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 was lightly stained, and the tip of his forelock had been burned white by a drop of plasm. But where George’s face shone bright red, his had just gone paler; where George and I gasped and groaned and flopped about, he lay calm and rigid, waiting for his breathing to grow quiet. He had taken off his sunglasses and his dark eyes glittered. His jaw was set. I could see at once that he had drawn his emotions deep inside himself, made them hard and steely. There was something in his face I hadn’t seen before.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘It’s over for the moment.’
George angled the torch towards the inside of the secret opening. Seconds before, thick fingers of blood had been pouring down it. Now the wood was dry, dusty and unstained. There was no visual sign that anything had happened. If we’d gone back into the empty room, no doubt that would have been dry and clean as well. Not that we were going back there any time soon.
Lockwood sat up awkwardly, adjusting his bubble-wrapped loops of chain. ‘We’re in good shape,’ he said. ‘We’ve lost the heavy-duty chains and the stuff in the bags, but we’ve got our rapiers, iron and silver seals. And we’ve found what we wanted now.’
I stared at the clean, calm surface of the door. ‘Why couldn’t it come after us? Ghosts can pass through walls.’
Lockwood shrugged. ‘In some cases a Visitor is tied so completely to the room where it met its death that it no longer has any conception of there being any adjacent space at all. So . . . when we left its hunting ground, it was as if we ceased to exist, as if we ceased to be . . .’
I looked at him. ‘You haven’t really got a clue, have you?’
‘No.’
‘Here’s a possibility,’ George said. He gestured with the torch. ‘See that ring we pulled to close the door? It’s made of iron. And look, there’s a lattice of iron strips all across the wood. And down the stone here too . . . They look old to me. Someone’s fixed them some time long ago as a way of hemming in that particular Visitor. It keeps the passage safe.’
He circled the torch around us in an arc, allowing us to consider the space in which we were confined. It was a very narrow corridor, walled and floored with old, thin bricks. It ran a short distance, then hit the corner of the western wall – the one that showed up as suspiciously thick on George’s plans. Here, the bricks were replaced by solid stone and the passage turned to the right. The bend was almost entirely choked with swathes of webbing that hung like fat grey curtains from the roof of the passage to the floor.
‘Don’t like all those spiders,’ I said.
‘This side-passage is mainly clear of them,’ Lockwood said, ‘because of all the iron. But once we turn the corner, we’re back in the original priory building, and we’ll be getting near the Source. That means more spiders and stronger visitations. From now on we use all available weapons as soon as anything shows up.’
We struggled to our feet. I gave George back his rapier, and drew my own. I found my torch where I’d dropped it on the bricks, but the bulb had broken. Lockwood’s was gone, and George’s seemed dimmer than before.
‘Save it,’ Lockwood said. He brought out candles and distributed them between us; when lit, their flames were mustard-yellow, tall and strong. ‘They’ll be a good indicator of psychic build-up too,’ he added. ‘Keep your eye on them.’
‘Shame we can’t use caged cats, like Tom Rotwell did,’ George remarked. ‘They’re the most sensitive indicator of all, apparently – if you can stand the yowling.’
‘I can’t believe the Source isn’t in the Red Room,’ I said. ‘That Visitor was so strong.’
‘And so weird,’ George added. ‘Mix of Poltergeist and Changer. That’s new.’
‘No, it was just a Changer.’ Lockwood held his candle out, surveying the way to the corner. ‘It didn’t have telekinetic properties at all.’
‘You forget it closed and locked the door,’ I said.
‘Did it?’ Lockwood said. ‘I don’t think so.’
I frowned at his retreating back; he was already on the move. ‘Wait,’ I said. ‘You think another ghost?’ The answer came to me. ‘You mean someone living did it? Deliberately locked us in? But that means—’
George gave a long, low whistle. ‘Fairfax or Starkins . . .’
‘But they wouldn’t come in here,’ I protested; ‘not after dark.’
