Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase

supporting myself on my hands. All I could see was the nearest bed-leg, grey and granular, strands of white-green ghost-fog, and the wall. My back was to the open room. Something could be drifting up behind me that very moment, and I wouldn’t know anything about it.
    Dark or not, I had to look right now. I steeled myself, prepared to rise.
    The light in the street came on again. I straightened my arms, craned my head up, peeped back over the edge of the mattress . . .
    And felt my heart nearly stop in fear. The shape was no longer by the door. No. It had moved up, slowly, silently, and was now hovering above the bed . It hung there in a stooped, investigative posture, plasm trailing on the mattress, its long dark fingers blindly probing the warm patch on the sheet where I’d just been lying.
    If it had stretched those fingers to the side, it would have touched me.
    I ducked back down.
    In many ways the spare bed that I slept in was a manky affair. It was probably the very one Lockwood had snoozed in all those years ago as a little kid. Its joints were rickety, its mattress a wilderness of humps and springs. But one good thing about it: it lacked those built-in drawers you get with modern beds. So there was plenty of room beneath forcrumpled hankies, books and dust; even for my little box of stuff from home.
    And plenty of room, right then, for a swiftly moving girl.
    I don’t know whether I crawled or rolled; I don’t know what I crushed or broke. I think I hit my head, and I must’ve torn the plasters off my forearms, because I later found them all bloodied on the carpet. One second, maybe two: that was all it took for me to shoot beneath the bed and out the other side.
    As I emerged I was engulfed by something cold.
    It was big and soft, and flopped on me from above. For a split second I thrashed about in utter terror – then realized it was just my duvet, slumping off the bed. I hurled it away, struggled to my feet. Behind, on the bed, came a flare of angry other-light. The patch of darkness sprang into focus: a pale, thin shape drifted after me with outstretched arms.
    I leaped to the door, tore it open with a crash, and launched myself desperately down the stairs.
    Onto the first-floor landing, colliding with the banisters, threads of cold air clutching at my neck. ‘Lockwood!’ I shouted. ‘George!’
    Lockwood’s door was on the left. A little crack of light appeared beneath it. I scrabbled at the handle, staring over my shoulder at the pale glow extending swiftly down the stairs. The handle moved uselessly up and down; the door was locked, it wouldn’t open. I raised a desperate fist tohammer on the wood. Round the angle of the stairs came fingers, a shining, outstretched hand . . .
    The door swung open; soft yellow lamplight almost blinded me.
    Lockwood stood there, dressed in striped pyjamas and his long dark dressing gown.
    ‘Lucy?’
    I pitched past him into the room. ‘A ghost! My room! It’s coming!’
    His hair was a little rumpled, his bruised face tired and drawn, but otherwise he was as self-possessed as ever. He didn’t ask questions, but stepped backwards, keeping his face towards the black opening of the door. There was a chest of drawers beside him. Without looking, he opened the uppermost drawer with his good hand, reached purposefully inside. I felt a warm surge of relief. Thank goodness! It would be a salt bomb or a canister of iron filings maybe. Who cared? Anything would do.
    He brought out a crumpled mess of wood and string and bits of metal. The metal pieces were shaped like animals and birds. Lockwood took hold of a wooden pole and began untangling the strings.
    I stared at it. ‘That’s all you’ve got?’
    ‘My rapier’s downstairs.’
    ‘What the hell is it?’
    ‘Toy mobile. Had it when I was a kid. You hold it here,and the animals hang from this rotating wheel. Make a jolly sound. My favourite was the smiley giraffe.’
    I looked towards the open door. ‘Well, that’s very nice, but—’
    ‘They’re made of iron, Lucy. So what happened? Your knees are bleeding.’
    ‘An apparition. Dark aura at first, but other-light’s kicking in now. Secondary effects of ghost-lock, fog and chill. It just followed me down the stairs.’
    Lockwood seemed satisfied with the mobile. When he held it up and flexed his wrist, the little circle of dangling animals turned freely. ‘Turn off the bedside lamp, will you?’
    I did so. We were plunged into darkness. No spectral