Dangerous Spirits

by Jordan L. Hawk

  Grief twisted Sylvester’s face. “I’m sorry it came to this.”

  Unseen hands snatched at Vincent, shoving and hitting. He staggered, and Emberey cried out in pain.

  Lizzie grabbed his arm. “Run!” she shouted, and dragged him after her.

  He ran blindly, hauling Emberey along with him. Henry and Jo fled in front of them, and behind, the ghosts swirled into being. His boots slipped on the frost gathering on the stones and mud of the square, but he kept his feet.

  The clock tower loomed above them. Henry flung open the door, and Jo ran in, followed by the rest. The tower sat atop a large, square room. To one side, metal stairs led up into the clock tower proper. To the other was a boiler and some machinery whose purpose Vincent couldn’t guess. Arc lamps hung from the ceiling, no doubt intended to illuminate the interior, but they were cold and dark.

  “Salt!” Henry shouted, and slammed the door as soon as Vincent and Emberey ran through. Henry dropped his pack and pulled a salt bag from it, dumping the contents in a hasty line across the doorway. Jo did the same with the windowsills, using a bag from her satchel. Lizzie joined them, and within a few moments everything was sealed.

  Emberey backed slowly away from the door, his expression frozen in a mask of horror. “W-Will it keep them back?”

  “Yes. As long as the salt isn’t disturbed.” Vincent cautiously peered out the window.

  The dead pressed against the glass. Ectoplasm began to form, a swirl of sickly light. Cold eyes glowed like a hundred tiny candles, their flames a horrid shade of greenish yellow.

  “What do we do?” Emberey asked anxiously. “Do we wait for dawn?”

  A flame kindled behind the rows of dead, coalescing into the shape of a woman. “Damn it,” Vincent said. “He’s called back Rosanna.”

  “She can break glass,” Emberey said, backing up even farther.

  “It isn’t the glass holding them back,” Lizzie replied. Her face was drawn and tense as she joined Vincent at the window. “But without it, a strong enough wind could disrupt the salt. Or rain dissolve it, should we be truly unlucky.”

  Vincent stared at the flaming ghost as she slowly stalked closer. He’d thought Sylvester wouldn’t kill them, not really. Not the man who brought them presents from his travels, who sent them postcards and letters. Who sat with them so many nights by the fire, telling stories of the wonders he’d seen, while Dunne sat beside him, nodding and laughing.

  Had Dunne and Sylvester done the same, for whoever owned those trunks of clothes?

  “I have an idea,” Henry said.

  Chapter 17

  Henry swallowed convulsively as all eyes turned to him. For a moment, he regretted even speaking. Of all his ideas since coming here, the Franklin bells was the only one to really work as he’d hoped.

  Vincent met his gaze steadily. “Go on, Henry.”

  “It might not work.” Henry realized he was twisting his hands together and forced them to still. “Seeing the equipment here made me think of it, but—”

  “Get to the point, man!” Emberey exclaimed.

  “Er, yes.” Henry straightened. “Ghosts are weakened by sunlight, for reasons we don’t entirely understand. Candles and gas don’t seem to affect them, at least not all that much, nor does the reflected light of the sun from the face of the moon.”

  “We don’t have time for a lecture, Henry,” Lizzie warned.

  “When we were in the cemetery, I thought I noticed Jo’s head lamp drive Rosanna back a step. But Ortensi threw salt on her at the same time, and I assumed I’d been wrong.” He gestured to the steam engine and dynamo. “But what if I wasn’t? The arc lamp works on a different principle than a candle or gas lamp. If it affects the ghosts, even for a brief period, it might give us the opportunity to wrest the jar from Ortensi.”

  Emberey blinked. “Do you mean to say, if the moon tower had been repaired…”

  “You might have had a great deal less trouble from Rosanna, yes. Er, possibly.” Henry winced. “I don’t know for sure. It might not work. Or I might not even be able to repair it.”

  “Anything is better than waiting for the ghosts to break in and kill us all,” Vincent said. “Do it.”

  Henry swallowed again. “All right. Mr. Emberey, do you know what precisely broke on the moon tower?”