‘Starkins wouldn’t,’ Lockwood said. ‘Come on, we’ve work to do.’
But I still stared at him. ‘Fairfax? But why? Lockwood—’
He held up his hand to hush me; he was at the corner now, ducking low to avoid the hanging webs. When he raised his candle to the webbing, dozens of shiny black bodies scurried to the margins, fleeing the sphere of light. ‘It’s instantly colder here,’ he said, ‘once you step off the bricks. And there’s miasma too, and immediate malaise . . . George, do a temp check there, then cross over to the stones.’
George pushed past me and began the readings. I followed reluctantly.
‘I know you don’t like Fairfax,’ I said, ‘but if you’re saying he’s mad—’
‘Oh, he’s certainly not mad,’ Lockwood said. ‘Temp difference, George?’
‘Drops from nine to five in the space of a stride.’
Lockwood nodded. ‘It’s all in the stones. And it’ll only get colder when we go down there.’
He indicated the arch beside him: black and gaping like an open mouth. Our candlelight didn’t penetrate too far. George briefly switched on his torch to reveal the beginnings of another passage, taller and broader than the one we’d come from. It stretched away inside the wall.
Lockwood had been right about the temperature drop. For the first time, I really felt the cold. I pulled out my hat, put it on; zipped my coat up tight. The others were doing likewise. I glared at Lockwood as I did so, irritated by his refusal to talk about Fairfax and the Red Room door. Yet again he was keeping quiet, not sharing what he knew. He’d been like this for days, since Fairfax first came calling. Maybe even before that – since the burglary, even since we found the necklace . . .
I put my hands to my throat, checked the hidden cord around my neck. Beneath my coat the glass case pressed cold and hard against my chest. I wondered if it glowed, whether the ghost was emitting any light. Well, she was secure enough. It wasn’t Annie Ward we had to worry about now.
Lockwood put on his gloves; George crammed his head inside his foul green bobble-hat. We started up the passage, Lockwood taking the lead. He held his candle high. Drifts of cobweb danced above its meagre flame.
A few steps in, George called us to a halt. He pointed to the right-hand wall, at a rough arch of brickwork embedded in the stone. ‘There’s the original way through from the Red Room,’ he said. ‘Blocked up when they rebuilt the house. We’re in one of the priory passageways now.’
‘Fine,’ Lockwood said. ‘Let’s look at the map. Then we can see where—’
His head snapped round. The wick of his candle had quivered; its light shrank dim and pale. All of us had felt the change – the shift that comes when a Visitor walks near.
We waited, rapiers at the ready, hands hovering at our belts.
One moment there was nothing, and the next . . . a boy stood ahead of us in the dark. He shone with a frail glow. It wasn’t easy to tell how far away he was, or whether he floated or touched the stones. His other-light lit nothing but himself. When I listened, I thought I heard faint weeping, but the apparition’s face was blank and clear. It looked towards us with that open, empty expression so many of them have.
‘Check out the clothes,’ Lockwood whispered.
The boy had been quite young, probably not as old as me. He was fair-haired and stocky, tending to the stout, with a soft and rounded face. If George had been scrubbed up and forcibly inserted into something smart and ironed, he might almost have been his cousin. He wore dark trousers and a long grey jacket, which seemed slightly too big for him. Something about the cut of the jacket and the trousers (I’m no good with fashion) told me that this was an apparition decades old. But there was no mistaking the essential uniform, or the Italianate hilt of the rapier at his side.
‘Oh Lord,’ I said, ‘it’s the Fittes kid. The one who died in here.’
The weeping sound grew louder. The apparition flickered; it slowly turned away from us and drifted off along the passage.
All sight and sound winked out. Nothing but darkness, silence, a sweet-sour smell fading in my nose. The candlewicks flared up bright as day. We remembered to breathe again.
‘I could really do with a mint now,’ George said.
‘Did he speak to you, Lucy?’ Lockwood asked.
‘No. But he was trying to tell us something.’
