𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞┃ Anthony Lockwood┃2┃

Chapter Thirteen - The Odd Pair

The  footprints lingered for one hour and seventeen minutes. George timed it on his watch. They were formed of a thin, black, ectoplasmic substance that radiated extreme cold. When Lockwood touched one with the point of his rapier, it steamed and spat fiercely, sending snakes of black vapour coiling up the silver blade. It was an interesting phenomenon. George mapped them. Nola made sketches of some of the clearer prints – the ones  that weren't too faint, or too awash with blood.

"They're small feet." Lockwood said. "Not tiny, like a young child's, but pretty slim and slender. Must be Little Tom's, not Robert Cooke's."

Nola hummed. "We should measure them, really." She said. "But I don't want to get too close."

"Good point, James." He wore gloves, and had pulled a dark blue scarf out of his bag,  his only concession to the chill on the stairs. "I guess we could do a comparison... Who's got the smallest feet among us?"

"Holly has."  George said, without looking up. "No question."

Nola sighed, and spoke through gritted teeth. "She's not even here."

Lockwood nodded. "You're right, George. They are petite, aren't they? I bet they're about that size. We should measure Holly's feet tomorrow."

"On it."

Nola shook her head. "It's like I'm not even here." She muttered under her breath. Once upon a time, Lockwood always talked about how petite Nola was. About how big her chunky books looked on her small legs. But now, Holly was about.

"What did you say, James?" Lockwood asked obliviously.

"We need to look for the Source of all this. Where do we think Little Tom died?" She said tartly.

In the ordinary way, the best place to look for a Source is near where the death took place, but this manifestation presented problems in that regard. Even the agents' surveillance hadn't helped much. The servant had first been stabbed in the basement, and the haunting had certainly begun there, with a sudden ferocious blast of energy that sent George flying in his circle and his lantern crashing against the wall. He hadn't seen the two figures, as Nola had. Lockwood, waiting at the top of the house, had glimpsed them briefly. As they reached the attic, the shapes, moving fast, had seemed to merge. Then there'd been the deafening scream, then nothing. But Nola had heard something falling through the air.

"If Cooke pushed Tom off, as James reckons, he'll have died when he hit the basement floor." George said.

"Unless he was already dead from his wounds." Nola said. "Poor little guy."

"So the Source could be at the top or the bottom." Lockwood said. "We'll look tomorrow. And let's have less of the 'poor little guy', please, James. Whatever he was in life, Tom's ghost is part of this dangerous haunting. Think of what happened to the night-watch kids."

Nola pulled a face. "I am thinking of them. And what I'm also thinking of, Lockwood, is that horrible monster chasing the child. Cooke's ghost. That's the evil driving this. That's what we need to tackle."

Lockwood shook his head. "Actually, we don't really know one way or the other. We've got to be careful with all Visitors. I don't care if a ghost's friendly, or needy, or just wants a big cuddle. We keep it at a safe distance. All the big agencies follow that policy, Holly says."

Nola didn't intend to be angry. Basically, she knew that Lockwood was right. But her emotions felt stretched right then. It had been a long night. "This ghost is a serving boy. A lad being chased to his death!" She snapped. "I saw him as he passed. He was running for his life. Don't shrug at me like that! He was so desperate. We've got to feel sympathy for him."