So what did? His age. Or lack of it.
Danny Skinner wasn’t an adult. Like I say, he was a kid. About ten years old.
That was unusual.
Children see ghosts. Adults complain about them. As George once pointed out, there are several almost immutable rules surrounding the Problem, and this (George’s Third Law) is one of the most obvious. As psychic detection agents we get plenty of witness statements from children, but it’s the grown-ups who actually come knocking on our door. They’ve got the financial firepower to hire us; plus, the kids are usually too busy out working (and dying) as Sensitives, members of the night watch, or even as agents themselves to ask someone else to help them out.
But here this kid was. Sitting on our sofa. Alone.
Or not exactly alone. He soon had Holly on one side, plying him with tea, and George on the other, offering him a hefty chunk of cake. If there’d been room, I probably would have been on him as well, plumping up his cushions or massaging his toes or something. There was a quality about him—fragile, but at the same time steely and undaunted—that managed to awaken your sense of pity without irritating you at the same time. In a world where no kid can really afford to be helpless, where most of us risk our lives as a matter of course, that was quite a hard balance to achieve.
He had the gaunt waif thing going on, that was the main reason for our sympathy: pale skin, unhealthily big eyes, and a pair of ears that would have carried him some distance in a strong wind. His light brown hair was untidily cropped. His Irish sweater looked several sizes too big for him; his head and neck protruded from it like a stork chick peering from a nest. It was all very disarming. Take it from me, if you had to choose between him and a basketful of supercute puppies to toss out of a sinking hot-air balloon, it would have been the pups sent spiraling down to earth.
George and Holly drew back; the kid, now heavily laden with tea and cake, blinked around at us.
Lockwood flourished a hand encouragingly. “Well…er, Mr. Skinner,” he said. “I’m Anthony Lockwood; these are my friends. What can we do for you?”
Danny Skinner’s voice was unexpectedly strong and deep. “You got my message, sir?”
“I did. Something about a”—Lockwood consulted a crumpled letter—“a cursed village, I understand?”
“That’s right. Aldbury Castle. I was hoping you might come take a look at it.”
“Aldbury Castle is the name of the village? I see. Where is Aldbury Castle?”
“Hampshire, sir. Hour’s train ride south-west from Waterloo, and then a mile east along Aldbury Way. There’s a Southampton train going at one thirty, so if you shift your backsides, we can just catch it.” The boy made an adjustment to his dirty, tattered coat. “Don’t worry, you won’t have to sleep under a hedge. The Old Sun Inn still has a few habitable rooms.”
Lockwood opened his mouth and shut it again. He cleared his throat. “Um, we don’t want to get ahead of ourselves, Mr. Skinner. We haven’t accepted the commission yet, or even discussed it.”
“Oh, you’re sure to want this case when you hear about it,” the boy said. He took a loud sip of tea. “I’m just trying to save you time. I could always fill you in on the train.”
“Tell you what,” George said, “perhaps you can fill us in now. What’s the nature of the curse?”
Danny Skinner set down his plates. “Ghosts, spirits, and whatnot. We have a lot of them.”
Lockwood leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Forgive me, but the whole country suffers from that affliction. What makes Aldbury Castle so special that we have to drop everything and come down now?”
“Our village has it worse than most.” The kid’s shoulders twitched in what might have been a shudder. “There’ve been killings.”
Lockwood’s smile faded. “That’s bad. You’ve had cases of ghost-touch, then?”
“Sixteen this year.”
Lockwood sat back; Holly looked up from her notepad. “What? Sixteen? Since January? You’re not serious.”
“Might be seventeen now. Molly Suter was sinking fast when I left this morning. Coming back from seeing her sick sister last night, she was surrounded. They caught her in the fields. The kids arrived with iron sticks, but it was too late. And when I set out first thing this morning”—the boy pointed ruefully at the plasm burns on his coat—“you can see that they nearly got me, too. Even though the sun was up, they were waiting in the woods for me. I only just made the train.”
“They? You mean Visitors?”
“Of course.”
