Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase

plasterwork, covered with swirls and spirals. The light reached a single chandelier hanging from the centre of the ceiling. Fronds of soft grey webbing dangled from its scrolls and chains, swaying in currents stirred by the opening of the door.
    Spiders . . . A sure sign.
    Lockwood dropped the torch low. Down at our feet, the corridor carpet ended precisely at the line of the door. A thick strip of iron had been embedded here. Beyond were dust and floorboards and the utter desolation of the Red Room.
    ‘Anyone sense anything?’ Lockwood said. His voice sounded strange and hollow.
    Neither of us did. Lockwood stepped over the iron band, and George and I followed him, bringing the heavy duffel bags. Cool air swirled around us. Our boots tapped softly on the boards.
    I’d expected to be hit by strong phenomena right off, the moment we went in. But all was very quiet, though the pressure in my skull was worse than ever. The ghost-fog had not manifested in the room and I couldn’t hear the static or the whispering right now. We put down our bags, and with our torches surveyed our surroundings.
    It was a large rectangular space, taking up the full depth of the wing. The wall opposite marked the end of the house, and corresponded to the tapestried wall in the Long Gallerydirectly below. This wall had no doors or windows, but in places the paper had been stripped away to reveal bricks or stones beneath.
    The wall on the right had no windows; that on the left had originally had three, but two had been bricked up. The last one had a shutter, folded back against the sides of its recess.
    Other than the chandelier there was no furniture at all.
    ‘Not very “red”, is it?’ George said. That had been my thought too.
    ‘First things first,’ Lockwood said briskly. ‘Lucy, help me make a circle. George, secure our retreat, please.’
    Holding our torches in our teeth, Lockwood and I opened the duffel bags and pulled out the heavy-duty two-inch chains. We laid them on the floor and began to shape them into the necessary circle – our defence against whatever waited in the room.
    George meanwhile bent to his rucksack. He unzipped a side-pocket and felt within. ‘I’ve a Visitor-proof DFD somewhere in here,’ he said. ‘Hold on a tick . . .’
    ‘DFD?’ I said.
    ‘Door-Fixing Device. Just a bit of the latest tech. Got it from Satchell’s. Pricey, yes, but worth it. Ah, here we go.’ He produced a rough-hewn triangle of wood.
    I stared at it. ‘Isn’t that just a wedge?’
    ‘No. A DFD, my friend. A DFD. It’s got an iron core.’
    ‘It looks like you found it in a skip. How much did you pay for it?’
    ‘I can’t remember.’ George kicked it firmly into position, so that the door was held ajar. ‘Call it what you like. It’ll stop the door from closing, and that might keep us alive.’
    He was right to that extent. In the case of the Shadwell Poltergeist the year before, two Grimble agents had been separated from their colleagues when the bathroom door blew shut on them. The door had then stuck fast; no one could get through, and the two agents had been battered to death by whirling ceramics. When the visitation ended, the door had opened freely.
    ‘Scatter salt across the doorway too,’ Lockwood said. ‘Just to be sure.’ We’d finished the chain circle now and were hauling the bags inside. ‘Right, we retreat in here if anyone gives the word. Temperature?’
    ‘Six degrees,’ George said.
    ‘So far, so good. At the moment this seems the quietest place in the house. Let’s make the most of it. We’ll hunt for hidden doors. It’s the end wall, isn’t it, George?’
    ‘Yes. We’re looking for any signs of a concealed entrance. Buttons, levers, that sort of thing. Try knocking for hollow areas too.’
    ‘OK. Lucy and I will do the first search. George, stay here and watch our backs.’
    Lockwood and I went to opposite ends of the wall, our boots echoing in emptiness, torch-beams focused small to minimize the disruption to our inner senses. I chose the left-hand corner, not far from the single unblocked window. Through the dirty glass I could just make out lights from a distant village, and a couple of winter stars.
    I turned off the torch and ran my hands along the wall. It seemed smooth enough, the paper level and unbroken. I shuffled sideways, feeling high and low. Every now and then I stopped and listened, but all remained still.
    ‘Anyone smell that?’ Lockwood said suddenly. His