The Empty Grave

by Jonathan Stroud

  Holly nodded grimly. “It’s that horrid charcoaled skull Lucy insists on carrying around with her. I wouldn’t object so much if it was actually in a jar or something.”

  “I don’t mean the skull. I’m talking about those bowls of sunflower seeds and funny healthy nut things. Eeesh, they’re not even salted. Where’d we get these?”

  “The storeroom,” I said. “Holly’s got a stash down there.”

  George gave Holly a reproving look. “You creep down to the basement to secretly eat nuts and seeds? It’s not the good you’re doing to your body that disappoints me; more the underhandedness of it all. Don’t we have any cake?”

  “Not for breakfast, we don’t,” Lockwood said. “Eat up.”

  George did, and he was right: it was a proper Lockwood & Co. breakfast, and it felt good, even if our surroundings weren’t as normal. The kitchen had been one of the worst-affected portions of the house, with its doors and windows shattered, most of its furniture destroyed, and bloodstains and scorch marks on the linoleum floor. So we’d stripped the linoleum and removed the broken cupboards. The windows had been replaced. A new back door, unpainted, awaited our attention. Our first priorities had been a replacement table and a Thinking Cloth. With these in place, it was possible to function again. The house would be all right. Like us, it was taking time to heal.

  And it was a beautiful morning to be healing in. Outside, in the garden, the tree was dark and heavy with apples. The rings of burned grass below the steps and outside the basement door were almost lost in the general greenness. Soon I would pick the apples—I would make time for that this year—and reseed the lawns. We would repaint the windows and repair our basement office. We would build new straw dummies and hang them in the rapier room. We would restock our shelves with books and curios. New artifacts would be found to replace the ones torn from the walls, and new furniture would be bought. We had received a generous stipend from Inspector Barnes for just such a purpose. Above all, we would decide how Lockwood & Co. should begin again.

  It was a time of beginnings, and a time of endings.

  “How is our friend today, Luce?” George asked suddenly. I’d moved the skull away from the center of the table, but it was still sitting by my plate. It was very charred and blackened, and there was a large crack running up from one socket almost to its crown. I could see why Holly objected to its presence, but I didn’t care.

  “Silent.”

  “No change, then?”

  No, there hadn’t been any change. This was the way it had been since the day of the explosion, since I’d pulled it from the mangled remains of the jar amid the steaming debris of the seventh floor. I’d wrapped it up and taken it home, and kept it with me ever since, just in case. But nothing had happened. Whenever I put my fingers on it, I got no psychic charge. The bone was dry and cold.

  “Nope, he’s still quiet,” I said.

  Lockwood glanced at the others. “Well, that was a pretty big explosion, Luce,” he said. “Like the ones DEPRAC let off in the Hall of Pillars. All those ghosts are gone, too.”

  “I know. But that’s because their Sources were completely destroyed. Here’s his Source,” I said. “I saved it. That explosion wouldn’t destroy his spirit, would it?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “It wouldn’t. I’m sure it wouldn’t.” I thought of the fireball swallowing up the ghost.

  “It might disrupt his connection with the skull,” Kipps said.

  “No. That doesn’t make sense. I guess it’s true he won’t come back in daylight. He’s not protected from the sun by the silver-glass now that he’s out of the jar. But at nighttime…he should come back.”

  That’s what I kept telling myself, but I didn’t actually believe my theory. It had been a week now and he hadn’t returned.

  “Could be he’s just…gone, Luce,” Holly said. She smiled at me. “You freed him from the jar. He helped you in return. Maybe that has encouraged him to do what he should have done a century ago—which is move on.”

