Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase

hear it scream.’
    He led the way up the flight, stick tapping on the stone. We followed in a silent, ragged procession, each ignoring the others, letting our senses take the lead. I let my fingers run across the handrails, opening my mind to psychic traces, listening all the time.
    We crossed below the window, four slow figures stained with the sun’s last rays, climbed another flight and arrived at a landing. A deep burgundy carpet and flocked red wallpaper absorbed all sounds. There was a strange sweet smell up here, like tropical flowers, heavy with the taint of decay. A long, wide corridor that I remembered from George’s plans ran east–west, following the line of the house. Numerous rooms opened on both sides; through half-open doors I glimpsed dark-toned furniture, paintings, heavy golden mirrors . . .Fairfax ignored them all. He led the way west along the corridor until it ended in a door.
    Fairfax halted; whether it was the effort of the stairs, or the suddenly stifling quality of the air, he was out of breath.
    ‘Beyond this barrier,’ he said finally, ‘is the place I told you of. The Red Room.’
    It was a sturdy wooden door, closed and locked, and no different from the others we’d passed – except for the mark upon it. Someone, at some time, had slashed a great rough X upon its central panel. One stroke was short, the other long; both were made with violence, scoured deep into the wood.
    Fairfax adjusted the position of his stick upon the floor. ‘Now, Mr Lockwood, pay close attention. Because of its particular danger, this room is always kept locked. However, I have the key here, and I hereby transfer it to your possession.’
    He made a great palaver about it, patting and rummaging. Finally the key appeared: a small gold thing on a loop of dark red ribbon. Lockwood took it coolly.
    ‘It is my belief,’ Fairfax said, ‘that the Source is in that room. Whether you decide to pursue it is a matter for yourselves. You do not have to enter. I leave it up to you. I think you can already sense, however, that I am right . . .’
    He may have said more, but I was too busy trying to block out the faint, insistent whispering sounds that had suddenlybroken through the silence. They were somewhere very near, and I did not like the voices. I noticed that Lockwood had gone ashen, and even George looked green and queasy; he’d drawn his collar high about his neck as if he felt the cold.
    Down in the lobby, the telephone had been rigged up beside the vase, its cable running across the stones to a socket somewhere in the library. The footmen had gone. Old Bert Starkins jittered by the doors, silhouetted in the half-dark, desperate to follow them.
    ‘Ten minutes, sir!’ he cried.
    Fairfax regarded us. ‘Mr Lockwood?’
    Lockwood nodded. ‘That’s fine. Ten minutes is all we need.’
    We worked in silence beneath the high thin windows of the Long Gallery, emptying out the bags, collecting the equipment, tightening straps and adjusting gear. Each of us had our usual kit – plus a little extra, to make up for our lack of flares.
    At my belt I carried my rapier, a torch and extra batteries, three candles with a lighter and a box of matches, five small silver seals (each of a different shape), three sachets of iron filings, three salt bombs, two flasks of lavender water, my thermometer, my notebook and pen. Next, on a separate strap, looped like a sash across my shoulder, I had two lines of plastic canisters arranged in pairs. Each pair contained halfa pound of iron filings and half a pound of salt. Next, also over my shoulder, I had a loop of slender iron chain, six foot long when fully unfurled, and tightly wound with bubble wrap to prevent excessive noise. Last, in an outer pocket of my coat, I kept a pack of emergency provisions – energy drink, sandwiches and chocolate. Our thermos flasks of good hot tea, and the larger chains and seals, were carried in a separate bag.
    In addition to my normal clothes I wore thermal gloves, a thermal vest and leggings, and thick socks under my boots. It wasn’t cold enough yet for my hat, so I stuffed this in the pocket of my parka. And I still had the necklace in its silver-glass case, hidden round my neck.
    The others were kitted out more or less the same, though Lockwood also had his dark glasses clipped to the breast pocket of his coat. The kit weighed us down, and was more cumbersome than usual, but we each carried enough iron to be individually self-reliant.