The Screaming Staircase

by Jonathan Stroud

  Our descent into the thicket had been abrupt. Our pursuers were somewhere above us. Nothing was near.

  “Are you all right, Lucy?”

  I nodded, blinked ice out of my eyes. In that second in which my cape had fallen away, a coating of frost had adhered to my face.

  “Am I pressing too close?”

  “No.”

  “Say if I am.”

  “I will.”

  “We’ve got to go on, into the mist. But we have to stick together like glue. The cape’s not very big. You’ll have to stay really close to me, Luce. Can you do that?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Quick, then. They’re coming.”

  Up on our feet, out of the hollow and up a final rise. Dark shapes converged on us, bursting out from beneath the trees. We were almost at the brow of the hill. Gunner’s Top was what it had been called; or something very like that. The name didn’t seem appropriate here. Nothing under that flat black sky had a name.

  The mists below now lay thicker on the fields than when we’d left them. The buildings of the institute were barely visible; their roofs rose above the murk, as dark and dead as standing stones.

  We skittered and skidded down the slope, arms around each other, plowing up clouds of ice crystals at every step. Every movement was jerky, hard to take. We started out across the field. “No good,” I gasped. “I’ve got to rest.”

  “Me, too.” We stopped, turned stiffly together beneath our hood—just in time to see a tide of figures surging over the hillcrest, pouring down the slope behind us.

  “Okay,” Lockwood said. “Maybe a rest’s not such a good idea.”

  Onward, in silence, through the mists; and now those mists parted, and we saw a tall bearded man, picking himself up off the ground, turning his head as we passed by. He carried a great sword. Both blade and skin were glimmering with frost.

  Stumbling, almost falling, we ran on. The mists closed up again. Behind us we heard footsteps shuffling on hard ground.

  “A Viking’s all we need,” I gasped.

  “Like moths to a candle,” Lockwood said. “Our warmth, our life—it draws them all. They followed the Shadow just the same. Last push, Lucy! We’re almost there—”

  We could see the fence of the institute, open, blank, and empty. Beyond, the doors of the central building hung wide and black.

  “I’m never going to make it,” I said.

  “Keep going. We’re there. We’ve done so well.”

  Through the fence, across the frosted gravel. We reached the double doors. The interior of the hangar was filled with mist. There was ice on the ground here, too. We paused, panting. We were almost worn out. Beneath the smoking spirit-cape, our gloves sparkled with ice. Our breath echoed like it was reverberating off our bones.

  “How are we doing?” Lockwood said.

  I looked back. “They’re still coming. They’re at the fence now.”

  “Better get on with it, then.”

  We stumbled through the open doors.

  It was the same place—no doubt about that. The soaring roof, the metal walls. Far off through the mists, I saw the stacked crates. But the light was still odd, so that everything was layered, gray and grainy, as if with scales. That mist played tricks with my eyes. Nothing seemed quite straight, neither floor nor ceiling, hatch nor door. It looked as if everything was made of wax, and had been heated so that it swelled and softened, and was just about to melt. But everything was brittle with cold; thin cracks ran across the floor at my feet, and our boots rang out like iron.

  The mist in the center of the hall was very thick. We couldn’t see through it.

  “The chain…” Lockwood gasped. “Where is it, Luce?”

  “I don’t know….” Looking behind, I saw the shapes of our pursuers clustering at the doors.

  “Oh, God. Where is it?”

  “We’re almost at the other end. We must have gone too far….”

  We circled in a panic, around and around. Lockwood wanted to go one way, I another; we almost tore his cape, tugging it between us.

  We stopped, spent and despairing. I could hear many footsteps on the earth behind. All around us, just the swirling mists, the mist and melting wall….

  And there, slouching in a corner by the sidewall, a thin and rangy youth, hair spiked, hands in pockets, staring at me. He stood amid a pile of discarded jars and boxes. He was as gray as the inhabitants of the dark village, except for his grin, which gleamed sardonically even in the swirling dusk and was somehow most familiar. He stretched out an arm, pointed behind me. I turned, saw the post and chain.

  “There it is!” I pulled Lockwood around. “Look!”

