The Screaming Staircase

by Jonathan Stroud

  All of them just standing, waiting for something.

  Lockwood spoke in my ear. “Someone’s in the circle.”

  “You see him?”

  “No. The light’s weird. But the chain provides a safe way in.” He bit his lip. “Well, safe-ish. Well, not that safe at all, actually. Whoever it is must be wearing some kind of protective gear.”

  “What’s he doing in there?”

  “We’ll find out. You heard what that pair said back there. It’ll be any minute now.”

  As if in confirmation, the door from the weapons room clanged behind us; we saw the man and woman who had passed us hurrying back down to join their colleagues at the chain. The next moment, Mr. Johnson’s stopwatch had started ringing. The tinny sound made me jump. Johnson silenced it. Everyone watched the chain.

  Nothing happened.

  Steve Rotwell took another sip from his flask.

  The iron chain gave a twitch.

  As if jolted to life by an electric current, the Rotwell crew sprang into action. Men picked up spray guns, hoisted cylinders onto their backs; they stood in a broad semicircle around the metal post.

  The chain was twitching furiously now. Within the circle the ghosts grew agitated, flitting chaotically to and fro. All at once they drew back, away from the chain.

  Into the empty haze at the middle of the circle appeared a lurching shadow—faint at first, then darkening. It grew bigger and bigger. It had a creeping, rolling gait; a monstrous body; around its vast and shapeless head snapped leaping flames. Closer and closer it came, hand over hand, and the psychic hum from the circle suddenly cut out. In absolute silence the shape reached the barrier of iron. It did not hesitate.

  Lockwood gasped; I cried out. One instant it was not there. Then the Creeping Shadow stepped straight over the chains with a sudden roar of noise and fire.

  In those first seconds, the figure could barely be seen. Pale fire ran across it, leaping from its smooth sides, darting and crackling above it like a living crown. Ice encrusted its surface, thick and veined with blue. To my horror, it seemed to have no face, just two narrow slits for eyes. Its size was huge; it was a head taller than the Rotwell attendants who now stepped near, spraying it with their salt guns, dousing it with jets of liquid that enveloped it in clouds of roaring steam. Joints screamed and ground together as, hand over hand, the figure moved slowly along the iron chain. Ice broke off of it and shattered on the ground. Flames died back, went out. And now I saw that the limbs beneath the ice were made of sheets of iron, hinged and riveted; the feet, the monstrous fingers—all were iron-clad. Concentric bands of iron encircled the lower torso, while vast oval plates sat atop the breast, with chain mail links showing between the cracks. The head was encased in a thick, ungainly helmet. Bolts attached this to the neck; it had no decoration. Like the rest of the armor, it was ugly, heavy, brutally functional.

  The burning figure came to a stop, not far from the metal post. It stood there, swaying. A metal cart was wheeled close, and scientists in protective garb rushed forward. Hands in thick gloves snapped locks, twisted levers. A visor at the front of the helmet sprang up and a face, deathly pale, could be seen within.

  Until that moment I had not been sure. Now there could be no doubt. This was the Creeping Shadow, the thing of flame and smoke glimpsed at the churchyard. And it was not a spirit, but a man. An ordinary, living man inside an iron suit.

  A man at the end of his strength, who staggered and seemed about to fall. Attendants thronged around him like ants beside an ailing queen; his giant metal arms were held, his sides supported. In painful looking stages, he sank back onto the cart. Electric motors whirred; the cart was driven off, down the nearby passageway, with the Rotwell team hurrying behind.

  Steve Rotwell had been standing a few feet away, impassively observing the whole procedure. He put the cap back on his flask, rubbed his nose, and strode after them.

  The door clanged. The hall was empty.

  All that time I’d been motionless. I felt I’d almost forgotten how to speak. “Lockwood,” I croaked, “that man in armor…You really think—?”

  He shook his head. “Not now. Got your spirit-cape?”

  “Yes.”

  “Put it on.”

