𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞┃ Anthony Lockwood┃2┃

Chapter Five - Work On Your Aim

It was cold. That was the first thing that Nola noticed.

It was also pitch black. A hazy column of other-light drifted up through the loft hatch from the ghosts below, and lit the three pale faces of the agents; otherwise they could see nothing at all.

And there was something with them, close and all around. They felt the pressure of its presence, hovering over them in the dark. The force of it made it hard to breathe, hard to move; it was like they were suddenly crouching in deep water, with the awful weight of it crushing down...

Lockwood was the first to fight back. Nola heard rustling as he reached into his bag and drew out his lantern. He flicked the switch and turned the dial; a soft warm radiance swelled from it, and showed the agents exactly where they were.

It was an attic. A huge, cavernous space, broad at its base, and rising into darkness beneath the eaves of a steeply pitched roof. There were old brick gables at either end, one with chimney-stacks built in, and one pierced by a single tall, but narrow, window. Great crossbeams spanned the shadows high above, supporting the weight of the roof.

A few broken tea chests lay in one corner. Otherwise, the room was empty. There was nothing there.

Or almost nothing. Cobwebs hung like hammocks between the rafters, thick and grey and heavy, like ceiling drapes in some sort of market. Threads of webbing dangled from the crossbeams, twitching in the little air currents that the agents' activities had stirred.

Some of the webs glittered with frost. The agents' breath made bitter clouds.

They got stiffly to their feet. There's a well known fact about spiders, a curious little thing. They're attracted to places of psychic disturbance. To longstanding Sources where invisible, unknowable powers have loitered and grown strong. An unnatural congregation of spiders is a sure sign of a potent and ancient haunting, and their cobwebs are a dead giveaway. To be fair, Nola hadn't seen any in the guest rooms of Lavender Lodge, but then again, Mrs Evans was probably pretty handy with her duster.

It was a different matter in the attic, though.

Lockwood & Co gathered what remained of their equipment. In their haste to climb the ladder, George had left his bags below, and between them, they'd used up their chains, and most of the salt and iron. Luckily, Lockwood still had his bag containing their vital silver seals, and they each had their magnesium flares tucked safely in their belts. Oh, and Nola still had the ghost jar too, for what it was worth. She dumped it beside the open hatch. The face had grown faint, the plasm dark and cold.

"You oughtn't to be up here..." It whispered. "Even I'm nervous, and I'm already dead."

Nola used her rapier to cut away a few dangling cobwebs near her face. "Yeah, like we've got a choice. You see anything, let me know."

Lockwood went over to the window, which was almost as tall as he was. He rubbed a circle in the filthy glass, brushing off a thin crusting of ice. 'We're overlooking the street." He said. "I can see ghost lamps far below. Okay. The Source must be here somewhere. We can all feel it. Go carefully, and let's get this done."

The search began. They moved like climbers labouring at altitude. Slow, painful, painstaking. All around them, the dreadful psychic weight bore down.

There were recent handprints by the hatch, perhaps where the police had made their inspection. Otherwise, it was clear that no one had been in the attic for years. In places, the floor had been roughly boarded, and Lockwood pointed out the thick layers of dust lying over everything. The agents noticed certain swirls and curling patterns traced faintly into that dust, as if it had been stirred by curious motions of the air, but no footprints at all.