Jonathan Stroud - The Dagger in the Desk

‘Whatever the reason,’ Lockwood said, ‘I don’t feel that the library is quite at the centre of the haunting. Our readings weren’t strong enough inside. The Source must be somewhere else.’

Oh, did I mention Sources before? Here’s the thing about ghosts, you see. They don’t just float about wherever they like. All of them are tied to a specific thing or place – the spot where they died, or something important to them in life, or (most often) their bodily remains. We call this tethering point ‘the Source’, and that’s what agents look for. Find it and destroy it, or seal it up with silver – and that’s the end of the haunting. Then you can all go home for tea.

‘We’d better check out that classroom now,’ Lockwood was saying. ‘Take a look at this mysterious knife, which— Yes, George? What is it?’

George was jiggling about urgently. Either he was suddenly caught short or he’d had an idea. Or both. Sometimes the two did go together. Whichever, it was best not to ignore him.

‘I might hang on in the library, if that’s all right,’ he said. ‘I want to see if there’s a book about the school’s history, or some old school magazines or something. I’d like to discover a bit more about old headmaster Potts if I can. You never know, it might come in useful.’

This is George’s forte – he finds stuff out. Lockwood nodded. ‘Sure you’ll be OK on your own?’

‘Of course. You don’t need to hold my hand. I can lug anything I find inside the chains and read them in there. I’ll be absolutely safe. See you in a bit.’

George went back into the library. Lockwood and I set off down the left-hand passage. We were once again in an old portion of the school, with walls of panelling and plaster. A number of doors opened on our left and we checked them briefly as we went. The first was a storeroom, filled with mops, vacuum cleaners and stacks of toilet roll. The temperature was chilly here: scarcely seven degrees. The next was little more than a walk-in cupboard, containing paper, pens and other stationery. It too was very cold. The third, the boys’ toilets, was niffy, but much warmer – almost twelve degrees. The fourth –

The fourth door was open. We didn’t need to read its sign to know that this was the one we sought. Its window panel had been smashed; bright shards of glass glinted in our torchlight, and crunched beneath our boots as we entered the room.

Everywhere was evidence of the pupils’ rapid departure the day before: books and pencil cases littering the table; bags and coats lying crumpled on the floor. At the front of the class, the teacher’s chair lay upended. And close by, jutting from the side of the desk that faced the door, we found the object that had so terrified Mr Whitaker.

It was a long, thin-bladed knife. The hilt was wound with leather strips, very old and frayed. Fragments of grey cobwebs hung from it too, swaying slightly in small movements of the air.

‘That’s not an ordinary knife,’ I said. ‘That’s a dagger.’

‘You know what it looks like to me?’ Lockwood said slowly. ‘An old military weapon. If I had to guess, I’d say First World War issue – the kind all soldiers carried.’

‘Well, where’s it come from?’

‘Answer that, and we find our ghost.’ Lockwood straightened. ‘Listen, Lucy – I’m going to double-check further down the corridor. I’m pretty sure there’ll be nothing to find: I think the Source is between here and the library. I’ll be back in a minute, but while I’m gone, just start some readings in the classroom, would you?’

‘Sure.’

He slipped out of the door and was gone into the dark. I scarcely noticed him go. I was too busy staring at the dagger in the desk. One of my Talents, you see, is that of Touch. Sometimes, if I hold an object that has some kind of psychic charge, I feel or hear things associated with its past. Not every time. It doesn’t always work. And if the psychic charge is too strong, it can be uncomfortable or even dangerous for me. But the insights are often useful.

I stared at the dagger and wondered if I should risk it…

Of course I should! I was an agent. Taking horrible risks was part of the job description. We might as well have put it on our business cards.

I reached down and placed my fingers on the hilt.

At first there was nothing – nothing but the cool roughness of the leather strips that had been wrapped tightly around the metal. Nothing but the icky-sticky wispiness of the cobwebs trailing against my skin. I closed my eyes, tried to empty out my mind.

And all at once sensations came.

I gasped. I took a sharp breath in. They weren’t nice sensations, and they filled me with a swirling tide of bitterness and fury. There was pain and dull resentment there, and envy too. But most of all there was greed – a hard, tight avarice that lusted after valuable things. Fleeting images came and went: I saw laughing children, school passages and classrooms (old-fashioned, but recognizably the same as the ones we now explored), and (dimly) soldiers struggling in a muddy field. But by far the strongest picture was that of an open box or chest filled with coins, and it brought with it a feeling of dark glee.

I nearly took my hand away then, but suddenly, rising from the past, I saw a face I recognized – a beefy face with enormous side-whiskers. It gazed at me fiercely and seemed to speak. And now I was awash with fear and hate, and I was fleeing through the corridors, trying to get away, trying to reach my secret place… A door slammed… I was alone and safe! Safe for the moment! And, best of all, I still had my precious—

‘ Lucy! ’

My eyes snapped open. The voice broke through my trance. I snatched my hand away from the knife and, turning, peered off through the open classroom door and down along the passage. I did so almost blindly. It’s always hard when you’ve used your Talent. Your head’s all woozy, and your senses don’t quite work. Like waking from a dream, it takes you a few moments to come round. Plus it was very dark.

‘ Lucy …’

Halfway back towards the library, I saw a figure standing, tall and thin. It beckoned to me quickly.

‘Lockwood?’ I felt in my belt for my torch. ‘Is that you?’

The shape beckoned once more; slipped out of sight towards one of the storerooms. By the time I’d stabbed my torch on, it was gone.

‘Lockwood?’ I called again.

No answer. But I’d heard the urgency in the voice, seen the eager beckoning. I hurried out of the classroom and along the corridor. It was very cold out there.

‘ Lucy …’

No mistake this time. The voice came from behind the door to the store cupboard. I reached out to turn the handle—

A cough sounded right behind me.

I whirled round, shone my torch up. Lockwood stood there – calm, unflustered, one eyebrow elegantly raised.

‘Luce. What are you doing? I thought I told you to stay in the classroom.’

I blinked at him foolishly. ‘Er… yes, you did. But didn’t you just call me?’

He looked at me.

‘Didn’t you just beckon me to come?’

‘I did neither. I’ve just been exploring further down the corridor like I said I was going to. As predicted, I found nothing. Because it’s here that the action is. As you’ve just proved. What did you see?’

I shuddered, looked towards the cupboard door. ‘I don’t know. But whatever it was, it wanted me to join it in there.’

Lockwood’s eyes narrowed. ‘Well, perhaps we can oblige it shortly. But only when we’re properly armed. Learn anything in the classroom?’

I took a deep breath. It’s always difficult to express what you get through psychic sensations. It’s hard to put it into words. But this time I didn’t even have a chance to try, because at that moment a loud, shrill and unmistakably George-like scream resounded down the corridor from the library. It echoed off the walls and faded.