‘That’s the trouble with ghosts. They never spell it out. Well, it was presumably a warning, but we’ve got to keep on going. There’s nothing else we can do.’
We continued along the passage, more slowly than before. Not three metres further on, roughly where we’d seen the apparition, we came to a flight of stairs.
It was a spiral staircase, tight and narrow and heading steeply downwards. The passage led directly to it, and the entrance was fringed with smaller blocks of stone.
‘Four degrees centigrade,’ George said matter-of-factly. The light of his thermometer shone against his glasses and made his frosted breath plume green.
‘Seems we’re going down,’ Lockwood said. ‘Was this on the medieval floor-plan, George?’
‘I don’t know . . . Actually – yes, I think so. A connecting stair from dormitories to refectory. Want me to check?’
‘No. No, let’s get it done.’
We set off down the steps. Lockwood went first, then me, with George bringing up the rear. It was not a comfortable place. There was a strong feeling of being somewhere very old and very far from natural light. Despite the cold, the air was close, and the walls pressed tight on either side. We had to bend our necks to avoid the layers of cobwebs on the ceiling. The smoke from our candles made my eyes water, and their guttering wicks cast disconcerting shadows on the smoothly curving stones.
‘Don’t trip on a bit of the Fittes kid, Lockwood,’ George said. ‘He’s down here somewhere.’
I scowled back at him. ‘Ugh, George. Why would you even say that?’
‘I guess because I’m nervous.’
I sighed. ‘Yeah . . . fair enough. So am I.’
We all felt the strain now; our senses were on red alert, waiting for the slightest trigger. Outwardly it all seemed quiet – no sounds, no death-glows, no floating wisps of plasm. But this meant nothing. The Red Room had started the exact same way.
The staircase opened out briefly into a tiny square chamber, with blocked arches on either side, before continuing its way down. Lockwood paused. ‘We’re at ground level here,’ he said. ‘Must be right behind that tapestry. You remember – the one with the picture of that dodgy bear.’
‘I remember,’ I said. ‘This is where that cold spot was.’
‘Yes, we’re down to three point five degrees,’ George said. ‘That’s the coldest reading in the house.’ His voice was tight. ‘We’re getting close.’
‘We’d better go slow now.’ Lockwood handed out some spearmint gum. Chewing mechanically, we started down the steps again, spiralling towards the cellar level. A thought occurred to me.
‘This staircase . . .’ I said in a casual voice. ‘It’s not . . . It wouldn’t be the staircase, would it?’
Behind me, George chuckled. ‘No. Don’t worry. That was the other one.’
‘You’re sure? Did the legends definitely say it was the main staircase of the hall?’
‘Yes.’
We descended steadily, step by careful step, going round and round and down. Lockwood’s candle dimmed and flickered, then grew strong again.
‘Well,’ George continued, ‘they didn’t expressly say it, as it happens. They just mentioned some “old steps”. But everyone’s always assumed it was the main one, what with those carved dragons and skull niches and all the rest of it.’
‘Right . . . So they just assumed . . . But naturally, it would have to have been that main staircase, wouldn’t it, if it had been anywhere.’
‘Yep. That’s right.’
‘Though we didn’t get any psychic readings at all there, did we?’
‘No. And we’re not getting any here, either.’ George spoke with unusual firmness. ‘It’s just a legend.’
It certainly seemed so. I didn’t doubt it for a minute. And so it was only for my private reassurance that I took off a glove and tucked it in my pocket. It was only out of merest curiosity that I let my fingertips trail against the stonework as we spiralled slowly down.
To my relief, all I could feel was the chill in the wall. It was a deep, dry, lifeless cold that had sunk into the stones over a great many years. It stippled my skin, and made an electric charge run up the hairs on the back of my neck. An unpleasant feeling – but that was all it was. Just cold.
I was about to take my fingers away when I heard the sounds.