  Emberey’s brows knit together. “I believe the fellow said something about a feeder?”

  “The automatic feeder?” Oh no.

  “Yes, that was it.”

  “Blast.”

  “What is it?” Vincent asked, looking alarmed. “You can’t fix it?”

  “I won’t know until I see it.” Henry lifted his gaze to the shadowy interior of the tower. “The automatic feeder is a part of the lamp itself. To do any kind of repair, I’ll have to go to the roof, then climb up onto the moon tower as well.”

  “Here,” said Jo, digging into the satchel. “Take the headlamp so you can climb with both your hands free.”

  “Good idea, Jo.” Henry took it from her. While she dumped tools and wire into the satchel, he struggled into the heavy pack holding the batteries. Vincent helped him with it, stepping back a pace when Henry pulled on the headband. The arc lamp, small as it was, sat heavily on his brow, and the strap of the weighty pack bit into his aching left shoulder. He’d exercised the limb far too much in the last few days, and once again he cursed Bamforth for shooting him at Reyhome.

  “All right,” he said. “Jo—”

  “Look out!” shouted Lizzie from her station near the window.

  Rosanna’s shriek cut through the air. Every window facing the square exploded inward, glass showering the floor and mingling with the salt on the sills. The air instantly went frigid, and the light of their lanterns shaded to blue.

  Henry rose from where he’d dropped to the floor. “Jo! Get the boiler going. As soon as the steam builds to a head, switch on the dynamo.”

  Worry creased her face. “But the wires will be live—if you’re not done, you’ll be electrocuted!”

  “We don’t have any more time.” He glanced overhead, where the interior arc lamps lay dark. “If this works, you’ll know in an instant. Even if I don’t get the moon tower repaired in time, this will at least weaken any ghosts inside the building.”

  He turned to the stairs, as Jo opened the coal bin beside the furnace. Vincent seized his arm, halting him. Their eyes met, longing and fear in Vincent’s gaze. No doubt it was reflected in his own. Had Emberey not been there, he would have flung his arms around Vincent and kissed him hard. But he couldn’t, so he only said, “I’ll be back soon.”

  Vincent’s fingers tightened. “Don’t get yourself electrocuted, Henry.”

  “I’ll do my best,” he replied. Then he pulled free and ran for the stairs.

  ~ * ~

  Vincent turned away, the sound of Henry’s shoes on the metal grate of the stairs ringing from above. He desperately wanted to go with Henry, as though his presence might afford his love some protection against all the things that might go wrong. The image of Henry plummeting from the moon tower presented itself, followed by Henry being electrocuted, or—

  No. Henry counted on him to keep watch down here and make certain the ghosts remained on their side of the barrier. He strode back to the center of the room. “Mr. Emberey, start shoveling coal,” he ordered.

  Emberey drew himself up. “Shovel coal? The girl—”

  “The girl is going to make sure this—” Vincent gestured at the steam engine and—what had Henry called it? A dynamo? “—works. Unless you have the knowledge to do the same, or have suddenly developed mediumistic talents, the best thing you can do is shovel coal and tend the furnace.”

  Orange light grew brighter in the window nearest the door, spilling inside as Rosanna drew closer. She hovered on the other side of the salt line, her flaming hair surrounding her burnt face like a corona.

  Emberey’s eyes went round. “I…yes,” he said, and all but sprinted for the shovel.

&nb
sp; “Bring him back,” Rosanna said, her voice like drops of water boiling off a hot griddle.

  “We’re trying,” Vincent snapped.

  The ghost began to pace, making her way along the row of broken windows. Seeking entrance. The wooden edges of the window frames scorched black beneath her heat, and the scent of burning wood mingled with the foul taste on his tongue.

  “What is she doing?” he asked Lizzie.

  “More importantly, what is Sylvester doing?” she replied.

  His heart thumped in his throat. A quick look into the square outside showed it to be empty.

  “That’s not good,” he said.

  “Maybe he left.” Lizzie’s eyes tracked Rosanna’s progress. “He realized he couldn’t really go through with it.”

  The hope in her voice echoed Vincent’s own. What if she was right, and Sylvester’s conscience had awoken once again? What if Sylvester had found he could never really hurt them after all?

