The Screaming Staircase

by Jonathan Stroud

  It was some ways off, in the center of a flat expanse of abandoned fields, ringed by low-lying hills. You could see it had been a good place for a battle, long ago; you could imagine the two armies massing in this natural basin. It would have been a spectacular sight—certainly a lot more spectacular than what we saw before us now.

  I don’t know what I’d been expecting: some giant, gleaming edifice, I suppose, like a cross between the furnaces at Clerkenwell and the swanky glass-fronted Rotwell building on Regent Street. A big warehouse complex, at the very least, spotlighted and shiny, with dozens of agents scurrying around. But that wasn’t what I saw. The road curved away below us through the scrubby fields to terminate at an uninspiring collection of metal buildings. They were haphazardly arranged, clustered randomly together like a herd of resting cows. They looked like the sort of hangars that could be erected very cheaply and very fast: they had corrugated roofs and few windows. The ground between them had been leveled and laid with gravel. There were a couple of tall floodlights to illuminate the place at night; their drooping wires had a shabby and neglected air. A fence surrounded it all. The vehicles that had passed through the village earlier were parked just inside the one visible gate. No one was in sight.

  “It looks…dumpy,” I said.

  “Doesn’t it?” Lockwood spoke softly, but I could hear the excitement in his voice. “Yet the Rotwell Institute is clearly very busy there. Large, temporary hangars, slap-bang in the middle of an old battlefield. I wonder…”

  “You think it’s the ‘place of blood’?”

  “Maybe. You can bet all that old carnage gives them a head start with whatever it is they’re doing. Well, we can’t try anything in broad daylight. That fence doesn’t look like much, though. Bring a pair of wire cutters one night, and we’d be in….” Lockwood looked at me. “Care to risk it?”

  “I’d give it a go. The skull might be inside.”

  “I knew you’d say that, Luce.” He smiled through the sunlit grass. “It’s almost like the old days again.”

  How warm and comfy it was, lying there—the sun was far stronger than I’d anticipated. I could have coped with staying a little longer, but we had to see how the others were getting on.

  We found them at the inn, sitting in a corner of the taproom, and looking somewhat dazed. Their tour of Aldbury Castle had ended with half the inhabitants of the village emerging from their cottages to regale them with desperate stories of ghosts and hauntings. Holly had done her best to calm everyone; she had invited them back to the inn to give their accounts in an organized manner. Kipps then jotted down the details, and George marked each manifestation on a map with a neat red dot. The final person had only just gone, leaving Kipps with a stack of scribblings before him, and George’s map looking like it suffered from chicken pox. Three of the dots were ringed in black.

  “Those are sightings of the Creeping Shadow,” Holly said. “Here in the churchyard, here by the old barrows on the far side of the village, and here on the green, where two little girls told me they’d seen a ‘big burning man’ walking near the cross. But the Shadow’s the least of our problems. There are so many ghosts here, Lockwood. I don’t know how we’ll ever tackle them all.”

  “That’s what we have to decide,” Lockwood said. “Great work, everybody. Brilliant data. Let’s get some food, then we can try to analyze what we’ve learned.”

  By evening, we’d created a proper nerve center for our operation. We had our supply bags ready, and our evening meal prepared. Stew had been offered again, but mercifully George had made a trip to the village stores, and brought us backup in the form of fruit, sandwiches, and sausage rolls. We’d commandeered a corner of the bar, as far from the Reverend Skinner’s fireside seat as possible, and shoved a few tables together to create a proper battle desk. In the center of this was spread George’s map, with Kipps’s notes alongside. We studied them. As Holly said, it was a sobering prospect.

  “It’s going to take us several nights,” Lockwood said at last. “We’ll have to work in teams, and systematically go from house to house.” He looked up. “What was that?”

  “Car pulled up outside,” Kipps said. “Someone’s coming in.”

  Lockwood frowned, looked to the window. Even as he did so, the door opened, bringing with it a swirl of cold night air and the smell of lavender from the braziers burning in the pub garden. A big man stepped inside; the door clattered shut behind him.

