𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞┃ Anthony Lockwood┃2┃

Chapter One - Fear

TW: This chapter mentions trauma, scarring and injury

Nola was frozen.

Not her body. Her body was trembling like a winter leaf being blown around unwillingly in the centre of a brewing storm. Her quivering hands hovered just above the duvet, afraid to touch it for fear of ruining the material with the cold, clammy sweat that seemed to seep from her pores. The heart in her chest pumped so loudly, so fast, she could feel it in her stomach. In the centre of her head. In the smalls of her ear canals.  It made her shrink and fall the size of of a humming bird. She couldn't breathe; her lungs within her ribcage were trapped by the dark clutches of the fear's hands.

It was her mind, however, that was frozen. It was completely stuck in time. In the past.

She could feel it. She could feel everything. Being there, laid out on Agent Phillip's operating table, wrists and ankles bound to the solid slate. The sounds of scalpels and chisels being sharpened, of forceps being tightened. Not being able to turn her head, and only being able to stare at the blank slate ceiling or the insides of her eyelids. Her skin being tugged and turned in every direction it should not, and being able to do nothing about it. The searing burn of a raw incision upon her chest, her leg, her ear, her shoulder, and the lack of anaesthetic to numb it. The cries of pain. The gurgling of agony. The heart-wrenching, guttural screams of fear.

And that's exactly what Lockwood and George heard from downstairs in the middle of the night.

George's eyes opened groggily post-slumber, and he sat up from his mattress. As he adjusted to his newly conscious state, his tiresome eyes widened rapidly as he heard the house fill with Nola's blood-curdling screams. He scrambled from the small, single bed that was pushed into the corner of his bedroom, and lunged towards his cluttered desk. He plucked his gaucho-style shoulder-belt bristling with magnesium flares, salt bombs and canisters of iron from the wood, and stumbled sluggishly out into the hallway, where he found Lockwood.

Lockwood, opposing to George, was completely and utterly alert. Upon hearing Nola's first yell, he darted up in bed and immediately threw a grey hoodie over his night-clothes. He didn't need long to react. Subconsciously, he grabbed his long, ornate-handled rapier; the only weapon within his bedroom. In a flurry of panic and desperation, he started out onto the landing, where he discovered George.

"What the hell is going on?" George puffed for breath as he began ascending the stairs to Nola's attic bedroom. "Last time this happened, Annabelle Ward's ghost was here!"

Lockwood shook his head. "I don't know what's going on. But hurry up!" He shook his head as he followed George up the stairs. "Oh, why did I let you go first? Get a move on!"

The two boys, both panic-stricken and worried, burst through Nola's bedroom door.

George, being the analytic part of the trio, scanned the bedroom quickly. He was searching for evidence, big or small, of a spectre or ghoul.

Nola's bedroom looked just as it always did. It was relatively neat and tidy (though anything would look tidy in comparison to the bomb site known as George's room) and there was no sign of any Visitors. The small square window on the far wall was ajar, but that was normal for Nola. She couldn't sleep with it shut; said she felt too claustrophobic. The rug that coated the bare floorboards was slightly askew, but again, that was normal for Nola. She was always tripping over one of the curled corners.

It was in fact Lockwood who first noticed him standing there. Tall, looming, at the foot of the bed.

He didn't recognise this man, but he had a damn good guess at who it was. Over 6 feet tall, bony and thin, and displaying quite the sinister stature. His grey skin was illuminated only by the small lamp on Nola's bedside table, and his large hooked-nose was poignant and creating bizarre shadows across his cheeks.