  Rosanna screamed.

  The windows on the side of the building burst inward. Jo let out a startled cry, and everyone ducked automatically, even though the glass didn’t reach them.

  There came the sound of splashing water.

  Confused, Vincent raised his head. Sylvester stood framed in the window by the doorway, an empty bucket in his hands. Water pooled on the sill and ran down the inside of the wall, washing away the line of salt.

  “No,” Vincent whispered.

  Sylvester stepped back. And the ghosts came pouring in.

  ~ * ~

  The iron stairs and catwalk rang beneath Henry’s shoes as he raced up the interior of the tower. He’d switched on the headlamp, and it burned like a miniature sun, sending rivulets of sweat down his face. The curved reflector directed its beam in front of him, sweeping across gears and counterweights, giving him brief glimpses of the clock’s interior workings. The great pendulum swung past, and gears creaked. One of the hands lurched forward with a loud “tock.”

  The satchel of tools banged against his hip, clanking loudly, and the heavy batteries strapped to his back weighed him down. Before long, his legs ached and his lungs felt starved. He paused to catch his breath, straining to hear any sound that might tell him how the others fared below. Only silence greeted him; either he was too far away, or the salt lines yet held.

  But for how long? Gritting his teeth, he jogged up the next flight of stairs.

  At the top of the metal stairs lay a short ladder and a trap door. He flung open the trap door and emerged onto the small roof of the clock tower, gasping for breath. The metal scaffold of the moon tower rose another twenty feet into the air, the darkened arc lamp at the top.

  A groan escaped him, and he rubbed his aching thighs. How long did he have until the pressure built up high enough to operate the steam engine?

  Rosanna’s scream echoed from below, and even at a distance every hair on his arms stood up. The sound of shattering glass accompanied the unearthly shriek, and his heart lurched. What was happening below? Was Jo safe? Vincent? Lizzie? Had Rosanna found a way inside?

  They all depended on him, on this mad idea he’d proposed. What if it didn’t work? What if he was as wrong about this as he’d been about everything else?

  Shoving aside all his doubts, he reached for the first cross bar of the iron scaffolding comprising the moon tower. The ache of his left shoulder turned to stabbing pain as he hauled himself up. Henry gritted his teeth and silently prayed the shoulder didn’t give out altogether. He had to reach the top and the arc lamp itself, no matter what.

  There came a cry from somewhere far below. He glanced down automatically—and instantly wished he hadn’t. The roofs of Devil’s Walk stretched out below him, and moonlight frosted the forest. It was all a very, very long way down.

  His hands froze on the iron beams, and his breath hitched. The world seemed to swim around him. He’d never had difficulty with heights before—but he’d never been up this far. It would take a long time to hit the ground if he fell from this distance.

  “Move, Henry,” he muttered to himself between clenched teeth. “You promised Vincent you wouldn’t get electrocuted.”

  Forcing his fingers to unbend, he reached for the next iron beam.

  ~ * ~

  The dead of Devil’s Walk poured in through the broken window like floodwaters through a breached dam. Instantly the air went to ice, and even the hot glow of the furnace took on a sickly blue hue. Emberey cried out in terror and froze, his shovel lifted as though he meant to beat off the ghosts with it.

  “Keep stoking!” Vincent shouted. God, they had to do something to protect Jo and Emberey long enough for them to get the steam engine running. The arc lights overhead would weaken the ghosts—assuming Henry’s theory was correct—but they had to get electricity to them first.

  Lizzie hurled handfuls of salt from one of the half-empty bags. It tore smoking holes through streaming ectoplasm, and the dead fell back, swirling in pain and confusion.

  “Leave this place! Return to the otherworld!” she shouted.

  Some of them vanished…but as experience had already shown, it would take nothing for Sylvester to bring them forth again.

  Vincent cast about wildly—there had to be some way to hold them off. Henry’s backpack lay abandoned where he’d left it, the tip of a copper rod protruding from the half open flap.

  Vincent yanked it free; the rubber glove flopped out as well, caught amidst the tangle of wires. He’d used the ghost grounder once before, and knew the principles well enough. He just needed something to attach the wires too, something grounded. The bolts anchoring the dynamo to the floor caught his eye, and they were in a good position to let him protect Jo and Emberey.

