirty seconds that single bald paragraph in the Archives had told me more than Lockwood had managed to in all the months I’d
lived with him! The names of his parents! The circumstances of his sister’s death! It would have been funny if it weren’t so pathetic! What was he scared of? He seemed quite incapable
of properly opening up, of giving me the trust that I deserved. Oh sure, he was
charming
enough, when he wanted to be. But it meant nothing. You could see it in his behavior now, the ease
with which he mollycoddled his new assistant, while turning his back on me.

They were probably still chatting down in the darkness, side by side. Me, I had no one. I didn’t have George. Heck, I didn’t even have the
skull
(since Holly was unaware of
my connection with it, we couldn’t easily bring it along this time). There was nobody here to talk to. I was entirely alone….

I shook the self-pity away. No, I was being stupid. Lockwood’s behavior didn’t mean anything. I turned the lantern up a notch and opened the book.

I didn’t care.

Even so, black thoughts lingered over me as I began to read.

And so the night progressed, following its familiar pattern. Across long hours, the atmosphere of the house declined, insensibly, like a noble family brought low, down the generations, to a
state of inbred madness and decay. The air grew cold and clammy, bringing hints of foul sensations.

Everything was happening exactly as before.

I kept my head down, chewed gum, turned the pages of the book.

Midnight came. Doors opened between worlds. Presences arrived.

I waited. Only when the crash in the basement told me Lockwood’s lantern had blown over did I pick up my sword and get to my feet.

Silence rose through the building, pouring up over the stairwell, blanking everything out. I waited for what I knew was coming, rushing toward me up the stairs.

Waited…

Out went the candles on the flights below me. Out, out, out, out…one after the other, fast as you can blink. And up swept the shapes, just as before, the frail lad stumbling, and the monstrous
hulk behind him, hand grasping for his flowing hair. This time I heard them as they came: the wrenching rasps of the pursuer, the despairing panting of the doomed boy. Up to the top; and here he
was, framed for an instant in my sight: a lad no older than Lockwood, with a beautiful, bone-white face and lips drawn back in terror. I felt—in that moment—as if his eyes met mine, as
if he looked out beyond the hideous replay of the chase and saw me. Then he was gone. The brutish shape behind fell on him as they reached the banister; bright streams of other-light enveloped them
in the moment of their final struggle. A thrust, a scream that pierced my heart, and the landing went pitch-black. From further down came crashes, the splintering of wood as something hit an
intervening level—then a sickening impact far below.

I took a handkerchief out of my pocket and wiped the sweat off my face. I was cold and shaking, sick with pity. I flicked the lanterns high—and stopped, looking at the floor.

There were bloodstained footprints all around my circle. Not over by the silver net, but close beside the chains. Thick and bloody, and overlapping, like someone was pacing there. Desperate to
get in. Desperate for a connection….

When I closed my eyes, I still saw that poor pale face.

“I think it’s in the basement.” Lockwood spoke quite matter-of-factly; he seemed as calm and unmoved as ever. “I saw the figure hit the ground—not
where my net was, in the middle of the tiles, but over by the wall where the arch leads to the kitchens. I don’t think we checked there. That’s where the Source must be. I’ll dig
around.”

We’d rendezvoused in the room of paintings, where Lockwood had made us all a reviving cup of tea. Holly Munro looked like she needed it. Her customary smile was gone; her face was
strained. “It was horrible,” she said. “From beginning to end. Quite horrible.”

I leaned against the table with my cup. “You saw something, eh?”

“It wasn’t what I
saw
; it’s what I felt. The presence of the thing.” She shuddered.

“Yeah, it gets you that way,” I said, “the first few times. What do you want me to do, Lockwood?” I didn’t look directly at him.

“Even if I don’t find anything downstairs, I’ll soak the area with salt solution, and lace it with iron. That should be enough, but I’d like you to salt-wash the attic
landing too, please, Luce, just to be on the safe side. If I find the Source, all well and good. Otherwise we’ll treat the whole staircase the same way. You can stay here, Holly. You look
exhausted.”