They were faint at first, but swiftly drawing nearer. Boots stamping. Boots, and the clink of metal. The stairwell echoed with it, and with the voices of many men. There was the rustle of their tunics, the scrape of swords. Suddenly they were all around us, keeping pace with our descent. I smelled burning tar and smoke and sweat, and an overwhelming stink of fear. Someone cried out in a language I didn’t understand. It was a simple cry of desperation, a plea for help. Chain mail clinked, a blow fell; I heard a moan of pain.
Onwards, downwards went the boots, and with every step we took, the dreadful atmosphere of terror grew stronger and more palpable. Now there was not one pleading voice, but several – and as I listened, their cries began to rise in volume and become more desperate and shrill. Louder, ever louder . . . soon they swallowed up the other sounds – the tramping boots and rattling mail – until it seemed there was just a single swelling outcry deep down in the earth, a hysterical screech of fear . . .
I snatched my hand away.
Gone. I took a gulp of smoky air, and anxiously scanned the wall. Thank goodness. Just for a moment my shadow had seemed a little different. Taller, thinner, sharper and more hunched . . . No, it was still the same. And the sound had gone.
I fumbled my glove back onto my numbed fingers. Gone . . .
Except that it hadn’t. I could still hear it. Faint and far away, the echo of the scream went on.
‘Erm, guys . . .’ I said.
Lockwood stopped dead in front of me. He gave a cry. ‘Of course! I’ve been an idiot!’
George and I stood and stared. ‘What?’ George said. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s been right in front of us all this time!’
‘What has?’
‘The answer to it all. Ah, I’m such a fool!’
Frowning, I held my gloved palm against my head. I was listening; listening hard. ‘Lockwood, wait,’ I said. ‘Can’t you hear—’
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ George said. ‘Lockwood, you’ve been acting odd for days. Tell us what’s going on. Clearly it’s about Fairfax, and since it’s his job that’s put us in such danger, I think you owe us an explanation.’
Lockwood nodded. ‘Yes, I do. But first we’ve got to find the Source. Then—’
‘No,’ George said. ‘Not good enough. Tell us now.’
The scream was swelling, faint but growing in force. Candles flickered. Shadows distorted on the walls. ‘Lockwood,’ I pleaded. ‘Listen.’
‘We’ve got to stay alert, George,’ Lockwood said. ‘There’s no time to explain.’
‘Speak quickly, then, and use short words.’
‘No! Both of you – shut up!’ They looked at me. My fingers scraped at my temples; my teeth were clenched. The dreadful sound had just erupted at full volume from the walls. ‘Can’t you hear it?’ I whispered. ‘It’s the screaming.’
Lockwood frowned. ‘What? No . . . I don’t think so.’
‘Take it from me! This is the staircase! We need to get off it now.’
There was a moment’s hesitation, but Lockwood was too good a leader to ignore so strong a warning. He grasped my hand. ‘All right, we’ll get you down to the bottom. Maybe the noise will stop there. Maybe it’s only you, Lucy, who can—’ He broke off. His fingers clenched mine; I felt him stagger on the steps. There’d been another swell in the sound; for the first time it broke through some physical barrier, became audible to ears less sensitive than mine.
I looked back. George had frozen too, his eyes stretched wide. He said something, but I couldn’t hear him. The scream was just too loud.
‘Down!’ Lockwood shouted; at least, I could see him mouthing the word. ‘Down!’ He was reeling, but he still held my hand tightly. He pulled; behind me George came tumbling, fists jammed tight against his ears. We threw ourselves downwards through the spiralling light and dark, with the candle flames leaping crazily and our shadows veering up the walls.
All around us rose the scream, issuing directly from the steps and stones. Its volume was appalling – painful as repeated blows – but it was the psychic distress it carried that made it so unbearable, that made your gorge rise and your head split and the world spin before your eyes. It was the sound of the terror of death, drawn out indefinitely, extending on for ever. It spiralled around us, clawing at our minds.
