Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase

ago after some gruesome scandal of that kind, and not reopened until recently, when it came into my possession.’
    ‘You live there, sir?’ I asked.
    The domed head tilted, the dark eyes flashed at me. ‘It is not my only property, if that is what you mean. I visit it from time to time. The place is very old. In origin, it was a priory, founded by a breakaway group of monks from one of the local abbeys. The stones at the heart of the West Wing go back to that period. Subsequently a series of local lords owned it, rebuilding and adapting the ruins, before it wasconverted into its current form around the turn of the eighteenth century. Architecturally it is a peculiar mishmash of a place – passages leading nowhere or doubling back upon themselves, odd changes of level . . . But more to the point, it has always had a sinister reputation. Stories of Visitors here go back centuries. In short, it is one of those sites where hauntings were already in evidence, well before the start of the Problem. It’s said that—’
    ‘Is that someone looking out?’ George said suddenly. He had been studying the photograph closely while the old man talked, staring at it quizzically through his thick round glasses. Now he picked it up and, with a chubby finger, indicated a point on the main wall of the house. Lockwood and I bent close, frowning. High above and to the left of the entrance portico, a dark triangular notch indicated the presence of a narrow window. There was a slight grey smudge inside the notch, almost too faint to be seen.
    ‘Ah, you’ve noticed that, have you?’ Fairfax said. ‘Yes, it does look like a figure, doesn’t it? Standing just inside. The curious thing is, this photograph was taken a couple of months before I inherited the estate. The house was shut and locked. There was no one living there.’
    He took a sip of tea, his black eyes twinkling. Again, I thought I detected amusement in his manner, as if he took a certain pleasure in that smudge and its implications.
    ‘What time was the picture taken?’ I asked.
    ‘Approaching dusk. The sun’s setting, as you can see.’
    Throughout all this, Lockwood’s face had been glowing with scarcely suppressed excitement. He sat hunched forward, bony elbows balanced on his knees, hands pressed together, every sinew tense with interest. ‘You were about to tell us something of the phenomena, sir,’ he said. ‘About how they manifest, I mean.’
    Mr Fairfax placed his cup down on the table, and sat back with a sigh. One great hand grasped his iron-headed walking stick; the other gestured as he spoke. ‘I am an old man. I cannot see apparitions myself, and as a general rule, I don’t sense ’em, either. But the malign aura of this house is evident even to me. I feel it the moment I walk in the door, I taste it in my mouth. Ah, it is a sickly atmosphere, Mr Lockwood, which works to sap the soul. As for specifics . . .’ He leaned a little on the stick, adjusted his position slightly as if his bones hurt him. ‘Well, there are many stories. The caretaker, Bert Starkins, is the one to ask about it; he seems to know them all. But certainly the two best-known tales in the neighbourhood – the key hauntings, if you will – concern the Red Room and the Screaming Staircase.’
    There was a profound silence, abruptly broken by an enormously loud rumble from George’s stomach. Plaster didn’t actually fall from the ceiling, but it was close.
    ‘Sorry,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Famished. I think I’ll have another doughnut, if you don’t mind. Any takers?’ No onepaid him any heed. He reached out for the plate.
    ‘The Red Room?’ I said.
    ‘The Screaming Staircase?’ Lockwood edged forward in his chair. ‘Please, Mr Fairfax, tell us more.’
    ‘I’m delighted to see that you display such interest,’ the old man said. ‘I can see that my high opinion of you was correct. Well, the Red Room is a bedchamber on the first floor of the West Wing of the house. At least, it was used as a bedroom once. No longer. It is completely empty now. It is one of those places where the supernatural presence is so potent that it spells disaster to all who visit it. No one can spend the night there and live – or that’s the story.’
    ‘Have you been in there, sir?’ Lockwood asked.
    ‘I have peered in. By day, of course.’
    ‘And the atmosphere . . .?’
    ‘Thick, Mr Lockwood. Thick with evil.’ The old head drew back; Fairfax looked down his great hooked