Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase

a single solid panel, as high as the recess and almost as wide. At the back, near the window, great black hinges fused it to the stone. If you pulled it, it would swing out to cover the glass.
    And – possibly – reveal something else.
    I grasped the wood, tried to pull it to me. I wanted to see beneath it – just in case. Somewhere, something gave. I felt the shutter move. I flashed a quick look with my torch – and saw a crack had opened, a gap just wide enough to get my fingers in. Perhaps there was nothing but stone beneath; perhaps it really was a shutter. Or perhaps . . .
    ‘George! Lockwood!’ I shouted out to them over myshoulder, past a column of gushing blood. ‘I may have found it! Quick – I need your help!’
    Without waiting, I pulled at the wood. I heaved, I tugged. It didn’t shift at all.
    Something shoved me to the side. It was Lockwood, throwing himself into the recess. The blood was nearing the edges of the room. He’d had to flatten himself against the wall as he ran towards the ledge. George careered after him, holding his rapier at an angle above his head. Falling blood splashed against the sword-tip, fizzing and sparking as it touched the iron. He jumped up next to us. No one spoke. George handed me the rapier. He and Lockwood grappled the wood, braced themselves, and pulled.
    I turned and held the blade above us all as an ineffective shield.
    The bloodstain on the ceiling had now spread almost wall to wall; in our corner, a single triangle of clean space remained. Elsewhere torrents of blood fell in curtains, roaring, driving, gusting like rain waves in a thunderstorm. The floor was awash. It pooled between the floorboards and lashed up against the skirting. The chandelier dripped with it: the crystals shone red. Now I knew why the chamber was without furniture of any kind, why it had been deserted for so many years. Now I knew why it had the name it did.
    George gasped; Lockwood gave a cry. They fell back, knocked against me, dragging the shutter open. Behind it,matted cords of cobwebs trailed like corpse-hair. My torch showed darkness too – a narrow arch inside the wall.
    Blood spattered on the corner of the shutter and on the tilted blade above my head. I felt it fizz against my gloves and arms.
    ‘In! In!’ I gestured to the others; they tumbled through. I followed, moving backwards, stepping from sill to ancient stone. Blood poured down the inside of the shutter; it ran down the sides of the recess, flooding towards my feet.
    On the inside of the shutter door we saw an ancient rope, fixed there by an iron ring. George and Lockwood seized it, heaved. The door swung slowly inwards. Blood cascaded through the closing crack, splashed thickly on George’s arm. He cursed, fell back; I lost my balance too. Lockwood gave a final tug. The door closed shut – and we were left in darkness, listening to the crashing and drumming of the blood as the unnamed Thing wrought its fury on the far side of the wall.

22

    All at once, like a switch had been flicked or a plug pulled, the terrible noise cut out. We were alone.
    The sudden silence made me flinch. I sat against rough stone, head raised, mouth open, panting for breath. My own blood hammered in my ears. My chest rose and fell in jerks; each movement gave me pain. Though it was utterly black, I knew the others were sprawled beside me in the tightness of the passage. Their wheezes mirrored mine.
    We’d collapsed in a single heap, one on top of the other. The air was cold and sour, but at least the overpowering smell of blood had gone.
    ‘George,’ I croaked, ‘are you OK?’
    ‘No. Someone’s buttocks are flattening my foot.’
    I shifted my position irritably. ‘I meant the plasm – where you got hit.’
    ‘Oh. Yes. Thank you. It didn’t touch my hand, though I think this jacket’s ruined .’
    ‘That’s good. It’s an awful jacket. Who’s got a torch? I just dropped mine.’
    ‘Me too,’ Lockwood said.
    ‘Here.’ George clicked his on.
    Torchlight never shows you to your best advantage. In the sudden harshness, George and I crouched close together, eyes bulging, hair matted with sweat and fear. George’s arm was stained a livid white and green where the plasm had struck him. Smoke rose from it, and also from the rapier across my knees. When I looked down, I saw that my boots and leggings were spattered with the substance too.
    Lockwood, miraculously, appeared to have escaped the worst of the assault. His coat