  I opened my bag, did as I was told. Lockwood was doing the same with his cape, unfurling the iridescent feathers. “I’m not going near the circle without protection,” he said. “This is our only chance to examine their setup. We have to take a closer look.”

  We came out from our place of safety, headed into the center of the room. Behind the chains, the gray shapes flowed back and forth in the column of milky air. The psychic noise beat against my head. It was very cold. We put on our gloves.

  Even close-up, it was impossible to see the other end of the hanging chain. It was as if a fog hung over the circle; the chain went into it and disappeared from view.

  “A man steps into the circle,” Lockwood murmured. “He puts on the protective armor, and he goes inside this massive Source. Once there, what does he do? What does he find?”

  “You remember George’s trousers analogy?” I said. “How Sources are places where the fabric of the world has worn thin? Put enough Sources together, he said, and the hole becomes a window to the Other Side. If that’s right, this window must be huge. They’re trying to see through to…” The concept was so incomprehensible—and so dangerous—that I couldn’t bring myself to finish.

  Lockwood was staring calmly at the circle. “Yes. If a window is all it is.”

  He added something else, but I didn’t hear him. Over and above the horrendous psychic roaring, something had called my name.

  “Lucy…”

  “The skull!” I said. “I hear it!”

  I stepped closer to the chains, peering at the swirling silhouettes within. Which of the gray and rushing forms was it? Impossible to tell.

  “Are you sure you hear it?” Even Lockwood, whose Listening abilities were practically nil, could sense the ferocious noise coming from the circle. To be honest, I was surprised, too. It was strange that I could pick out that one voice.

  And yet there it was again. “Lucy…”

  I shrugged. “I guess my psychic powers are getting stronger all the time. I must be tuned in to it on some special wavelength.”

  “Well, that’s one possibility,” the voice said. “The other is, I’m just over here.”

  I blinked around. To my left, piled against the wall, were stacks of empty silver-glass cases, open ghost-jars, and other discarded debris—plus one intact jar I recognized very well. It was on its side, as if hurled there; the hideous translucent face inside lay horizontal, too, nostrils flaring, bug-eyes glaring up at me.

  “I know, I know,” it said. “Every last stupid Source in the county got put into that circle, and they didn’t bother with me. Bloodied hankies, socks, false teeth, bits of old rope; you name it, it all went in. I even saw them tossing in a couple of haunted buttons. But I’m not worthy.”

  “Skull!” I ran over to the jar, pulled it upright. The top of the lid showed scuffs and other signs of damage. “What have they done to you?” I cleared my throat and scowled. “Not that I care, obviously.”

  “I admit I’m surprised to see you, too,” the skull said. “’Course, I knew you’d look for me. I just didn’t think you’d have the brains to track me down.”

  “It’s actually a complete coincidence. We’re on another mission entirely. Still, since I’m here…” I swung my backpack down and made a space inside. “But I don’t understand—why didn’t they use you? You’re a Type Three.”

  The ghost spoke in tones of cold outrage. “They don’t know that, do they? They’re idiots. Plus, they couldn’t get the top off my jar. It’s corroded shut, or something. Tried to force it like I was a jar of pickled onions. In the end, they just lost patience. Ah, it’s so embarrassing! Even that moldy, beardy mummified head we found—he went in. That witch’s ghost is in there, too, shrieking around and aroun
d. But not me. What’s that you’re wearing, by the way? You look like a stuffed goose.”

  “It’s a spirit-cape. Shut up.” I was busy shoving the jar into the backpack, looking over my shoulder as I did so. Lockwood was near the circle, studying the chain where it crossed into the column of haze. “Lockwood,” I called, “the skull’s here. We ought to go.”

  “In a minute, Luce…” He was staring into the swirling haze, fingering the feathers on his cape.

  “I see you brought Lockwood along as cannon fodder,” the skull. “Good thinking. Look, now’s your chance, while he’s distracted. Let’s slip away.”

  I stood up with a start. I thought I’d heard a noise along the side passage where the Rotwell group had gone. “Lockwood…” I said. “It’s really time we left.”

