𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞┃ Anthony Lockwood┃2┃

Chapter Fifty - Shining Boy

That afternoon, spurred on by a tasty bar-snack lunch of stale cheese sandwiches, pork scratchings and more lemonade, Lockwood & Co got speedily to work. Holly and Nola interviewed the inhabitants of the inn, and got some useful info from Danny Skinner and his dad. As well as the apparition that Danny had once seen near the old door, they both reported a permanent chill in one area of the hallway, which lingered even when the radiators were on. Mr Skinner had long ago stopped sitting in the armchairs in the hall, owing to feelings of faint depression and nausea. As for the kid, from his bed he regularly heard a loud hammering on the door as midnight came.

They got nothing worthwhile from old Reverend Skinner. As his grandson had predicted, he couldn't countenance the existence of ghosts. The cold spot was a draught. The spectral knocking was the drains. As for the agents themselves, they were shameless hucksters pulling the wool over their clients' eyes. Despite his contempt, he seemed fascinated by their efforts, and hung around like a headache they carried out their daytime survey.

By and large, what they found backed up the Skinners' story. Even in the late afternoon, certain primary phenomena – mainly chill and creeping fear – could be detected in the hall of the inn, and also in the kitchen, which was reached through an interconnecting door. Both areas were laid with the original flagstones. Other ground floor regions seemed unaffected.

The great front door was black with age. They unlatched it and inspected both sides. There were scratch marks on the external face, but they might have been made by anything. Beyond the dusty porch, a path led to an iron fence that barred the way to the churchyard.

The afternoon wore on. Supper time came and stew was served. The agents sat at the mullioned windows of the taproom looking out over the darkening green. The trees that ringed the village were black, the old cross glowing with the last light of evening. The atmosphere was dark and sinister. Much the same could be said of the stew.

"I can see a couple of Visitors already." Lockwood said. "See out there, on the far side of the green? Two faint shapes hovering by the road."

No one else could see them, but they believed him. He had the best Sight among them– those of them who had any Sight at all.

"Well, this is where I become useless." Kipps said. He was spooning his stew round and round, as if by some alchemy it might become edible. "I don't know what I can do to help this evening, short of being tethered by the door like a goat to lure the ghost."

"That's actually not a bad idea." Lockwood said. "We just might do it. Alternatively, George has a suggestion. He's brought something along for you."

"Yep." George said. "You could try these." His rucksack hung on his chair. He ferreted around inside it and, with a flourish, drew out a heavy pair of rubber goggles with thick crystal eyepieces. He handed them to Kipps, who took them wordlessly, turning them over in his pale hands.

"What are they?"

"Rare and expensive items." George said.

Nola chuckled. "Of which he nicked."

"Made by the Orpheus Society, used by John William Fairfax, late owner of Fairfax Iron. The lenses are crystal instead of glass. As to what they do – I have a theory. Try them." George continued.

Kipps was hesitant. "Have you put these on? What did you see?"

"I saw nothing. But they're not for me. I think they're for old fogeys like you. Go on."

With any amount of grumbling and struggling with the strap, Kipps eased the goggles over his head. The thick rubber hid half his face, which was an immediate improvement.