  Lockwood cursed. “Why didn’t we notice it before? Are we blind? Come on!” We circled toward the post. When I glanced back, the mists had closed in once more and the grinning youth was gone, and we were alone beside the post and its icy iron chain.

  “Hold on to it,” Lockwood said. “We go together. You first. Follow it right through. Don’t stop for anything.” He had drawn his sword, was staring all around us. The mists, swirling like stage curtains, grew darker with approaching forms. I caught a flash of Hetty Flinders’s bright blue dress.

  It probably wasn’t very far we had to walk before stepping back into the circle. But it seemed to go on a bit, what with the awkwardness of being clasped together, so that we could only shuffle like penguins, and with the people of the village now erupting from the mist, and with us both swinging our rapiers to keep them at bay. When the vortex of Sources in the circle came into sight, it was a positive relief. I was almost ready to greet Solomon Guppy and Emma Marchment as old friends. Without regrets we threw ourselves over the chains, through the wall of whirling, shrieking spirits, and found ourselves again in the still heart of the iron circle.

  The man in iron armor was nowhere to be seen. We inched our way along the chain toward the other side.

  “If Rotwell’s out there,” Lockwood said, “we’re just going to have to deal with it. I’d rather be killed by him than have something…happen to me back there.”

  I glanced behind us. “Think they could follow us through?”

  “The iron will hold them up. But why not? It’s a hole, and there are a lot of them. I only hope Steve Rotwell and his friends get to meet them, too. Got your sword ready, Luce?”

  “Yep, and if I don’t stab someone’s backside with it in the next five minutes, I’m going to be sorely disappointed.”

  “Let’s see if we can surprise them, then. Come on.”

  Again, just for an instant, the rushing ghosts were all around us. And then we were over the chains, and we stepped out together into the warmth, noise, and joyous, blinding light of the real world.

  Where a battle was going on.

  Even without the explosions, even without the blazing white magnesium fires, even without the shouts and screams and the whizzing flares, we’d have struggled to comprehend anything in those first few moments. The sensory contrast with the place we’d left was just too great. My brain was seared by savage brightness. The pain was numbing. I squeezed my eyes shut just as a wall of sound and heat hit me like a shovel to the head. I stumbled back, confused and helpless. Beside me, I could sense Lockwood doing the same.

  All of a sudden I felt wet, too; the ice from the spirit-cape was melting. Freezing moisture ran down my neck, soaking my shoulders and arms. The shock jolted me into action. I peeled away from Lockwood, threw off the cape, took a mighty step—and promptly fell over something solid lying on the floor. I landed flat on my face in the soft, damp earth.

  “Have a nice trip?”

  I spat soil from my mouth. Then I opened my swollen eyes a crack, and through bleary but steadily improving vision saw the ghost-jar sitting in the open backpack, where I’d left it among the empty boxes. The reflection of white fires danced against the glass. The face behind it was watching me with unfeigned glee. I recognized the grin.

  “Hello again,” it chuckled. “Yo
u look so rough. It’s really excellent. But you’d better wake up quickly and get involved, or they’ll destroy the place without you.”

  “Who will?”

  “Your friends.”

  Shocking news delivered by a skull: that’s about as good a recipe as I can think of for making you snap out of your pain, exhaustion, and psychic befuddlement. I didn’t know whether to be thrilled or terrified—it was probably a combination of both. But I rolled over, forced my unwilling muscles to get me into a standing position; and by the time I’d managed that, I had more or less absorbed what was going on.

  The old-time Viking/Saxon smackdown was no longer the most recent skirmish on that barren square of ground. A new one was in full swing. Everywhere I looked, magnesium flares were exploding, salt-bombs were bursting, pellets of iron filings were spattering viciously against the wall. Debris littered the floor; it was a piece of wood from the platform at the end that I’d stumbled over just now. The focus of the action appeared to be the corner of the building, between the piles of crates near the door to the weapons room and the side passage we’d seen the Rotwell crew leave through earlier that night. We’d heard them coming back in shortly before we’d gone into the circle, and sure enough they were still there, most of them. But they were no longer doing anything remotely scientific. No more clipboards for Mr. Johnson. No more flasks for Steve Rotwell. Instead, they and the rest of their team were scurrying around in panic as a rain of small explosions peppered them. A bright magnesium fire burned in the exit to the passage, preventing their escape. The electric cart was overturned, wheels gently spinning. It appeared to have been driven into the wall.

