Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase

the cellars and there was a nasty draught. The candle blew out almost immediately and we had to resort to electric torches. The beams picked out a spreading complex of vaulted passageways, grey stones, ancient pillars, and an unevenly flagstoned floor across which the ghost-fog curled. Some of the alcoves were filled with broken casks and empty racks once used for storing wine; the rest contained firewood, lumber, spiders’ webs and rats. As we scuffed our way ever further in, the cobwebs grew thicker and the ghost-fog brighter. The temperature kept going down.
    The last room ended in a blank stone wall.
    ‘Same pattern as above,’ George said, scribbling on his map while I held the torch. Lockwood stood beside us with the rapier. ‘We’re directly below the far end of the Long Gallery, and again we’ve hit a cold spot. It’s five degrees heretoo: that’s the coldest reading in the cellars. Look at the webs up there . . . There’s something about this wall that— Ow!’
    Lockwood had shoved us aside. He sliced frantically downward with his rapier. The tip struck the stonework of the end wall; yellow sparks ignited in the dark.
    He gave a curse. ‘Missed!’ he snarled. ‘It’s gone.’
    I had my sword out; George, overbalanced by his rucksack and chain, had capsized on the flagstones. Both of us stared wildly all around. My torchlight spun in crazy circles. It was like we were surrounded by a thin grey hoop of rushing stone.
    ‘What was it?’ I said. ‘Lockwood—’
    He brushed his hair out of his eyes, breathing hard. ‘Didn’t you see?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘It was there. Standing right beside you. God, it was quick.’
    ‘ Lockwood . . .’
    ‘A man – swimming out of the dark beside the wall. Just a face and hand. It was like he was reaching out to grab you, Lucy. It was a monk, I think. The top of his head was bald. His hair was cut in one of those tonsil things.’
    ‘Tonsure,’ George said, from the floor.
    ‘Tonsil, tonsure, whatever. I didn’t like his face.’
    We returned upstairs. A few coils of ghost-fog had penetrated a little distance into the library, but the lanternstill gleamed strongly and the apparitions had been kept at bay. Lockwood turned the light up a little. We took off our loops of iron chain to give our backs a rest, laid our flasks and rations out on Fairfax’s reading desks, and sat together in silence. It was a little after ten p.m.
    For some while I’d been conscious of a cold weight pressing on my chest, and I took the opportunity of pulling the silver-glass case out from beneath my coat. A faint blue gleam shone from within: the first time I’d seen the ghost-girl’s locket give a spectral glow. Clearly her spirit was still active. Perhaps she was responding to the strength of Visitor activity all around; perhaps there was some other reason for the light. When it came to Visitors, it was all guesswork. Even after fifty years, there was so much we didn’t know.
    George had his floor-plans spread out on his ample knee; with his pencil he tapped an irritating rhythm on his teeth as he considered our annotations. Lockwood finished his biscuits; torch in hand, he got up to inspect the bookshelves. Out in the lobby a solitary ghost stood shrouded in the darkness, flickered suddenly and was gone.
    ‘Got it,’ George said.
    I tucked the glass case out of sight. ‘Got what?’
    ‘The Source. I know where it is.’
    ‘I think we can all guess that,’ I said. ‘The Red Room.’ It was time someone brought it up. After we’d rested we were due to go upstairs.
    ‘Possibly,’ George said. ‘And possibly not.’ He had his glasses off, so he could rub his tired eyes. Now he put them back on. It’s a curious thing with George. With his glasses off, his eyes look small and weak – blinky and a bit baffled, like an unintelligent sheep that’s taken a wrong turn. But put them on again, and they go all sharp and steely, more like the eyes of an eagle that eats dumb sheep for breakfast. They did that now. ‘Something’s just occurred to me,’ he said. ‘It’s been staring us in the face in these old floor-plans all this time. But our readings confirm it, I think. Look here . . .’
    He positioned the two plans together on the table.
    ‘Here’s the old sketch of the priory ruins,’ he said, ‘done in medieval times. Here’s the refectory, which becomes the Long Gallery. Upstairs, these rooms here are the monks’ dormitories. Many of them have gone, but