  Silence in the bar. We gazed at the newcomer, who had stooped to get through the door; now he straightened, his tousled fair hair brushing against the ceiling. He was a well-built, handsome man in late middle age, a striking physical presence. His chin was strong, his cheekbones broad and high. He wore an expensive suit, with a heavy winter coat, woolen on the inside, and a pair of green driving gloves. His movements were deliberate and unhurried; a heavy air of entitlement hung about him. Bright green eyes surveyed the room; they alighted at once on us. He walked in our direction.

  We knew who he was, of course. There were enough posters of him plastered all over London. In those pictures, he was invariably smiling, mouth grinning as wide as the keyboard of a grand piano, emerald eyes twinkling, holding out some clever artifact dreamed up by the clever people at his institute. He was often arm in arm with a cartoon lion, too. There was actually something cartoonish about Steve Rotwell in person, as well, for he was a large man, thickset around the arms and shoulders, but rapidly tapering through the legs to a pair of small, neat feet. He had much the same attributes as a cartoon bulldog. I didn’t find him particularly comic, though, having once seen him skewer someone with a sword.

  He pulled back a chair and sat opposite us. “Which of you is Anthony Lockwood?”

  Lockwood had half stood in welcome. Now he sat, too. He nodded politely. “I am, sir. It’s good to see you again. We met briefly at the carnival last year. You might remember Lucy, George, and Holly, also.”

  Steve Rotwell was the kind of man who sat with his legs wide, leaning back in the chair, in a casually dominant pose. He took off his gloves and tossed them on the table. “I remember Holly Munro. She used to work for me. And I remember the rest of you. You’re Penelope Fittes’s lackeys.”

  Lockwood raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

  “Always at her beck and call. Jump when she whistles. Fittes’s lackeys. I know.”

  “That’s an outrageous statement.” Lockwood glanced around, caught sight of Kipps. “Well, he was until recently, to be fair. But the rest of us are fully independent. Would you like a drink?”

  “I’ll take a coffee,” Steve Rotwell said. “It’s been a long road.”

  “Could we have some coffee, Mr. Skinner?” Holly asked. The innkeeper, who had been watching wide-eyed from behind the bar, jumped like a jackrabbit and disappeared.

  “If you’re hungry,” George said, “there’s probably some stew.”

  Rotwell ignored him. He unbuttoned his coat, with no particular hurry, and sat back in his chair surveying Lockwood. “Mr. Lockwood,” he said, “what are you doing here?”

  “I’m drinking tea and studying a map. It’s not very exciting.”

  “I mean here in Aldbury Castle.”

  Lockwood smiled. “It may have escaped your notice, sir—you, no doubt, having many other things to think about—but there is a dangerous cluster of ghosts active in this village. We’ve come to deal with it.”

  “Why should you come? You’re a London agency.”

  “We were invited by the people of the village, who are in desperate need.”

  Mr. Rotwell was one of those men who, having been considered important or good-looking in his youth, had never seen much need to indulge in smiles in everyday life. As a result, his face was mostly immobile. He said, “You know that Aldbury Castle is very close to one of my Rotwell Institutes. It’s on the doorstep, so to speak. We consider it our local patch.”

  Lockwood, smiling blandly, said nothing.

  “It’s considered com
mon courtesy,” Mr. Rotwell went on, “for an agency to respect another agency’s territory. Their cases, their clients, their spheres of influence…There are unspoken rules we all adhere to. In such circumstances, I’m surprised to see you here. I assume that, now I’ve drawn your attention to the problem, you will be withdrawing from Aldbury Castle tomorrow.”

  “I was given to understand, sir,” Lockwood said, “that your employees had been approached about the cluster of Visitors here, and had chosen not to respond. In such circumstances, I consider our actions eminently justified and reasonable.”

  “You won’t be leaving?”

  “Of course not.”

  In the silence, Mr. Skinner approached carrying a cup of black coffee, with a little jug of cream. He set them on the table.

  “Thank you. Wait.” Rotwell reached into his jacket, removed a wallet, and selected a crisp note, which he handed to the innkeeper without looking. He waited until Skinner had retreated, then curled a heavy finger into the handle of the china cup. He did not drink, but stared at the black liquid. “You have quite a reputation, Mr. Lockwood,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  “A reputation for becoming involved in things that don’t concern you.”