  She was probably right. We ate our breakfast. After a while Kipps put down his fork. “Talking of Sources and moving on,” he said, “there’s something that’s been bothering me. I know they buried Penelope’s body in the mausoleum, in a special silver casket and all that, but what about Marissa’s real remains? From what you and Lucy said, Lockwood, her spirit was still linked to it in some way. If the nice body died, wouldn’t she just pop back in there? And if it’s hanging around in some DEPRAC mortuary…”

  Lockwood smiled. “Don’t worry. It isn’t. This is something I’ve been meaning to tell you. When they opened up the crypt yesterday, Barnes and his team took the opportunity of tidying up Marissa’s old body, too. You remember how shrunken it was, Luce? They were able to tuck it away in her original coffin, alongside the bones of our old pal, the doctor. They’ll be nice and snug in there together. I rather think his ghost will be quite pleased.” Lockwood paused; he took another piece of toast. “If Marissa’s spirit is stuck there, I’m not sure she’ll enjoy the arrangement quite as much.”

  The sun shone in on us; we finished our meal, and sat back happily in our chairs.

  “Okay,” Lockwood said. “There’s one bit of important business to attend to today. Yesterday Barnes gave me those official DEPRAC papers, which we all need to sign. You know, they’re the ones where we promise not to make public statements about what we saw at Fittes House, about the Other Side—all the secret stuff, basically.”

  “I don’t like having to sign that,” I said.

  “I know you don’t, Luce. None of us are particularly comfortable about it. But we know why we have to. If people knew that the Problem was probably caused by the first psychic detection agents, if they discovered that the heads of many top companies were complicit in what Marissa was doing, there’d be anarchy. Society would fall apart. And to what end? It still wouldn’t have solved the Problem.”

  I shook my head. “It’s about being honest. DEPRAC needs to come clean.”

  “First they’ve got to fix things. Don’t forget that Barnes has to keep his side of the bargain with us, too. He’s agreed that the spirit gate at Fittes House will not be destroyed. From now on, DEPRAC will work to clear up the mess left by Marissa. That means removing whatever…obstructions have been placed on the Other Side.”

  “The silver fences,” Holly said.

  “The fences, yes, and whatever else they’ve been doing to disrupt the onward passage of the dead. The trouble is, we don’t yet really understand how their operation worked, or how far they went to gather the spirits’ essences. We don’t even know whether there are any other gates. It seems probable, as the Problem’s spread so far across the country.”

  “Our friends at the Orpheus Society might help,” George said, “and the scientists from Fittes House, if DEPRAC applies a bit of pressure.”

  “I’m sure they will. Even so, it’s going to take a long time to unravel this, and there’s no telling whether it’ll fix the Problem quickly, or at all.”

  “Meanwhile,” I said, “the Visitors will keep on coming.”

  “I should just mention,” Lockwood said, “that Barnes did ask me whether we might help out a bit with DEPRAC’s clearance program. We’re uniquely experienced, he said; they could use our skills. We could give them a lot of advice about how the Other Side—”

  “I’m not going back,” George interrupted. “No way.”

  Holly nodded. “Once was enough. Once was more than enough.”

  “Personally speaking,” Kipps said, “Dark London’s a bit like George’s jeans. I feel as if I’ve already seen too much.”

  “That’s exactly what I told Barnes,” Lockwood said. “Except for the bit about the jeans. You’re all quite right. We’ve done our bit. We’ll stick to simple ghosts from now on, and not think about the Other Side or its secrets anymore.”

  There was a general murmur of approval.

  “Of course, you know what my theory is?�
�� George said, after a short pause. “Dark London’s just an interim stage. You linger awhile, then move on. Those black gates…”

  “Gates? I saw them as doors,” Kipps said.

  “Black pools,” Lockwood said. “Hanging vertically. All shimmery, but not wet.”

  “So more like curtains, then?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Getting back to my theory,” George went on, “I think the spirit passes through those door things—however you want to call them—and reaches yet another London, but this one’s shining with light….”

  “Where’s your evidence for that?” I asked.

  “Haven’t got any. Just feel it.”

  “That’s not like you.”

  George shrugged. “Sometimes research only goes so far.”

  “You’ll have to write a book about it,” Lockwood said. “If you do it quick, and publish it when the Problem’s fixed, lots of people will buy it and we can make some money.”