  The origin of the ongoing attack was the pile of burning crates by the other door, and here three fast-moving figures could be glimpsed, popping out from cover at random intervals to hurl ghost-bombs and blast iron capsules down on the foe. Several of the Rotwell group were returning fire from behind the upturned cart, and the man in hulking iron armor, the erstwhile Creeping Shadow, was making strenuous efforts to climb up onto the crates, presumably to do battle. He wasn’t having much luck. His armor was battered and his helmet slightly askew; and his progress was limited by his inability to raise his knee high enough to reach the wooden platform.

  So intent was everyone on the fight that no one had noticed our arrival. There was a movement at my side. It was Lockwood, fearsomely disheveled, but calmly rolling up the wet and steaming spirit-cape and stuffing it in his backpack. “Everything okay, Lucy? Warming up a little?”

  “Just a bit. Look at all this. What’s going on?”

  “It appears to be a rescue effort.” He pointed in wonder at a slim shape half concealed between two crates. It had spikes of ashy, deranged hair, a ferocious, feral expression, and an enormous capsule-gun in its slender hands. “Is that…is that actually Holly?” he asked.

  “You know, I think it is.”

  Kipps was visible, too, in a vantage point near the wall. Calm, steely, and implacable, he had a nice barrage of salt-bombs going. As we watched, he scored two successive hits on the armored man, knocking off his helmet and tipping him onto his back like a drunken, rolling tortoise.

  But neither Kipps nor Holly was the most remarkable thing on view.

  “Check out George,” I said.

  Lockwood whistled. “He’s like a whirling dervish!”

  George was, indeed, a thing to behold. Darting out from behind the crates to lob magnesium flares directly at Steve Rotwell, he repeatedly paraded himself in full view, as if daring the enemy to do its worst. His face still bore smears of makeup from our attempt at commando camouflage earlier in the evening. To this had now been added streaks of magnesium salt that slanted across his cheek and forehead like slashes of pale war paint. His teeth were bared, his hair stood up, his glasses blazed red in the flames flickering from the crates beside him. He had an enormous flare holster strapped diagonally across his chest, from which he pulled an endless stream of missiles. Occasionally he yelled shrill and incoherent cries.

  “I could watch this all day,” Lockwood said, “but I suppose we have to help them.”

  “You go, I’ll follow. Just one thing I need to do first….”

  Twice since its theft I’d been close to retrieving the skull in the jar; twice I’d been forced to leave it behind. It wasn’t going to happen again.

  The ghost grinned as I hoisted the backpack over my shoulders. “Ah, two firm friends, reunited at last! There should be sweet violin music playing for us, but I’ll settle for the screams of the dying.”

  My eyes scanned the carnage. “No one’s actually dying, are they?”

  “Maybe not, but it’s not for want of trying. There’s a few nasty magnesium burns on view. Some of those scientists are going to have trouble sitting down tomorrow morning.”

  “Good. Tell me what’s happened, then.” I stood, just in time to see Lockwood vaulting up onto the platform, using the chest of the armored man as an impromptu step. I had my backpack on, my sword out. I was ready to enter the fray.

  “That’s what I wanted to ask you,” the skull said as I ran. “I’m dying to hear about your adventures. I bet they’re much more interesting than all this nasty violence.”

  “Just give me a straight answer!” I ran up the front of the armored man, kicked out at a Rotwell scientist who was leveling a gun at me, and jumped onto the platform, where I ducked behind a crate. Something exploded right behind me, sending feathery plumes of fire fizzing over my head.

  “It’s a story quickly told. These fools were about to send another man through to the Other Side, only to be rudely interrupted by the arrival of your very angry friends. That’s about it. The End. Now go and finish things.”

  “Okay,” I said. “And…and when you say the ‘Other Side’…”

  “You know.”

