𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞┃ Anthony Lockwood┃2┃

Chapter Four - Interesting Choice Of Décor

So there Nola stood, with Lockwood and George, on the first floor landing of the boarding house. All of a sudden it was very cold. All of a sudden, she could hear things.

"I don't suppose there's any point trying to break down the door." George said.

"No point at all..." Lockwood's voice had that far off, absent quality it gets when he's using his Sight. Lockwood had the sharpest eyes of the agency, and Nola was the best at Listening. George was pretty much an all-rounder. He was decent at all three.

Nola had her finger on the light switch on the wall beside her, but she didn't flick it on. Darkness stokes the psychic senses. Fear keeps Talents keen.

They listened.

They looked.

"I don't see anything yet." Lockwood said finally. "James?"

"I'm getting voices. Whispered voices." It sounded like a crowd of people, all speaking over one other with the utmost urgency, yet so faint it was impossible to understand a thing.

"What does your friend in the jar say?" Lockwood asked.

Nola scoffed loudly. "It's not my friend." She prodded the rucksack. "Skully?"

"'Not your friend' my backside. You've given it a nickname!" George exclaimed in the darkness.

"There are ghosts up here. Lots of them. So... now do you accept that you should've stabbed the old codger when you had the chance? If you'd have listened to me, you wouldn't be in this mess, would you?"

"We're not in a mess!" Nola snapped as her patience cracked. "Oh, and by the way, we can't just stab a suspect! I keep telling you this, but do you ever listen? NO! You just keep chuntering on about nothing. We didn't even know they were guilty when we got here!"

Lockwood cleared his throat meaningfully. Sometimes, Nola forgot that the others couldn't hear the ghost's half of the conversation.

"Sorry." She said quickly. "It's just being annoying, as usual. Says there are lots of ghosts up here."

The luminous display on George's thermometer flashed briefly in the dark. "Temperature update." He said. "It's dropped five degrees since we were at the foot of the stairs."

"Yes. That fire door acts as a barrier." The pencil beam of Lockwood's torch speared downwards, and picked out the ridged grey surface of the door. "Look, it's got iron bands on it. That keeps our nice little old couple safe in their living quarters on the ground floor. But anyone who rents a room up here falls victim to something lurking in the dark..."

He turned the torch beam wide and circled it slowly around himself. The agents were standing just below a small landing. It was neat enough, but cheaply furnished with gaudy purple curtains and an old cream carpet. Several numbered plywood doors gleamed dully in the shadows. A few dog-eared magazines laid in a pile on an ugly side table, near where a further flight of stairs led to the second floor. It was supernaturally cold, and there was ghost fog stirring. Faint wreaths of pale green mist were rising from the carpet and winding slowly around their ankles. The torch began to flicker, as if its (fresh) batteries were failing and would soon wink out altogether. A feeling of unquantifiable dread deepened in the teens. Nola shivered. Something wicked was very close.

Lockwood adjusted his gloves. His face glowed in the torchlight, his dark eyes shone. As always, Nola believed that peril suited him. Everything seemed to suit Lockwood in her eyes. "All right." He said softly. "Listen to me. We keep calm, we sort whatever's up here, then we find a way to tackle Evans. George, rig up an iron circle here. James, see what else the skull has to say. I'll check out the nearest room."