Down, down, and round and round, and all at once the shadows rushing with us were not our own, but darker shapes with sharp cowled heads, and thin, thin arms stretched high along the walls. Down and down – falling, jumping, tearing through the clinging cobwebs. Round and round – and on the walls the hooded figures rose and fell, keeping pace on either side. Shadow fingers swooped and plunged; the stairs went on for ever; and still the screams tore into our skulls like stakes of red-hot iron, so that all I wanted was for the terrible noise to cease—
At which we fell out at the bottom of the steps into a small square room.
We collapsed upon the floor. Our candles fell from our fingers, went skidding along the stones. Our heads spun; we could not get up, thanks to the noise and the sickening giddiness of the descent. The screaming had not stopped. And now the racing shadows spilled out from the stairs along the margins of the room, their silhouettes swooping faintly across the walls as they danced and capered in a hellish frenzy. Shadowy ropes swayed broken on their wrists.
‘The monks,’ I gasped. ‘It’s the monks! The ones they killed here.’
Seven monks, the story said. Seven monks, for crimes of blasphemy, had been thrown into a well.
I raised my head, looked across the tilting floor. There, lit by horizontal candlelight: a broad, round, stone-lined hole of fathomless blackness, set into the centre of the floor. And close beside it . . .
Between us and the well a small and shrunken figure lay: a huddled heap of bones and rag, its outlines softened by successive layers of cobwebs. The neck was twisted at an odd, unnatural angle. One hollow jacketed arm reached out towards the hole as if it wished to drag itself forward and slip down into the dark.
The Fittes boy had almost made it to the foot of the stairs, then, before the screaming killed him. I guessed he’d tripped and tumbled in his frantic flight, and ended up breaking his neck.
At least it had been a quick end for him. The sound was driving me mad. I pulled myself to my feet. It was hard to do it; it was hard to move or think. At my side, Lockwood and George did likewise. Blood was trickling from Lockwood’s ear.
Like a drunken man, he grappled us by the collars, pulled us in close. ‘Find the Source!’ he shouted. ‘It must be here. Somewhere in this room!’
He shoved us away. George stumbled and, as he did so, drew close to one of the silhouettes upon the wall. At once a translucent hand stretched out of the stonework beside him, long-fingered and bony, with white hairs on the arm and a frayed rope-end dangling from the wrist. It reached for George. Lockwood was faster; he wrenched a salt bomb from his belt and threw it at the stones. Grains ignited, burning green. The arm drew back. On the wall the shadow flexed and undulated furiously like a snake.
Out across the room we went, Lockwood, George and I, stumbling, flailing, searching to and fro. It wasn’t any good. The room went nowhere. It had no exits, no shelves; there was nothing in it but the walls and the stones and the deep, dark, waiting well.
A flash of whiteness, an explosion of salt and iron. George had flung a canister of Greek Fire at shadows in the far corner of the room. Mortar fell from the stones; the chamber shook. For a moment the nearest silhouettes flickered, then their dance went on.
Desperation took us. We were all at it now, mounting a last attack. Iron filings, salt bombs, flares – we threw them at the walls, trying to obliterate the ghostly shadows, trying to silence the dreadful sound. Stones cracked, smoke licked outwards, curtains of cobwebs went up in flames. Burning particles of salt and iron skimmed and spattered across the room in a dozen colours. And still the shapes of the murdered monks kept dancing, still their screams went on.
No good. A great heaviness suddenly engulfed me. We’d never find the Source, and now our belts and shoulder-straps were empty, our ammunition used up, our energies spent . . . I slowed, came to a dragging standstill. Elsewhere, George had drawn his rapier and was striking blindly all around him, scarcely conscious whether he made contact with the wall or not. Lockwood stood close beside the well itself, brow furrowed, looking about wildly, evidently still hunting a solution.
Poor Lockwood. There was no solution. Our Talents were useless, our weapons gone.
My arms dropped; my head hung low. We’d never find the Source. We’d never find it and the noise would never, ever stop.
Unless . . .
I looked dully at the well.