  “But—”

  “You know perfectly well.”

  Maybe I did, but now, fortunately, was not the time to dwell on it. Keeping low, I slipped between the crates to join the others. Nearest was Holly. I tapped her on the shoulder, gave her a cheery grin.

  “Aaah!”

  “Hey, Holly! Holly, don’t shoot me! It’s me! It’s me!”

  “Aaah! But you’re dead!”

  “No—would a ghost tap you? Would a ghost talk to you…?” I waited. “Would a ghost punch you in the face? You’ll find out if you don’t stop screaming.”

  “But you went in the circle…”

  “I’m okay. And Lockwood, too—look, he’s over there, with George. Well, don’t start crying now.” I gave her a swift hug. “See? Would a ghost do that? Come on. We’re doing well. George is driving them from the field.”

  This was, in fact, mostly true. At Lockwood & Co., George was famous for not being able to throw or catch with any accuracy. Back in the kitchen at Portland Row, even the casual passing out of fruit or bags of chips became an exercise fraught with danger. Heads would be struck, glasses broken, peaches spattered on the wall above the sink. Curiously, that particular anti-talent boosted his effectiveness here. Whenever he ventured out from the crates and, with a savage cry, lobbed a flare or ghost-bomb toward the enemy, no one had a clue where it would land. Following the movement of his arm was no help; the item would as often as not shoot out implausibly in the opposite direction and send another Rotwell employee spiraling through the air. As a result, every time he popped into view, all the enemy agents ducked for cover. Many of them were already running down the length of the building, making for open air.

  Sensing victory, Kipps emerged from his place of concealment, carrying a giant bag of ghost-bombs. Lockwood went to meet him; after brief greetings, he joined Kipps in lobbing missiles down the room.

  “How long’s this fighting been going on, Hol?”

  Holly lifted her capsule-gun and wiped her face. Her hair and hands were dusted with a coating of gray ash. “Not long. Since we saw you enter the circle.”

  “You were here when we…? How—?” Then anoth
er thought occurred to me. “But hold on, that’s been…that was ages ago, wasn’t it? Hours…”

  “Don’t think so, Lucy. About ten minutes.”

  “But—but it takes half an hour to walk to Aldbury Castle. Must be twenty minutes or more to run back….” I spoke as if to myself. Yet it was certainly true that my whole experience on the other side of the circle now felt curiously insubstantial, weightless, almost dreamlike.

  It wasn’t the time to worry about it.

  “What are you talking about?” Holly fired an exploding capsule down at the man in battered armor, who was fleeing awkwardly across the hangar. His breastplate had slipped off and was swinging like a pendulum. His boots, gloves, and other parts lay like scrap iron on the floor. She patted the side of the gun. “You know, this is a great weapon.”

  “It definitely suits you. Let’s go and join the others. It looks like they’re starting to mop things up.”

  The enemy ranks were thinning out. Many of the scientists had fled, and the rest seemed inclined to follow them, despite Steve Rotwell’s ferociously shouted orders. Half-crouched behind the upturned cart, he had not retreated or resorted to firing any high-tech weapons. He had his rapier drawn.

  George gave me a wave as I approached. Strapped to the back of his belt was one of the enormous flares we’d noticed in the weapons room, large as a coconut. “Hi, Luce.”

  “Hey, George. I see you’re having fun. That’s a mighty big one you’ve got there.”

  “Yes, that’s my insurance policy. But I reckon these ghost-bombs will do the job for now.”

  Lockwood had just tossed one down at Steve Rotwell. It burst beside him. A gnarled female shape, translucent and shimmering pale blue, rose up at his back. Barely bothering to turn, Rotwell swung his rapier backward, snipping it neatly through the midriff. The ectoplasm fizzed and burst asunder.

  “Ooh, see that?” George called. “He just sliced an old lady in two. That’s low.”

  “Typical Rotwell behavior.” Kipps threw another bomb, which bounced off a wall and came to an anticlimactic stop. “Hey, that one didn’t even work!” He shook his fist at Mr. Rotwell. “What kind of a product d’you call this?”