  “Vincent!” Lizzie shouted. “I’m almost out of salt!”

  Curse it. He ran to the dynamo, ignoring Emberey’s fearful yelp. Securing the wire to one of the bolts, he offered up a brief prayer this would indeed work.

  A ghost darted past Lizzie and made for Emberey. Its eyes gleamed, sickly yellow corpse candles in the midst of roiling ectoplasm. Emberey screamed and cowered, dropping the shovel to the floor with a clatter. Vincent stabbed the tip of the ghost grounder deep into where the ghost’s heart would have been, were it still alive.

  There came a crackle, and it dissolved into nothingness.

  “We’re almost there!” called Jo. “Mr. Emberey, keep stoking!”

  “We’ve got you,” Vincent said. “Let Lizzie and I handle the ghosts. We won’t allow them to get through.”

  They took up point, each facing a different direction. Vincent slashed and stabbed, sometimes dispelling the ghosts on contact, more often simply draining them bit by bit. At his back, Lizzie ordered the ghosts to return to the otherworld in a ringing voice, scattering salt as she did so.

  It worked. The crowd of spirits around them thinned. The temperature crept back up to something, if not warm, at least not arctic. The ghosts Sylvester sent against them were no spirits of rage like Rosanna. These were ordinary people, who had passed peacefully and made only shadows when called back to this world.

  So where had Rosanna gone?

  “Vincent,” Lizzie said in a low, urgent voice. “The door.”

  He glanced over his shoulder, and his heart sank as his question was answered.

  The door lock glowed, first a sullen red, then brighter, edging into blinding yellow. “Rosanna’s burning through the door,” he said. “Jo! Is it ready?”

  “Almost!”

  “Almost isn’t good enough!”

  The lock and knob fell free in a molten glob onto the floor. The door hurled open, scattering salt everywhere.

  Sylvester stood there, silhouetted against the burning houses on the other side of the square. His hazel eyes were hard, his hair in disarray. He spared a look for Vincent—and ran for the stairs.

  No—he must have spotted Henry on top of the tower. Vincent shouted a denial and started to drop the ghost grounder.

  “Don’t.” Lizz
ie grabbed his arm. “If you go after Sylvester, the ghosts will get past, and we’ll all be lost.”

  He wanted to deny it. Wanted to leave anyway. To run to Henry’s rescue, to scream at the top of his lungs that Sylvester was coming with murder in his eyes.

  Instead, he firmed his grip on the ghost grounder and stabbed the nearest spirit through its glowing eye.

  ~ * ~

  By the time Henry reached the top of the moon tower, he felt as though his head were baking and his left shoulder actively afire. The great arc lamp jutted up from the center of the scaffolding, cold and dark in the beam of his headlamp. The wind tore at his hair and clothing, like phantom hands trying to pull him from the tower.

  At least they weren’t real phantom hands. Not yet, anyway.

  It wasn’t something he could worry about at the moment. He linked one arm through the uppermost crossbar of the tower and peered at the automatic feeder. If the fault were in one of the electromagnetic coils, he’d never be able to repair it in time.

  The headlamp might be hot as a coal strapped to his forehead, but the light it put out illuminated the mechanism perfectly. The coils seemed intact, and the carbon electrodes in place. What then…ah. There it was. The latch that regulated the coils had become misaligned somehow and jammed against them.

  Now came the hard part—making the repair without toppling off the metal scaffolding to his death.

  Henry shucked off his coat and slung it around his waist. The sleeves he tied together on the other side of the uppermost iron bar. With any luck, the makeshift sling would let him use both hands without falling backwards off the moon tower, even with the weight of the batteries on his back. The satchel he looped around his neck to hang in front of him. Its strap cut uncomfortably into the back of his neck, but he ignored it in favor of digging through for a small screwdriver. If he removed the latch and realigned it, the automatic feeder should work as intended.

  How much time did he have left? How close was the engine below to full steam? If it was already running, could he still do the repair in any safety and dispel the ghosts in the square outside the building?