Jonathan Stroud - The Dagger in the Desk

Even as he said this, we noticed we could see our breath-plumes again. That’s never a good sign. Nor, to be honest, is the sound of dragging footsteps, or the rattling of keys, both of which I could suddenly hear again, not very far away.

‘He’s back,’ I whispered. ‘I can hear him coming.’

Lockwood was running his fingers along the edges of the panelling. ‘Didn’t take him long,’ he said. ‘OK. George, give me a hand searching the wall. Lucy, do me a favour and just have a quick look in the corridor, would you?’

I peeped out. In the direction of the library, all was dark. In the direction of the classroom, a pale haze of other-light had gathered in the centre of the passage. At its heart I saw a tall thin figure, limping in our direction. The apparition was faint, but getting stronger, and I could already see the ragged clothes, the dragging leg, the loosely hanging arm… Also the cold metallic shimmer of a dagger, held outstretched in bony fingers.

I ducked back into the storeroom, where Lockwood and George were tapping at the panels. ‘Bad news,’ I said hoarsely.

Lockwood didn’t look up. ‘How long have we got?’

‘I’d say about thirty seconds.’

‘OK.’ Lockwood pressed a discoloured portion of panel speculatively. Nothing happened. ‘Lucy,’ he said, ‘George and I are going to need a little longer than that. Two minutes – maximum three. Think you can delay our friend Harold that long?’

I turned back to the door. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

Out in the corridor, the ragged, limping figure had drawn much closer; it had passed the toilets and was level with the other storeroom. Harsh cold radiated from its glow, and the malevolence of its purpose struck me like a solid thing. My head felt suddenly woozy, my limbs listless, heavy as concrete. The thud and drag of each maimed footfall beat like a drum against my ears. I could see the glittering of the knife.

All of which meant it was high time I did something. I flicked my coat aside, plucked a salt-bomb from my belt and threw it hard and fast, so that it burst on the floor just below the glowing form. The brittle plastic snapped; salt spattered out across the passage, flaring bright green as it hit the ectoplasm. The apparition flexed, distorting like an image seen in water, and blinked out – only to reappear instantly, some distance further away.

I ducked back into the storeroom. ‘How’s it going?’

Lockwood and George were crouched beside the wall, their attention focused on one particular panel that looked no different to the rest. ‘Found it,’ Lockwood said. ‘Little clasp hidden at the base. Think it opens inwards, but it’s hellish stiff. Sixty seconds.’

‘Right.’

I took a magnesium flare from my belt, hefted it in my hand and went back out into the passage. As I did so, something flashed past me, close enough to waft my fringe across my face. I looked – and saw the dagger, still vibrating, buried hilt-deep in the plaster of the wall. And now the pale, thin figure was rushing up the corridor, legs trailing, rags flapping, single arm reaching out to clasp me.

Well, it had annoyed me now. I lobbed the flare.

A blast of magnesium fire, peppered with filaments of burning salt and iron, is white enough and bright enough to momentarily blind the living, as well as do considerable damage to the dead. So I screwed up my eyes, and waited for the initial surge of heat to fade. And when I looked again, pockets of white flames were licking up across the passage floor, and the walls were pebble-dashed with smouldering pin-sized burns. The ghost itself had vanished.

I dived back into the storeroom, where Lockwood and George seemed to be in an almost identical position. ‘How’s it going now?’

‘George has got blisters, and I’ve got my hand stuck.’

‘I was thinking about the door.’

‘It’s jammed. Either rusted, or something heavy on the other side.’

‘Help give it a shove, can you?’ George gasped. ‘Three of us might do the trick.’

I looked behind me. The silvery light was fading: already the fires were dying down. ‘I used a flare,’ I said. ‘It’s flummoxed him, but he’ll be back any moment. He’s strong.’

‘I know,’ Lockwood said, ‘but we’ve got to get this open. Your weight might make the difference, Luce.’

‘Exactly what are you saying?’ But I ranged myself alongside them, and took the strain. I could see the hidden door now, a faint dark outline in the wood. Lockwood’s fingers were prising at one edge; George was heaving at its base. When I pushed, I felt the panel move.

‘That’s it,’ Lockwood breathed. ‘We’re almost there…’

Air stirred. I looked to the side. A figure stood beside us in the dark. It had long white hair, and naked, grinning teeth.

I screamed, gave a final desperate shove. The wall moved: the panel swung open. Lockwood, George and I fell forward through the hole.

Whatever we landed on was both soft and brittle. Dry things snapped beneath us; I heard the sliding chink of coins. Momentum carried me furthest: I did a brisk head-over-heels and ended up in a sitting position, with my boots wedged against the opposite wall. I jumped to my feet, whipped out my torch and switched it on.

We were in a tiny windowless room, made smaller by the piled chests and boxes ranged along one wall. Some were closed; others, lidless, were full to overflowing with a strange medley of objects: candelabras, vases, even paintings. Everything was swathed in layers of dusty cobwebs. No surprises here. Spiders love Sources; they can’t get enough of them.

Speaking of the Source, it was right beneath us. We’d landed on it. Lockwood and George were hastily rolling clear. Directly in front of the secret panel, a body lay face down upon the floor. It was pretty cobwebby, but you could see the old-style jacket, the flannel trousers, the rotting leather shoes. Here and there were glimpses of yellowed bone. The head was hidden beneath a heavy wooden chest, the lid of which had broken open, and by a mass of greenish coins that had poured forth from it, half swallowing the skull. A certain amount of white hair still poked through, but the face was mercifully concealed.

None of us said anything. George was pulling his bag from his back, Lockwood tearing it open, looking for the silver. I kept my eyes trained on the secret door, on the dark corners of the room. I could feel the presence close at hand. But nothing stirred now. Maybe I’d sapped the thing’s strength out in the corridor; or maybe it had finally accepted what we were here to do. Who knew with ghosts? It was impossible to say.

Lockwood took a silver net from the bag, unfolded it to its full extent, and laid it over the body. At once I felt a lifting of the spirits, a change to the atmosphere in the secret room. I listened, tense and ready. No… it was OK. The presence was truly gone.

We stood there in silence.

‘Look at all the stuff he pinched,’ Lockwood said at last. ‘Quite the little collector, wasn’t he?’

‘That shelf broke,’ I said. ‘Look there – just above the door. He was hiding in here, maybe getting ready to nip off after dark. He had his chest of stolen money sitting on the shelf. Then it fell down and brained him. Cracked his skull or broke his neck. That’s how it happened.’

‘Just deserts, I suppose,’ Lockwood said. ‘He shouldn’t have nicked so much. Well, it’s over now.’

George stepped over the corpse and began rummaging in his bag. ‘Great. So, who fancies a celebratory bun? I’ve got some iced ones here.’

Lockwood hesitated. ‘Er, possibly in a minute. When we’re somewhere else.’ He smiled. ‘Well done, everybody. Especially you, Luce. You did really well tonight. Made the right decisions at every turn.’