Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase

into this. If it’s convenient we’ll be along tonight, shortly after curfew. Meanwhile, I’d keep your grand-daughter out of that garage, if I were you.’
    ‘What’s your opinion of the case, Ms Carlyle?’ Lockwood asked, as we sat on the eastbound bus that evening. It was the final service on that route before curfew, the seats empty of adults, but crowded with children heading off for night-watch duties in the factories. Some were still half asleep; others stared dully through the windows. Their watch-sticks – six feet long, tipped with iron – bounced and rattled in the racks beside the door.
    ‘Sounds like a weak Type One,’ I said, ‘since it’s staying put and making no obvious moves towards the girl. But I wouldn’t want to take it for granted.’ My lips tightened as I spoke; I thought of the little shape glowing in the darkness of the haunted mill.
    ‘Quite right,’ Lockwood said. ‘Best prepare for the worst. Besides, he says the place is thick with spiders.’
    ‘You know about spiders, right, Miss Carlyle?’ George was sitting on the seat in front; he glanced casually back towards me.
    It’s a commonly known fact that while cats can’t stand ghosts, spiders love them. Or, at least, they love the psychic emanation that some ghosts give off. Strong Sources, remaining active and undisturbed over many years, are often choked by layer upon layer of dusty webs laid there by generations of eager spiders. It’s one of the first things agents look out for. Those trails of webbing can lead you directly to thespot. Everyone knew that. Mr Potter’s six-year-old grand-daughter probably knew that.
    ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I know about spiders.’
    ‘Good,’ George said. ‘Just checking.’
    We alighted in an eastern district of the great grey city, not far north of the river. Narrow terraced streets clustered in the shadow of the dockland cranes. With dusk, the local shops were shutting up: psychic healing booths, cheapjack iron dealers, self-proclaimed specialists offering ghost-wards from Korea and Japan. As always in my first few weeks in London, the sheer scale of it all made my head spin. People hurried homeward on every side. At the crossroads, the local ghost-lamp was powering up, the shutters slowly rising.
    Lockwood led the way down a side-street, rapier glinting beneath a long, heavy greatcoat that swung stylishly behind him. George and I trotted alongside.
    ‘As usual, Lockwood,’ George said, ‘we’re doing this all too fast. You didn’t give me enough time to properly research the house and street. I could have found out lots of background if you’d given me an extra day.’
    ‘Yes, but research only goes so far,’ Lockwood said. ‘There’s no substitute for actually exploring . Besides, I thought Ms Carlyle would enjoy the expedition. She might hear something.’
    ‘Can be a risky business being a Listener,’ George remarked. ‘There was that girl working for Epstein andHawkes last year. Good ears, incredibly sensitive insight. But she got so freaked out by all the voices she heard, she ended up jumping in the Thames.’
    I smiled thinly. ‘Marissa Fittes had my kind of Talent too,’ I said. ‘ She didn’t jump anywhere.’
    Anthony Lockwood laughed. ‘Well said, Ms Carlyle! Right, shut up now, George. We’re here.’
    Our client’s house was one of four unremarkable semi-detached properties set in the middle of an otherwise terraced street. It was of fairly modern construction. The garage was a solid brick affair, with an up-and-over metal door at the front, and a side-door that joined up with the kitchen. The garage interior contained three old motorbikes in various stages of repair, this being Mr Potter’s hobby. There was also a long workbench and a wall of tool racks, and, towards the rear, a great stack of tea crates, mostly filled with second-hand parts and wheels and dismantled engines.
    The first thing we noticed was that though the workbench and tool racks were relatively clean, the storage area was thinly laid with fresh grey webbing. Shimmering threads hung between the crates and slanted down towards the floor; in the light of our torches, large-bodied spiders could be seen moving stealthily on unknown errands.
    We spent the first few hours carefully taking measurements and making observations. George in particularzealously recorded the minutest drops in temperature, but we all noticed a supernatural chill developing as the hour grew late. A sour