“It certainly sounds bad. Tell me, why didn’t an adult come to see us? Your father or your mother?” Lockwood hesitated in sudden doubt. “Or, forgive me, are they—?”
Danny Skinner sniffed; it was a short, sharp, angry sound. “If you’re worried about payment, Pops has money. He’s still above ground, just. He’s not well, though—can’t leave the inn. Mum’s dead.”
“I’m sorry,” Lockwood said.
A shrug of bony shoulders. “The good news is, she hasn’t risen again. So far.”
There was a silence. “Try the cake,” George said. “It’s good.”
“Actually, I’ll pass,” the kid replied. “I’m not a cakey person. But I’m serious about leaving, you know. You need to help us, and there’s only one train we can take.”
Was it just me, or did he seem marginally less cute than he had a few moments before? Stork chicks aren’t usually quite so pushy.
A combination of discomfort and mounting irritation had made Lockwood’s expression darken as well. He flicked an imaginary speck of dust off his knee. “Like I say,” he said, “that’s not going to happen until we’ve had many more details from you. Even then, we’re unlikely to come down today. Tell us about these Visitors. What kind of ghosts does Aldbury Castle have?”
“Depends where you’re looking,” Danny Skinner said. He had a sulky expression; you could see he could barely contain his frustration that we weren’t already out of the door. “There are Specters on the green, and Lurkers by the church. Got a Cold Maiden in the new estate, and that’s just for starters. Where I live—the Old Sun Inn—there’s a ghost that comes knocking on the door at night. I saw it once. Like a tiny glowing child. It’s very small and puny and…it’s evil, I think. Had a nasty, furtive look. Slunk across the flagstones and disappeared.”
“Shining Boy,” Holly said.
The kid shrugged. “Maybe. Best not to go downstairs in the inn after midnight, that’s all I’m saying. The ghosts out in the woods are mostly Phantasms and Wraiths—as far as I can tell. I’m not an expert, like you agents. See how close they got to touching me? Old dead, they are, slain warriors most like. Quiet all these centuries, and now rising from the cornfields. And they’re not the worst things walking in the dark at Aldbury Castle.” He swigged his tea back with an almost violent flourish, and set the cup on its saucer with a crack. “Like I say, it’s taking its toll. Half the village is gone. Mostly adults; the ones who can’t see the Visitors coming. Those of us who are young enough to fight are doing our best, but we can’t do it on our own, as I keep telling you.” He glanced ostentatiously at his watch.
Lockwood ignored him. “Does DEPRAC know about this?”
“We’ve told them. They’ve done nothing.”
“Other agencies?”
“Worse than useless.” Danny Skinner looked around him in disgust. “Can I spit here?”
“We’d rather you didn’t.”
“Pity. Yeah, the Rotwell Agency has their institute just up the road. We’ve asked them to help; they even sent guys out to assess the situation. Said they couldn’t help. Said it wasn’t any worse than anywhere else these days—which is a lie.” A vein stood out on the kid’s neck; he seemed convulsed with an inner rage.
“You mentioned warriors, Mr. Skinner,” George said. “You mean there was a battle once at Aldbury Castle?”
“Yeah, there was a battle,” the kid said. “Vikings or some such. Long time ago.”
“That might be part of it, then,” Lockwood said. “Battle sites can be hot spots, can’t they, George?”
“Sure…” George tapped his notebook absently. “But the country’s pockmarked with sites of battles, plagues, and skirmishes, and they don’t all flare up like this. And I don’t know…Vikings? That’s so ancient. You wouldn’t expect them to stir up so much trouble.”
“Are you doubting my word?” Danny Skinner asked. That vein throbbed. “Are you?”
“No, I’m doubting you’re giving us all the necessary information. You’re skirting around the central issue. All these ghosts you mentioned—it sounds grim, but you said there was something worse out there. What is it?”
Our guest looked down at his lap. “Yeah, there is something else. I didn’t want to tell you straight off, in case you wet your collective pants and were too frightened to come down. I was going to tell you on the train.”
