Haunted: A Lockwood & Co Story

Chapter Nineteen: Give 'em hell

Charlotte stared at George's body. She too seemed to have stopped breathing.

"I mean, what use is 'beautiful things'?" Joplin complained. "That's not scientific, is it? And now that dawn's here, I'm not sure it's even worth trying another test!" She stamped a foot in irritation. "Honestly - what a nuisance."

She continued muttering to herself, but Charlotte scarcely heard her. Her voice was far away. All sounds were hushed to Charlotte. She was alone in the numbness of her mind. George flashed to show Felicity tied up in the chair, skin a bluish-grey, eyes staring up at the roof.
"Felicity!" She said, softly. "Wake up!"

"It's no good, Campbell..." This was Kipps, who was confused at the mix up of names coming from Charlotte. "Karim is gone."
The body flashed back to George.

"Oh no, he always looks like that..." Charlotte said. "You should see him in the mornings. He's just a bit sleepy, aren't you, George? George, come on..."

George didn't answer. He was slumped like an old coat tossed across the chair. His mouth was open. His hands hung limp. Charlotte thought of Felicity and how her hands had fallen limp as Charlotte tried to save her dead friend. Charlotte gave a little moan.

Joplin's gaze flickered up at her. She had been studying her watch; now she looked across at Charlotte with narrowed eyes. Where had the amiability gone, the foolish fluttering of the timorous archivist? The appraisal she gave Charlotte was hard and cold.

Something else was watching too. At the moment George had looked into the mirror, the ghost of Edmund Bickerstaff had swelled to fill its circle. Charlotte had felt the cold satisfaction of its triumph, its glee at seeing George succumb. Now it switched its attention to a new victim. The draped form twisted; the hooded head loomed over the grieving blonde girl. She glimpsed the shrouded face - the grinning mouth with sharp bared teeth, the bone white skin, eyes like black coins.

When Charlotte looked back at Joplin, her eyes looked just the same.

Kipps, being adult, could not truly see the ghost - but he felt its presence all right. Charlotte sense him shrink back in his chair. Charlotte? She drew herself up. She clenched her fists. Something slammed shut inside her, closing off her grief behind stony walls. Her mind grew calm. Charlotte's hatred was a winter lake - icy, clear and stretching out for ever. Charlotte stood and gazed at Joplin.

"Perhaps," She was saying to herself. "Perhaps we could have another try. Yes. All we need to do is put her in the chair. Where's the harm, where's the difficulty? Maybe she'll survive, where the boy has failed."

With bird-like steps, she moved towards Charlotte, knife in hand.

"Keep away from her," Kipps said.
"Your turn," Joplin said, "will come presently. Meanwhile be silent, or I'll loose the master on you."
She did not approach head-on, despite Charlotte's bound hands. Instead she walked behind the girl, knife outstretched. With a single slice, she cut the cords: once again the knife was at Charlotte's neck. Charlotte stood silent, massaging her chafed wrists.

"Walk to the other chair." Joplin said.
Charlotte did so, forcing herself to breath slowly, deliberately calming down. "You'll be making a mistake if you make me look into the mirror." She said. "I talk with ghosts. They talk to me. I can tell you many secrets. There's no use in me dying."
"Walk forwards. I don't believe you, I'm afraid. Who has that talent?"

"I do. I have a Type Three with me. Its Source is in my bag close by. Bickerstaff is nothing compared to it. Let me show you."

Away in the darkness, Charlotte could sense the ghost in the jar give a start. "Hey, why bring me into this? She'll be as bad as Karim. Weird experiments, odd habits... next thing you know, she'll have me with her in the bath."