How stupid I’d been. There was a way to make the screaming stop. To go at once from noise to silence, from pain to peace and quiet. And it would be so, so easy to achieve.
Over by the steps George had dropped his rapier. He’d flopped down on his knees, and was cowering low, arms cradling his head. On the wall behind, the exultant shadows danced in triumph.
I shuffled forward. Ahead of me, the brick-lined lip: the shaft of soft grey stones leading into peaceful darkness . . .
Yes. It was easy, it was obvious. I’d known it all along. After all, this was what the house had promised, when I stood hesitating in the lobby all those hours ago. This was where I’d known it would lead me – step by easy step, past all those flittering Type Ones and the ghost-fog and the evil whispers, past the bloody room and, finally, spiralling down the stairs. This was where it was always going to end. In this place. The place where the silence was, at the heart of the Hall and its haunting, where the silence went on for ever. It was very simple now. Just a couple more strides and the screaming would stop. I’d be part of that silence too.
I took the first step swiftly; as I began the second, a sudden pain flared at my chest: a sharp, cold spasm. I hesitated, clawing at the cord around my neck. It had come from the locket . . . A burst of energy; I’d felt it even through the silver-glass. That Annie Ward – troublesome to the end! Well, no matter. She could be lost with me.
The well-shaft waited. It promised me so much. I would hesitate no longer. With nothing but relief, I took the last steps forward and walked out over the edge . . .
And hung there, leaning out above an abyss of black.
Something had grasped me; something held me tight. Something hauled me back onto the safety of the stones.
Lockwood: his face haggard, hair dishevelled, his greatcoat torn and stained. Blood ran down the collar of his shirt. He gripped me tighter round the waist and pulled me to him.
‘No,’ he said into my ear. ‘No, Lucy. That’s not the way it’s going to be.’
With that he let me go, ducked his head, shuffled off his loop of chains and dropped it to the floor. ‘Matches!’ he shouted. ‘Give me your matches. And your chains too!’ He fumbled at his belt. ‘I want the extra iron, and any silver seals you’ve got. Come on, do it! We’re being dumb,’ he cried. ‘The well’s the Source, of course it is. That’s where the Visitors are.’
The force of his will broke through the ghost-lock, broke through the sapping power of the relentless scream. I threw off my chains, unclipped the seals. I opened a belt-pouch, took out the box of Sunrise matches, while Lockwood ripped a final canister free of his belt. The big one. The one with the dark red wrapper. The industrial-strength flare with the long, long safety fuse, to give you time enough to get well clear.
Lockwood brought out his pocket-knife and sliced the fuse away, so that only a tiny nub remained.
‘Take it!’ he shouted. ‘Light the end!’
He was already away from me, dragging our chains towards the well, fighting against the suffocating sound. Around the walls the seven shapes paused in their swooping; they too seemed suddenly alert. Spectral arms pushed through the stone, reached out towards us; alongside them the first cowled heads broke clear.
I struck a match, put it to the oiled fuse. A spark flared, a tiny filament of light.
At the well’s lip, Lockwood kicked the chains and seals into the hole. He stumbled back, took the canister from me, shouted in my ears, ‘Run, Lucy! Get to the stairs!’
But I couldn’t move. I still felt the deathly pull towards the well. My body felt immersed in tar; I didn’t even have the strength to turn.
The Visitors were free of the walls now; they drifted inwards from all sides. Two of the nearest had almost reached George, still hunched upon the floor. The rest converged on us, bone-white faces insubstantial beneath their rotting hoods. Sockets gaped, sharp teeth glittered. And still the screaming rose.
Lockwood took the cylinder, stumbled to the edge. The nub of fuse had almost burned away.
He dropped it in. The fuse-glow lit the well-stones for an instant and was gone.
Lockwood turned. I saw for an instant his slim pale face, his dark eyes meeting mine.
Hooded shadows swooped upon us.
Then the screaming stopped, the shadows froze, and a millisecond later the world exploded in a soundless burst of light.