At this, there was a certain amount of stretching of eyes. Lockwood spoke gently. “Well, since we aren’t coming on the train, Mr. Skinner, certainly not today and perhaps never, maybe you’d be so good as to tell us about this very frightening thing. We’ll try to contain ourselves as best we can.”
The kid shook his head. “You know, I only came to Lockwood and Co. because you’re young, like me. I thought you’d treat me right….Well, the truth is, there is something else that walks by night in the village of Aldbury Castle.” He shuddered, then drew his shoulders in and fiddled with his collar as if he suddenly felt cold. “No one knows what it is, or what its nature might be. But it has a local name.” He took a deep breath, then spoke in a voice of guttural dread. “We call it…the Creeping Shadow.”
He sat back and surveyed us with triumphant, hard-eyed finality, as if expecting us to utter groans and gasps of terror, throw ourselves off our seats, and roll on the floor in panic with our legs wiggling in the air. It didn’t work out that way. Lockwood raised a polite eyebrow; Holly scribbled briefly in her notebook, then scratched a decorative knee. I took another bite of cake.
George stared at the boy from over his glasses. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why give it that name? Or any name, come to think of it? None of the other apparitions you’ve mentioned were called anything special. What makes this ghost so terrifying?”
“Creeping Shadows are a dime a dozen around here,” Holly added as the boy frowned indignantly. “Almost every Shade or Lurker could be described like that.”
“You need to give us more information,” Lockwood said. “Prove it’ll be worth our while.”
“Worth your while?!” The boy gave a cry of rage. He banged his fist on the arm of his chair, making us all jump. “You agents think you’ve seen it all, with your precious certainties that make you turn up your noses at me! Those Rotwell agents were just the same. Well, I’ll shake you up.” He glared around at us, a hostile, white-nosed imp of fury. “The Creeping Shadow isn’t like any other ghost you’ve seen. There’s its size, for one thing.”
“Well, how big is it?” Lockwood asked.
“It’s a giant. Seven feet tall, or maybe taller, with a massive body, and bloated arms and legs. It wasn’t a naturally sized man, whatever it was in life.”
“The Limbless are often bloated,” I said. “Might be a Limbless.”
“I said it had legs and arms, didn’t I?” Danny Skinner growled. “Are you deaf? How else could it creep? I saw it myself, in the pheasant woods below Gunner’s Top. Came stealing through the trees, head lowered, creeping, creeping, with smoke or mist or whatnot pouring off it.”
“Ghost-fog, you mean,” Holly said.
“No.” The boy shook his head. “I know what ghost-fog is. We get plenty of it on the green; the village is choked with it some nights. This is different. This stuff streams off the spirit as it moves. It trails behind it like a cloak, like a comet’s tail. Almost like it’s on fire. You never saw a Limbless like that.”
George brushed some crumbs off his lap. “I admit you do interest me a little now. So there are flames on this shadow?”
“The edge flickers. If it’s flames, it’s the cold flames of hell.”
“Describe the apparition. What details do you see when you look at it? Its face? Its clothes?”
“Nothing—just a black outline.” The kid rolled his eyes. “Jeez. Why do you think we call it a shadow?”
“All right, all right,” Lockwood said. “A bit of feistiness is all very well, but if you don’t dial it down pronto, you’ll find yourself booted out into the street. By Holly here, which will be super-embarrassing.”
“What else can you tell us?” I said.
Danny Skinner looked at me. “I thought you were a client.”
“Oh…yes. Yes, I am. I’m just watching. Don’t mind me.”
Whether it was inherent in him, or something built up by terrible experiences, anger pulsed through the kid in waves. You could see it flare up, then just as quickly subside. “The way it moves,” he said; “the shape of the head, how it sort of rolls awkwardly along—I think it’s deformed. Cold rolls off it, too; I near froze with fear.”
“You saw it in the woods?”
“I did, but kids have seen it in other places. In Church Lane, skulking in the graveyard, and up on the barrows, other side of the green.”
Lockwood frowned. “Sounds like it travels far and wide. That is unusual. Aside from general creeping about, do you get a sense of any purpose? What does it do?”