  “Not that we’re going to be paupers,” Holly said. “We’ve got hundreds of calls waiting for us to respond. Some really juicy cases. With Fittes and Rotwell in such bad odor, we’re the most popular agency in London right now. We should take advantage, maybe even hire a new assistant. They could have your little attic, Lucy, and you could move down to the nice new bedroom….”

  I grinned at her. “No, that’s fine, Hol. I’m very happy upstairs.” I stretched back into a patch of sun. “So what are these juicy cases we’ve got pending?”

  “Oh, Luce, you’ll love them. There’s a Screaming Spirit in a vestry; a gabbling voice coming from a well, and a haunted yew tree that utters guttural remarks. Also a cowled Wraith in a shopping center in Staines—my correspondent wasn’t sure if it was a nun or a kid in a hoodie—a bleeding boulder in a quarry, a Raw-bones on a barge…”

  She went on telling me. Lockwood listened, too; from time to time he looked at me across the table. George stole a pen and drew a dubious cartoon that made Kipps choke on his toast. I drank some tea and sat peaceably in our kitchen in the morning sunlight. Beside my plate, a cracked, burned skull stared out at nothing.

  I hadn’t lied to Holly. I was happy with my little attic bedroom. This room alone had been overlooked by our enemies after our flight through the gate, and was just the same as it had always been. I often went there, in the evenings of those first few days, to rest and think a little under the low-slung eaves.

  That evening was no different. The windowsill was bathed in the last warm dregs of sunshine. You could see rings in the dust where the ghost-jar used to sit. I set the blackened skull on the sill in its traditional place. Its simple presence satisfied me. If he wanted to return, he would. If not—well, that was good, too.

  I stood at the window, and looked down into Portland Row.

  The sky was gray and pink, and the sun was shining on the houses on the opposite side, making them glittery with life. White curtains shone, and the ghost-wards in their windows sparkled. Children were playing in the street below.

  There was a knock at the door. I turned and answered, and Lockwood looked in. He had his new long coat on, as if ready to go out, and was clutching a sheaf of papers to his chest.

  “Hi, Lucy. Sorry to disturb you.”

  “Not a problem. Come on in.”

  We smiled at each other across the little room. In the days since Fittes House we hadn’t been alone together much. To begin with, we’d been exhausted and emotionally washed up. It had been a busy week, too, what with trying to fix up the house and negotiating with Barnes. Like the rest of the team, neither of us had wanted to do anything much other than eat and sleep and enjoy the simple mechanics of being alive.

  But now he was here. He took a few steps toward me and then stopped. The warmth of his presence filled the space between us. “Sorry to disturb you,” he said again. “It’s just there’s something I wanted to give you, and there’s too much going on downstairs. You know, George painting away like a man possessed; Kipps and Holly trying to fix those cupboard doors…”

  I breathed out sharply. “Yeah, okay. I can see what you’re holding. That wretched DEPRAC statement. All right, I’ll sign it, but not now. Chuck it down somewhere.”

  He hesitated. “I’ll just put it on the bed, shall I?”

  “Yeah.”

  I turned away and looked out of the window at the iron railings and sparkling ghost-wards. A small kid with a plastic rapier ran down the other side of the street, chasing two of his friends. Lockwood came to stand beside me. He put his hand on the sill, next to mine.

  “The Problem’s still here,” I said, after a pause. “Another half an hour, everyone will be hiding away indoors.”

  “Maybe things will start to improve,” Lockwood said, “now that those idiots are no longer messing around on the Other Side. I mean—it should help, shouldn’t it? More spirits will be free to move on to their proper place, and not come back here.”

  I just nodded. Truth was, neither of us knew.

  Lockwood opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again. For a moment, we didn’t speak. He was very close to me. Our hands stayed on the windowsill like they were glued there. All at once he stepped back. “In the meantime,” he said, “there are ghosts to foil and lives to save. But right now it’s a lovely evening, and I’m going for a stroll. That was the other thing I wanted, to see if you’d come with me.” He adjusted his collar. “It’s the first outing for my new coat. What do you think of it?”

  “It’ll need a few claw marks to really make it look like yours, but other than that, it’s nice.”

