Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase

tap there came a flash of movement in the middle of the shape. The black thing glistened. There was a hint of red.
    Lockwood raised the torchlight slowly, in time to catch the next drip as it fell, mid-air. He lifted the torch to the plaster ceiling, where a wider, darker stain was spreading along the spiral moulding. At its centre, stuff as thick and dark as treacle sagged, grew heavy, broke loose in drops – to splash down upon the floor below.
    ‘Now I know what the smell was,’ Lockwood muttered.
    ‘Blood . . .’ I said.
    ‘Well, technically, of course, it’s plasm,’ George said. ‘The Visitor’s just chosen a highly unusual, non-anatomical guise, which—’
    ‘I don’t care about technically , George!’ I cried. ‘It looks like blood, it smells like it. It’ll do as blood for me.’
    Even as we watched, the weight of substance pooling in the ceiling became too great to be released by a single steady outflow. Drips broke loose in a second place, slightly closer to us, and the rate of fall was faster. I flicked on my torch too, saw the floor stain spattering out. Broken fingers of blood reached in the direction of our chains.
    ‘Don’t let it near you,’ George said. ‘It’ll ghost-touch same as any other kind of plasm.’
    ‘We’re going,’ Lockwood said crisply. ‘Gather the bags. No, forget the chains; we’re carrying spares. Ready? Quick, then. Follow me.’
    We stepped over the barrier of iron and looped out across the room, keeping well clear of the spreading mass. Malevolence radiated off it in waves. The room was icy cold.
    ‘Goodbye and good riddance to you,’ George said, as we approached the door.
    But when we got there it was closed.
    For a moment none of us moved. I felt a coil of panic slide slick and tight around my belly. Lockwood stepped forward. He covered the ground in three quick strides, and tried the handle. He rattled at it urgently. ‘Shut,’ he said. ‘I can’t open it.’
    ‘What the hell happened to the wedge?’ I said.
    George’s voice was faint. ‘The DFD.’
    I gave a wild curse. ‘I don’t care what it was called , George! It didn’t work! You didn’t secure it properly.’
    ‘I secured it fine.’
    ‘No, you just nudged it in with your BFF! That’s Big Fat Foot, by the way.’
    ‘Shut up , Lucy!’
    ‘Will you both shut up,’ Lockwood snarled, ‘and help me with this door?’
    We grasped the handle together and tugged as hard as we could. The door didn’t budge.
    ‘Where’s the key?’ I said. ‘Lockwood – the key . What did you do with it?’
    He hesitated. ‘I left it in the door.’
    ‘Oh, that’s great,’ I said. ‘Between you and George we might as well have put up a sign for the Visitor saying Be Our Guest .’
    ‘I tell you, I secured it fine ,’ George shouted. ‘And I put the salt down too.’ He kicked out viciously at the grains beneath our boots. ‘See? It shouldn’t have been able to go near the door.’
    ‘Calm down,’ Lockwood said. He had shone the torch back to the ceiling, where a new spur of blood had begun to well downwards ominously close to where we stood. ‘It’s responding to our panic. Let’s get back to the circle.’
    We managed this OK, though we had to loop noticeably further out across the room than before. Several of the drips had now intensified into unbroken streams, like taps left gently running. The noise they made was no longer a series of sharp clicks, but a continual liquid thrum. There was a considerable puddle of blood spreading on the floor.
    ‘We’re going to be surrounded,’ I said. ‘How much plasm has it got in there?’
    ‘This is huge ,’ George muttered. ‘It’s not an ordinary Type Two. A Poltergeist would have the advanced telekineticpowers – shutting the door, keeping it closed, turning the key – but that doesn’t fit with the manifestation. The blood makes it a Changer, surely. But Changers don’t turn keys . . .’
    ‘I’ve been stupid,’ Lockwood said. ‘ Really stupid. I underestimated everything . . . Lucy, we’re going to have to find the secret exit. You’ve got to show us where you felt the difference in the wall.’
    An arm of blood extended swiftly from the central pool upon the floor. Its tip drew close to the iron chains and retreated, fizzing, spitting. The air was thick with the smell of blood; it was difficult to breathe.
    ‘Or we stay here . . .’ I said. ‘At least it can’t get in.’
    George gave a yell; I felt him jump to