The boy shrugged. “I know what it does. It gathers people’s souls.”
This time the pause following his announcement was met with a more attentive silence. It wasn’t that we were awed or scared. All of us were watching his face, trying to decide how to respond. With open incredulity? (My inclination.) With scathing disbelief? (George somehow turned a hog-like snort into a sort-of sneeze.) Or calmly, quizzically, as Holly and Lockwood did? “Can you expand on that?” Lockwood asked.
“There’s a cross in the churchyard,” Danny Skinner said. “It’s very old. They think it dates from Viking times. There are carvings on it, very worn and weathered; most of them you can’t make heads or tails of now—but one still has its shape. The old folk call it the Gatherer of Souls. It’s a figure standing in a field of bones and skulls, and there are people arranged behind it, all pressed close together, like they’ve been collected up by it, you know. Well, I saw the Shadow. It’s the same thing.”
“You’re saying that this Creeping Shadow is the same as the figure on the ancient cross?”
“Yes. They carved it like a giant, just like the shape I saw.”
“When did the Shadow first appear?”
“Three months ago. Midwinter’s Day.”
“And there’s no record of it turning up before then, not even in village legend?”
“Not as far as I know.”
Lockwood shook his head. “Sorry, I don’t see any link between the ghost and this old carving. They may both be big and bulky—but that’s not enough to make a connection.”
“Wrong. There is a connection.”
“How? In what way?”
Danny Skinner spoke quietly. “It was three months ago that the curse on the village started. That’s when the ghosts erupted. That’s when the adults started dying of ghost-touch. Why? Because the Shadow stirs up the dead. They rise from their graves to follow him, like on the cross. You ain’t seen anything like it, sir, till you’ve seen that. You have to come and witness it—and help us while you’re there.” The stork chick look was back, the big-eyed, big-eared waif, gazing beseechingly around at us. “You have to.”
“Well, that was fun,” Holly said as we sat in the kitchen later. “I thought he was going to physically assault you at the end there, Lockwood. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so mad.”
Lockwood blew out his cheeks. “I know. It’s not as if we even gave him an outright no. If we get a chance, we might run down sometime next week. There were actually point
s of interest in what he said. But I’m simply not dropping everything for the wild claims of some hysterical kid.”
“He was certainly over-egging it,” I said. “He really piled it on.”
“And here’s the clincher,” George said darkly. “Note how he didn’t eat his slice.”
“We can hardly dis someone on the grounds they turned down cake, George.”
“You bet we can. In my eyes, refusing cake is an immoral act. ‘I’m not a cakey person’—those were his actual words. Brrr.”
“And it was Holly’s homemade one, too,” Lockwood said. “Well, one way or another, we’re in agreement that he seemed a bit nuts. I’m sure it’s a bad cluster, but that Shadow business at the end was completely over the top. So, we’ll worry about Danny Skinner another day—if we get the time. For now, there are far more urgent things on our agenda, namely Lucy’s problem. And as to that”—he grinned at me—“I’ve just had a brilliant idea.”
Precisely what Lockwood’s plan was, we didn’t immediately hear. He refused to be drawn out and, not long afterward, went off somewhere on his own. Physically, I was still recovering from my exertions of the previous forty-eight hours, so I was happy enough to stay at Portland Row. I made myself useful as best I could, helping George with the dishes; after that, when he and Holly went down to the office to start on company business, I wandered into the garden.
The gnarled old apple tree was budding, and the unkempt grass sparkled in the sunshine. I sat on the patio, among the weeds, staring at the backs of houses across the gardens. Flowers whose names I didn’t know were showing under the walls, and birds I didn’t recognize swooped low between the trees, filling the air with sound. Last summer, once or twice, when we weren’t out risking our lives, we’d sat here in the evenings. We’d always said we should do it more, but it never happened—we were just too busy. Besides, none of us really knew what to do with relaxation; it was so much more natural to just go out and stab something. So the garden was generally ignored.
The Screaming Staircase Page 16