  “Really?” Lockwood smiled. “May I ask who says so? Have some of your employees or associates been complaining? What are their names? Perhaps I know them.”

  “No names. The fact is generally accepted. This means,” Rotwell said, “that when I learn you’ve unexpectedly turned up near my institute, where important and delicate research is continually being done, I am concerned. I worry that you might be tempted to stray from the proper bounds of agency work and poke your nose into unauthorized matters.” He lifted his hand, drained the coffee in a single gulp, and set the cup down.

  There was a pause. Lockwood stirred. “Did you follow any of that, Luce?”

  “Not a word.”

  “George?”

  “Hopeless. Like a foreign language.”

  “Yes, you’ll have to speak more plainly than that, Mr. Rotwell,” Lockwood said. “George here often uses big words I can’t understand, but even he’s struggling to follow you. What is it that you don’t want me to do?”

  Steve Rotwell made a gesture of irritation. “You are here to deal with the cluster?”

  “I am.”

  “That is your sole interest?”

  “Why shouldn’t it be?”

  Rotwell grunted. “That is not an answer to my question.”

  “Well, it’s all you’re going to get,” Lockwood said. “Mr. Rotwell, Aldbury Castle isn’t your ‘patch,’ your ‘territory,’ your ‘doorstep,’ or anything else. If you object to me helping to clear this village of its ghosts, you will have to make an official complaint to DEPRAC and see where it gets you. Until you do so, I’m free to act here. In the meantime, do have another coffee and tell me about this ‘important and delicate research’ that’s going on up at the institute. It sounds fascinating. Are we likely to see some new Rotwell products anytime soon?”

  Instead of answering, Rotwell took up his gloves and got ponderously to his feet. He looked to the window, where dusk was advancing across the green, then started to leave. An afterthought halted him. Where he stood now, he blocked the light, casting Lockwood into shadow. “You’re a precocious boy,” he said. “I won’t list your talents—you’re evidently all too aware of them. What you lack, I suspect, is the ability to know when to stop. Because you, Mr. Lockwood, are an overreacher. I recognize that quality; in many ways I’m one, too. It means, I believe, that you will keep pushing the boundaries until one day you go too far. There are witnesses here, so I openly warn you now—don’t cross me. If you do, you will regret it. I say that to you hoping in firm good faith that you will heed my warning. But I don’t believe you will. You’ll cross me, because that is what you wish to do. And I will deal with you then.” He put on his gloves, buttoned up his coat. “In the meantime, good luck with your little ghost-chase. I’m sure it’s a job you’re well qualified for.”

  With that, Mr. Rotwell departed. The door clattered shut behind him.

  We all stared at the door. Then we all turned to Lockwood.

  He smiled at us. It was a long, lazy smile, but his eyes glittered.

  “Well,” he said, “the man’s an accurate judge of character, if nothing else. I wasn’t sure whether investigating what he’s up to was worth the risk. I considered it a fifty-fifty shot at the very best. But he’s settled the matter for me. We’re definitely going to do it now.”

  Night fell on Aldbury Castle, and we turned the lanterns low in the bar. Danny Skinner threw logs on the fire. The leaping flames danced on the rapiers laid out on the table; they danced in our eyes as we sat like robbers around a hoard, checking work belts, hefting bags of salt and iron into backpacks, drawing routes of attack on George’s map. We had many hours of work ahead of us, and Visitors seldom come to full strength much before midnight, so with our preparations complete, we sat quietly for a time. Holly read a book; Lockwood stretched out on a bench and dozed. George challenged Danny to a game of chess and was soon, to his annoyance, in some difficulty. I sat by the fire, seeing figures in the flames.

  Only Kipps found it impossible to relax. He paced, he stretched, he touched his toes and performed other extravagant warm-up exercises that cast distasteful shadows on the wall. His hair sprouted like gingery watercress behind the goggles perched on his forehead; he could scarcely wait to use them in the field. Finally, the urge overcame him. Pulling on his goggles, he swooped to the window and stared out toward the green.