  “Just leave him be. You make too much of him. Always have. He is replaceable, you know. Hey, if you close your eyes or switch out the light, I might be Lockwood.”

  I didn’t honor that comment with a reply. I was worried. Lockwood had an odd dreamy expression and was smiling faintly. I didn’t like the look. He had the same bright light in his eyes that I’d noticed during the argument with Kipps. It was like he was looking at something far away. Certainly he was disconnected from what was around him, for now there was no doubt about it—sounds were coming from the passage. I left the backpack lying. Stepping over quickly, I grabbed at Lockwood’s arm. “Wake up!” I said. “They’re coming!”

  He blinked. “What? Yes, of course. We’ll go. Make for the lab—”

  But we couldn’t go back the way we had come. There were noises from behind the crates, too. The creak of an opening door.

  And from the side passage came footsteps, voices, the hum of the electric cart.

  I pulled at Lockwood again. “Quickly, then. The open doors at the end…”

  But I’d forgotten the Rotwell agents we’d seen standing outside the double doors. When we started around the circle and got a clear view down the building, we saw they were still there.

  We skidded backward. “Trapped,” I said. “There’s nowhere. Nowhere to go.”

  “Nowhere….” That was the skull calling from my open rucksack by the wall. “You’re precisely right. Nowhere’s your only option now.”

  “What does that mean?” And then the lightbulb went on. “Oh. No. No way.”

  “Then say hello to Mr. Rotwell.”

  “Lockwood,” I began, “these spirit-capes…how good do you think they are?”

  But he’d had the same thought, and with a shock I realized that it pleased him. He was already looking toward the iron chain. “Quick, Luce,” he said, “follow me.”

  “I need to get my backpack! I don’t have the skull!”

  “Luce, there’s no time! Hold on to the chain. Follow me, and don’t let go.”

  “Oh, God. Oh no.”

  I’d followed Lockwood into many haunted rooms. I’d jumped off buildings with him, too. But taking those few steps toward the circle, with its icy supernatural cold beating against me, and the gray shapes swirling faster as if in welcome—that was the hardest leap of faith I’d ever had to make. I clasped the iron chain, pulled the spirit-cape tight around me. Behind came the voices of the Rotwell crew as they entered the hangar. The psychic roar of the ghosts screamed around me like a hurricane. The chain was freezing even through my gloves. Hand over hand…Nearer, nearer, up and over the heap of great black chains. Lockwood was first; he crossed the circle and disappeared from sight.

  “See you on the other side,” the skull’s voice said.

  One step, two steps…I closed my eyes tight.

  “Lucy,” Lockwood said.

  “What?”

  “You can open your eyes.”

  “Is it all right?”

  “Er, I wouldn’t quite say that. But we’re okay now. We’re okay. Just don’t let go of the chain.”

  I opened my eyes. The first thing I saw was Lockwood. He was standing very close, facing me, the top of his hood almost meeting mine. He, like me, was gripping the iron links for dear life. Ice was forming on the outside of our gloves; the whole chain was crusted with it. Icicles hung beside us in the frigid air.

  Ice was spreading over the outside of Lockwood’s cape, too; crystals grew between the shining feathers, and I could hear it doing the same on mine. But the funny thing was, the underside of the cape was downy warm. It cocooned my body in a bulb of warmth and stillness, and kept the chaos all around at bay.

  Chaos…

  We stood together in the center of a vortex of whirling plasm. Shadows swirled past us, swimming close, darting back again. Clutching fingers reached out toward Lockwood, shriveled to powder, and were carried back into the maelstrom. At our feet were scattered many Sources, and only the power of the capes—and the iron chain—thrust the ravenous spirits away. The capes’ effect extended to the sounds inside the circle, too. Close beside us, ghostly faces howled and gibbered, yet I scarcely heard them. If I had, I think I would have been driven mad.