“I’ll do my share,” Holly said. Her voice was all weak and quavering. She made it sound like it was a big deal, like she had only one leg and we were making her dance a
hornpipe up the stairs.

I rolled my eyes, drained my drink, and went off to get the job done.

On the attic landing I kicked my circle of chains to one side, got out my water bottle and a canister of salt, and began mixing some solution in a plastic bowl from one of my bags. Perhaps I
stirred it harder than was strictly necessary. Some slopped over the sides and landed on one of the bloody marks, which fizzed and bubbled like soup on a hot stove. I found a cloth wipe, carried
the bowl over to the head of the stairs. Then I got on my knees and, slapping the cloth around angrily, began wetting the floor.

Trouble was, this was Lockwood’s solution to
every
haunting. Eradicate the ghost. Don’t engage with it. Destroy it. Cooke’s ghost was dangerous, yes. We had to stamp
it out. But that meant Little Tom had to go as well, without a second thought. I could talk to the foul skull in the jar till I was blue in the face, because it was safely constrained, but Lockwood
would never let me try the same techniques in the field. It was such a waste.

I understood
why
he was so hard-line about it. Or did I, quite?
Her younger brother was unable to stop the attack
….Was it still grief that affected him? Or a deeper
guilt?

I sat back on my heels and wiped my hair out of my eyes. It was then I noticed that the bloody footprints had vanished. All across the landing, at the head of the stairs, the boards were clean
once more. I checked my watch. Yesterday it had taken more than fifty minutes longer for them to go. That was a clear shift in the pattern of the haunting. I listened, newly alert. And now, as I
sat there, I felt a pricking in my fingers, and cold air gently brushing my face. And noises, too. Something breathing—

Or mimicking the
sound
of breathing. Remembering what it was like to be alive.

I leaned over, turning the lanterns low. I closed my eyes and counted slowly up to seven, listening to the light, shallow, frightened gasps. It sounded like a panting dog.

I stood up, opening my eyes. I’d given myself time to adjust to the dark. Even so, it took me a few seconds more to notice the outline of a person standing below me on the stairs.

The other-light that had spun about him earlier had shrunk down almost to nothing. Like a bonfire’s ash the morning after, he glowed with the faintest, grayest haze. I saw nothing of the
face. But the thin shoulders were clear enough, and the poor bent frame, and the slight tilt of the head as he looked at me.

“Tom?” I said.

I knew without turning around that my circle had broken when I’d kicked it; that it was just a tangled mess of chains. No worries. I could get to it if need be. And right now I
didn’t
want to, because I knew that all the iron would stifle my senses, make it hard to hear.

“What do you want, Tom?” I said. “How can we help you?”

Was it my imagination, or had the glowing figure shifted? I thought it had.

“Where’s the Source?” I asked. “What ties you here?”

Sounds tickled my ear: they were horribly faint and frail, but I was close to hearing them, I knew I was. I stepped a half pace closer to the stairs.

The shape moved in answer to me, drifting up a step.

“How can we help you?”

No words came, just a sad, soft cry, mournful and pathetic. It was like some wild animal, mute and terrified, hanging back from human contact. But the thing about animals was, you could tame
them. You just had to prove they could trust you. I moved closer, holding out my hand.

“Tell me what I can do.”

I
definitely
heard something then: it might have been words, but they slipped by too fast, making me bite my lip in frustration. A thought occurred to me: my rapier was of iron, just
like the chains. Its aura would be working against me right now, muting the sounds, repelling the pathetic ghost, repelling its confidence. The answer came with sudden clarity. I cast the sword
aside—and the moment I did so, I had my reward. The serving-boy’s pale face swam suddenly into view, as if illuminated by a greasy shaft of light. It was just as pitiful as I
remembered: big black eyes, glittering with sadness; tears running down the cheeks.

“Tell me,” I said.

