Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase

but we’ve got to keep on going. There’s nothing else we can do.’
    We continued along the passage, more slowly than before. Not three metres further on, roughly where we’d seen the apparition, we came to a flight of stairs.
    It was a spiral staircase, tight and narrow and heading steeply downwards. The passage led directly to it, and the entrance was fringed with smaller blocks of stone.
    ‘Four degrees centigrade,’ George said matter-of-factly. The light of his thermometer shone against his glasses and made his frosted breath plume green.
    ‘Seems we’re going down,’ Lockwood said. ‘Was this on the medieval floor-plan, George?’
    ‘I don’t know . . . Actually – yes, I think so. A connecting stair from dormitories to refectory. Want me to check?’
    ‘No. No, let’s get it done.’
    We set off down the steps. Lockwood went first, then me, with George bringing up the rear. It was not a comfortable place. There was a strong feeling of being somewhere very old and very far from natural light. Despite the cold, the air was close, and the walls pressed tight on either side. We had to bend our necks to avoid the layers of cobwebs on the ceiling. The smoke from our candles made my eyes water, and their guttering wicks cast disconcerting shadows on the smoothly curving stones.
    ‘Don’t trip on a bit of the Fittes kid, Lockwood,’ George said. ‘He’s down here somewhere.’
    I scowled back at him. ‘Ugh, George. Why would you even say that?’
    ‘I guess because I’m nervous.’
    I sighed. ‘Yeah . . . fair enough. So am I.’
    We all felt the strain now; our senses were on red alert, waiting for the slightest trigger. Outwardly it all seemed quiet – no sounds, no death-glows, no floating wisps of plasm. But this meant nothing. The Red Room had started the exact same way.
    The staircase opened out briefly into a tiny square chamber, with blocked arches on either side, before continuing its way down. Lockwood paused. ‘We’re at ground level here,’ he said. ‘Must be right behind that tapestry. You remember – the one with the picture of that dodgy bear.’
    ‘I remember,’ I said. ‘This is where that cold spot was.’
    ‘Yes, we’re down to three point five degrees,’ George said. ‘That’s the coldest reading in the house.’ His voice was tight. ‘We’re getting close.’
    ‘We’d better go slow now.’ Lockwood handed out some spearmint gum. Chewing mechanically, we started down the steps again, spiralling towards the cellar level. A thought occurred to me.
    ‘This staircase . . .’ I said in a casual voice. ‘It’s not . . . It wouldn’t be the staircase, would it?’
    Behind me, George chuckled. ‘No. Don’t worry. That was the other one.’
    ‘You’re sure? Did the legends definitely say it was the main staircase of the hall?’
    ‘Yes.’
    We descended steadily, step by careful step, going round and round and down. Lockwood’s candle dimmed and flickered, then grew strong again.
    ‘Well,’ George continued, ‘they didn’t expressly say it, as it happens. They just mentioned some “old steps”. But everyone’s always assumed it was the main one, what with those carved dragons and skull niches and all the rest of it.’
    ‘Right . . . So they just assumed . . . But naturally, it would have to have been that main staircase, wouldn’t it, if it had been anywhere.’
    ‘Yep. That’s right.’
    ‘Though we didn’t get any psychic readings at all there, did we?’
    ‘No. And we’re not getting any here , either.’ George spoke with unusual firmness. ‘It’s just a legend.’
    It certainly seemed so. I didn’t doubt it for a minute. And so it was only for my private reassurance that I took off a glove and tucked it in my pocket. It was only out of merest curiosity that I let my fingertips trail against the stonework as we spiralled slowly down.
    To my relief, all I could feel was the chill in the wall. Itwas a deep, dry, lifeless cold that had sunk into the stones over a great many years. It stippled my skin, and made an electric charge run up the hairs on the back of my neck. An unpleasant feeling – but that was all it was. Just cold.
    I was about to take my fingers away when I heard the sounds.
    They were faint at first, but swiftly drawing nearer. Boots stamping. Boots, and the clink of metal. The stairwell echoed with it, and with the voices of many men. There was the rustle of their tunics, the scrape of swords. Suddenly they were all