Lockwood & Co. Book Three: The Hollow Boy (3 page)

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.

“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.