Haunted: A Lockwood & Co Story

Chapter One: Lavender Lodge

Charlotte thinks it was only at the end of the Lavender Lodge job when they were fighting for their lives in that unholy guest-house, that she glimpsed Lockwood & Co. working together for the first time. It was just the briefest flash, but every detail remained etched into her memory: those moments of sweet precision when they truly acted as a team.

Yes, every detail. Anthony Lockwood, coat aflame, arms flapping madly as he staggered back towards the open window. George Karim, dangling from the ladder one-handed like an acrobatic actor. And her- Charlotte Campbell- bruised, bloody, and covered in cobwebs, sprinting, jumping, rolling desperately to avoid the ghostly coils...

Sure, none of that sounds so great. And to be fair they could have done without George's squeaking. But this was the thing about Lockwood & Co.: they made the most of unpromising situations and turned them to their advantage.

Six hours earlier. There they were, on the doorstep, ringing the bell. It was a dreary, storm-soaked November afternoon, almost just over a month after Charlotte's birthday. The shadows were deepening and the rooftops of old Whitechapel showing sharp and black against the clouds. Rain spotted their coats and glistened on the blades of their rapiers. The clocks had just struck four.

"Everyone ready?" Lockwood asked. "Remember, we ask them some questions, we keep careful psychic watch. If we get any clues to the murder room or the location of the bodies, we don't let on. We just say goodbye politely, and head off to fetch the police."
"That's fine." Charlotte said. George, busily adjusting his work-belt, nodded.

"It's a useless plan!" The hoarse whisper came from somewhere close behind Charlotte's ear. "I say stab them first, ask questions later! That's your only sensible option."

Charlotte nudged her rucksack with an elbow. "Shut up."

"I thought you wanted my advice!"

"Your job is to keep lookout, not distract us with stupid theories. Now, hush."

They waited on the step. The Lavender Lodge boarding house was a narrow terrace building of three floors. Like most of this part of London's East End, it had a weary ground-down air. Soot crusted the pebbledash render, thin curtains dangled at the windows. No lights showed in the upper storeys, but the hall light was on and there was a yellowed VACANCIES sign propped behind the panel of cracked glass in the centre of the door.

Lockwood squinted through the glass, shielding his eyes with his gloved hand. He had healed up amazingly after his gunshot wound, but every now and then it twinged with pain. "Well, somebody's at home." he said. "I can see two people standing at the far end of the hall."
He pressed the buzzer again. It was an ugly sound, a razor to the ear. He rapped the knocker too. No one came.

"Hope they put their skates on," George said. "I don't want to worry you or anything but there's something white creeping towards us up the street."
He was right. Far off in the dusk, a pale form could just be seen. It drifted slowly above the pavement in the shadows of the houses, coming in their direction.

Lockwood shrugged; he didn't even bother looking. "Oh, it's probably just a shirt flapping on someone's line. It's still early. Won't be anything nasty."
George and Charlotte glanced at one another. It was that time of year when the days were scarcely lighter than the nights, and the dead began walking during the darkest afternoons. On the way over from the tube, in fact, they had seen a Shade on Whitechapel High Road, a faint twist of darkness standing brokenly in the gutter, being spun and buffeted by the tail winds of the last cars hurrying home. So nasty things were out already - as Lockwood well knew.

"Since when has a flapping shirt had a head and spindly legs attached?" George asked. He took off his glasses, rubbed them dry, and returned them to his nose. "Lottie, you tell him. He never listens to me."