  “You don’t think I ought to get a macho leather jacket, like Barnes?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, well, if you do want to come with me, Luce, I’ll be in the hall.” He went to the door, paused, and grinned back at me. “And don’t forget to sign the statement!” With that, he was pattering down the stairs.

  As always, I found myself smiling after him. As always, the room felt a little darker after he left. Yes, I was going for that stroll. I started over toward the bed to get my jacket. As I did so, I thought I heard a little noise behind me. I turned and—just for an instant—saw a faint and greenish light showing on the windowsill.

  I blinked and stared at it, heart racing.

  It had probably just been a last reflection of the waning light. My little attic was filled with the dusk of early evening. On the sill, the skull was a squat shadow. Its cracked sockets were black and dull. I could hear George whistling as he painted the door on the landing below.

  Probably nothing…

  Then again, it wasn’t yet dark.

  For a few seconds I stared across at the quiet windowsill, a smile slowly widening on my face. Then I turned away, and went to get my jacket off the bed.

  Lockwood had put the DEPRAC documents beside my jacket. The papers formed a neat rectangle on the darkness of the counterpane, gleaming white in the fading light, but also softly sparkling.

  Sparkling…?

  I bent close, frowning. It was only then that I saw the beautiful golden necklace curled on the papers, with the sapphire glinting at its heart. Lockwood had taken it out of the old crushed box that his mother had kept it in. Even in the dusk, the gem was glorious, undying and undimmed. It was as if all the light and love it had gathered in the past was shining out on me.

  I stood gazing at it for a long time.

  Slowly, carefully, I picked up the necklace and hung it around my neck. Then I put on my jacket and ran for the stairs.

  * indicates a Type One ghost

  ** indicates a Type Two ghost

  Agency, Psychic Investigation—A business specializing in the containment and destruction of ghosts. There are more than a dozen agencies in London alone. The largest two (the Fittes Agency and the Rotwell Agency) have hundreds of employees; the smallest (Lockwood & Co.) has four. Most agencies are run by adult supervisors, but all rely heavily on children with strong psychic Talent.

  Appari
tion—The shape formed by a ghost during a manifestation. Apparitions usually mimic the shape of the dead person, but animals and objects are also seen. Some can be quite unusual. The Specter in the recent Limehouse Docks case manifested as a greenly glowing king cobra, while the infamous Bell Street Horror took the guise of a patchwork doll.

  Aura—The radiance surrounding many apparitions. Most auras are fairly faint, and are seen best out of the corner of the eye. Strong, bright auras are known as other-light. A few ghosts, such as Dark Specters, radiate black auras that are darker than the night around them.

  Bone Man*—Name given to a particular variety of Type One ghost, probably a sub-type of Shade. Bone Men are hairless, emaciated forms, with skin clinging to their skulls and rib cages. They glow with a bright, pale other-light. Though superficially similar to some Wraiths, they are always passive and generally somewhat dismal.

  Chain net—A net made of finely spun silver chains; a versatile variety of Seal.

  Chill—The sharp drop in temperature that occurs when a ghost is near. One of the four usual indicators of an imminent manifestation, the others being malaise, miasma, and creeping fear. Chill may extend over a wide area, or be concentrated in specific cold spots.

  Cluster—A group of ghosts occupying a small area.

  Creeping fear—A sense of inexplicable dread often experienced in the buildup to a manifestation. Often accompanied by chill, miasma, and malaise.

  Curfew—In response to the Problem, the British Government enforces nightly curfews in many inhabited areas. During curfew, which begins shortly after dusk and finishes at dawn, ordinary people are encouraged to remain indoors, safe behind their home defenses. In many towns, the beginning and end of the night’s curfew are marked by the sounding of a warning bell.

  Dark Specter**—A frightening variety of Type Two ghost that manifests as a moving patch of darkness. Sometimes the apparition at the center of the darkness is dimly visible; at other times the black cloud is fluid and formless, perhaps shrinking to the size of a pulsing heart, or expanding at speed to engulf a room.