  “I just saw another!” he cried. “Faint as anything, but I definitely picked it out! The Phantasm of a man over by the bridge!”

  I grunted. Lockwood lay with his arm over his eyes; he sighed heavily.

  “And there!” Kipps rotated slightly, squinting through the goggles. “Two cloaked figures on the green. They’re standing close together, hoods down, huddled like they’re sheltering from the cold. Ghost-fog’s rising from their capes. Now they’re breaking into a run….They’re gone! Oh, this is great. There’s so much to see!”

  George looked up from the chessboard. “I’m pleased he’s so happy, but did anyone else prefer the dourer, quieter Kipps? This could be a long night.”

  Kipps rotated again. “And oh, that’s horrible. There by the fire! A gaunt, wizened thing with protruding teeth….”

  Danny Skinner spoke with dignity. “That would be my grandfather, remember? He’s still alive.”

  “Oh, yes. Got a bit carried away there.” Kipps pulled up the goggles, looked at his watch. “Come on, Lockwood, what’s all this shirking? It’s almost ten thirty. Time we were off.”

  Lockwood swung his legs around, pulled himself up off the bench. He yawned. “You’re right. We need to get going. We’ll do it as planned. Two teams, two hours in the field; then we rendezvous back here to see how things are going. Kipps and I will take the row of houses next door, where we’ve a couple of Specters to tackle. You others, start on the green. Come on, George; you’re only two moves from being checkmated, anyway. The cursed village awaits us! Let’s begin.”

  Out on the road, away from the meager lights of the inn, the immense dark of the countryside opened out above us. There was a moon up, but it was obscured by cloud. As Kipps had described, various patches of other-light drifted on the green. After swift farewells, he and Lockwood slipped silently away along the lane, while George, Holly, and I readied our packs. I moved away from the others for a moment. I had decided not to carry chains, feeling that the mass of iron suppressed my Talent too readily. Now, with a little psychic freedom, I detected a frisson in the air. It was just noticeable, like a battery’s hum, a stirring of energies….I looked up at the sky, at the dark ring of woods. Where did it come from? Impossible to say. This was where the skull might have come in handy. Once again I found myself wishing I had it at my side.

  “All right,” George said. “I’ll read t
he map. That’s my forte. Lucy or Holly—one of you had better be team leader. Give orders, make the snap decisions; you know the kind of thing. I’ll leave that up to you.”

  There was a pause. “I don’t mind,” I began. “Holly, why don’t you—?”

  “Lucy, why don’t you—?”

  We fell silent. “Can’t be me,” George said. “I’m terrible at quick thinking.” Humming gently, he scribbled something inconsequential on his map.

  “Tell you what,” Holly said, “why don’t you take the first hour, Lucy? Then, if you want, I can do the next. You’re a more experienced agent than me anyway.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Agreed. Thanks, Holly. Sounds like a good plan.” I adjusted my belt. “So, then, George. What’s first on our list?”

  “That would be the malevolent black cloud hanging above the grass, just over there.”

  Our proposed route would zigzag between reported hauntings: it would be like a cross-country race, basically, with a ghost at every checkpoint. And first up was the entity lurking near the site of the old gallows. If it had once been a peddler, infamous for his rotten pies, it was now a weak Dark Specter, a shapeless, pulsing mass, sending out thin tendrils of darkness in every direction.

  We approached with caution. “Well,” I said, “they may have burned the gallows, but they clearly haven’t sealed the place. I think this is a salt-and-iron job. Do you agree?”

  Both George and Holly did, and since the site was small and well-defined, it was a relatively straightforward undertaking. Holly volunteered to draw the apparition out. First she stole close, goading it with careful jabs and flurries of her rapier, until, in a sudden rush, it sped for her. As she skipped away, parrying the tendrils with her blade, George and I nipped in with our bags of salt and iron filings, and sowed the burned ground thickly. Almost from the outset, the shape began to lose its inky density; it wore down like a stain being rubbed, writhing and diminishing until it became a shower of black sparks that fell into the grass and melted clean away.