“I’ll tell…”

A thrill ran through me. He’d answered! I was
doing
it! Just like I had with the old man in the chair. My theory was right. You
could
make contact with them, if only you
were prepared to open yourself up, to take that risk.

A voice called my name from far away. It was Holly Munro, a level or two below. The ghost wavered, its face growing dim, as if sucked back into shadow. I cursed. Even now, without meaning to,
our assistant was managing to mess things up….

“Don’t go,” I said. I took a couple more steps forward.

The boy shrank back; then, slowly, light returned to the face. It smiled.

“I’ll tell…”

A slam of a distant door; the noise reverberated through the house. Again the ghost became faint. I grimaced with irritation. More voices—through the haze of my concentration I recognized
George down in the hallway, and Lockwood answering him. Ignore it! The ghost was smiling at me. If I could just get it to speak again…

“My name is Lucy,” I said. “Tell me what you need.”

The smiling ghost floated nearer, flecks of blond hair quivering like a burning crown upon its brow. The body was indistinct, the arms trailing at its side.

“I need…”

“Where’s Lucy?” That was George. I heard Holly’s murmuring answer, then George’s voice coming echoing up the stairs. “Luce!”

“Ignore it…” I was smiling too, trying to keep the connection. The cold was painful now; it hurt my skin. And how watery and hesitant my smile was beside the boy’s grin. How
expectant it was, how avid.

“I need…”

“Hey, Luce! We got it wrong! Robert Cooke isn’t the big one! He’s the
little
ghost!”

I looked at the shimmering figure, smiling at me four steps down.

“The kid stabbed the servant! Little Tom was just the guy’s nickname because he was such a big bloke! The kid was crazy! He stabbed Tom, who chased him through the house. They got
upstairs, and Tom was weak from loss of blood. He grappled with the kid, who pushed him over the top. We
so
got it all the wrong way around!”

The ghost fluttered closer.

“I need…”

We
so
got it all the wrong way around.

Oh lovely. I took a slow step back.

The ghost opened its mouth.

“I need YOU!”
it said.

It smiled. It lifted its arms. They ran with blood.

Then it flowed up the stairs toward me.

I fell back, shrieking, scrabbling at my belt.

The first thing I found, I threw, almost directly at my feet, beneath the bloody, reaching hands. It was nothing but salt. The capsule shattered. The ghost blinked out and at once, like an
interrupted strip of film that had been cut, spliced, and then re-formed, was there again, behind me, blocking my path to the rapier, net, and chains. I darted away, reaching for a flare, tripped
over my bowl of salt solution, and fell back hard against the banister. Footsteps, flashlights, voices from below. My legs were wet. So were the ghost’s eyes, wet with tears; bloody
footprints appeared behind it on the floor. I reached for the flare, but my fingers were numb with cold and panic; I couldn’t pull the canister free. In came the ghost, still smiling,
grappling at the air. With a cry I threw myself away from it, over the banister; I swung out and over the awful drop, grasping the wood, twisting around to hang there as the shape drew near. It
stretched out and over me, long arms spread wide; eyes cavernous, lips parted in a hateful, imbecilic smile. Someone was rushing up the stairs. Blood fell from the curling fingers; drops fell on my
jacket, fizzing and steaming. The ghost leaned closer. A vast weight pressed down on me, willing me to topple backward into space—

Quite how Lockwood managed to leap so far, I never understood. He’d been miles off on the stairs, coming up them three at a time. Now he vaulted up and over the final curling rise of
banister, cutting off the corner entirely. His momentum carried him forward like an arrow, over the hideous gulf. He was practically horizontal as he passed me, rapier slashing, coat stretched out
like wings. The blade of the sword sliced through the space between me and the stooping figure. The ghost snapped back out of sight. Lockwood followed it; I heard his gasp of pain as he landed;
then scuffles, thuds…and sudden silence.

I dangled alone over the drop. “Lockwood…” I called.

No good. My fingers were too numb, the wood too smooth. I began to slip….