  “Well, this is jolly,” Lockwood said. “I’ve got to hand it to those witch doctors—they knew what they were doing. That’s how they went into those spirit huts and survived. These capes are only made of feathers and silver thread, but they’re just as effective as the Creeping Shadow’s suit of armor. More so—because they’re so much lighter. Together with the chain, they’ll keep us safe for as long as we hide in here.”

  A vast shape drifted out of the murk behind him; it was a silhouette only, buried behind other rushing forms, but I recognized it at once. It extended a colossal hand toward us, was caught up by the remorseless flow of energy, and swept sideways and away.

  Lockwood caught my look of terror. “Seen old Guppy?” he said. “Yes, he’s here. There are some other pretty horrific things, too. I wouldn’t look at any of them, Luce, if you want to sleep tonight. Stay focused on me and the chain.”

  Just below shoulder height, the chain ran on past Lockwood and was lost in the mist beyond.

  “Where’s the other post?” I said. “Where’s it tethered?”

  “Looks like it goes straight through and out the other side of the circle. That’s fine. We’ll give Rotwell enough time to finish whatever he’s doing, and then creep out again, one side or the other.”

  My attention was caught by a familiar face, red-eyed, jawless, spun about with smoke-like hair; it thrust forward from the vortex, glared at me, and retreated. So the skull had been right: the witch, Emma Marchment, was here, too.

  “Lockwood,” I said, “where do you think we are?”

  His face was close to mine. He’d been staring out beyond me, narrowing his eyes as he always did when using his Talent. “Oh, we’re still in the circle. Look, you can see the double doors over there, through the mist, and there’s the outline of the crates where we first came in. And there’s the pile of jars and boxes where you left the skull. It’s some optical illusion that makes everything so faint and gray….” His voice trailed off.

  “An optical illusion?”

  “Of course. That’s all it is. Caused by all these Sources piled around us.”

  “I guess….” It was true that you could sense the structure of the building, hovering beyond the swirling mist. The doors, the crates, the metal post, the platform at the end, were all just barely discernable in a faint and curiously flat way.

  And yet…

  It was the chain that really got me. The iron chain.

  You know when you look at a drinking straw in a glass of lemonade? How it seems to bend at the point where it enters the liquid? That’s refraction, according to George, and the weird thing was, the metal chain was doing precisely that. There was its line, right next to us, the links covered in ice. You could follow it, stretching out toward the metal post, to where the guy in the suit had collapsed. It was a straight line—I knew that because I’d walked along it—but it didn’t look that way. At the point where it crossed over the ring of objects, it seemed to veer sideways, and a
lso grow an awful lot fainter.

  Why did it do that? It bothered me.

  And where were the Rotwell people? We’d just heard them coming in. That’s why we were standing there, by an icy chain, surrounded by a host of angry spirits, in the middle of that stupid building.

  Try as I might, I couldn’t see—or hear—them at all.

  At least that meant they were unlikely to spot us, either.

  “The armored man,” I said. “You really think he was the Creeping Shadow we saw in the churchyard?”

  Lockwood nodded. “Yes. Though I don’t pretend to understand how, because when we saw him he was see-through, like a spirit. He wasn’t solid, was he? He was hardly there at all. And how does that jibe with him standing in here? We’re miles from Aldbury Castle. I don’t get it.”

  I didn’t either.

  “Just a few minutes more,” Lockwood said.

  We stood there, surrounded by whirling horrors.

  All of a sudden I needed to talk to him.

  “Lockwood,” I said. “Me leaving.”

  “What about it?”

  “Really it was all your fault.”

  He glanced at me from under his icy hood. “What? How d’you figure that?”

  “Because”—I took a deep breath—“because you always risk yourself for me. You always do, don’t you? I realized I put you in danger by being part of the company. Then there was a ghost at Aickmere’s. It showed me the future—it was a future in which you’d died for me. I knew you’d end up killing yourself, and I couldn’t bear that, Lockwood. I just couldn’t bear it. So…” I spoke in a small voice. “I left. That’s why I did it. It’s better this way.”

  “So it wasn’t because of Holly, then?”

  “Ah! Surprisingly, no. It was because of you.”