Haunted: A Lockwood & Co Story

Chapter Eleven: George and Charlotte take on the Archives

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; Charlotte made sketches of some of the clearer ones - 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."

"We should measure them, really." Charlotte said. "But I don't want to get to close."

"Good point, love." 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."

Charlotte 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."

"Of rather more importance," Charlotte said tartly, "is where to look for the Source of all this. Where do we think Little Tom died?"

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 their 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 Charlotte 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 ben the deafening scream - then nothing. But Charlotte had heard something falling through the air.

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

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

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

"I am thinking of them." She said. "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."

Charlotte 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 - and, back at Portland Row, a long few days. "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."

That was a mistake - Charlotte knew it at once.

A light in Lockwood's eyes flicked out. His voice was cold. "Charlotte, I don't have sympathy for any of them."