Jonathan Stroud - Lockwood & Co - The Whispering Skull

The torch was in my hand. I shone it full into the interior, on what was lying there.

If you’re easily icked-out, you might want to skip the next two paragraphs, because the body staring back at me wasn’t just bones, but a great deal more. That was the first surprise: there was much that hadn’t decayed away. Ever left a banana under a sofa and forgotten about it? Then you’ll know that it soon goes black, then black and gooey, then black and shrunk right down. This guy, entombed in iron, was like a banana midway between the second stage and the third. Torchlight glimmered on the dried and blackened skin, stretched tight above the cheekbones. In places it had cracked. There was a neat hole in the centre of his forehead, around which the skin had entirely peeled away.

Long hanks of white hair, colourless as glass, hung beside the head. The eye sockets were empty. Dried lips had shrunk back, revealing gums and teeth.

He wore the remnants of a purple cloak or cape, and beneath it an old-style black suit, stiff high collar, black Victorian cravat. His hands (bony, these) cradled something shrouded in tattered white cloth. Whether because of the angle of the burial, or because of the movement of the earth in the long years since, the object had slid from beneath the cloth, and was peeping out between the skeletal fingers. It was a piece of glass, perhaps the width of a human head, with an irregularly shaped rim. It was quite black with dirt and mould, and yet the glass still glinted – and the glinting caught my eye.

Look! Look . . .

What was that voice?

‘Lucy! Seal it up!’

Of course. It was Lockwood shouting.

With that I cast the silver chain-net, and the contents of the coffin were blotted out.

‘So what did you see , George?’ Lockwood asked.

We were standing on the path now, drinking tea and eating sandwiches, which some of Saunders’s team had brought. A decent crowd had gathered – Saunders, Joplin, several workmen and the night-watch kids – some because the fun was over, others possibly in delayed response to George’s scream. They all hung about the gravestones, staring at the pit, a safe distance from the chains. We’d shut the coffin lid; just a corner of the chain-net could be seen.

‘I mean, I know Bickerstaff looked bad,’ Lockwood went on, ‘but, let’s face it, we’ve seen nastier. Remember Putney Vale?’

George had been very subdued for the past few minutes. He had barely spoken, and there was an odd expression on his face. His eyes showed numb distress, but they also held a yearning, far-off look; he kept gazing back towards the pit as if he thought he had left something there. It worried me. It reminded me a little of ghost-lock, where the victim’s willpower is drained by an aggressive spirit; but we had sealed the Source with silver, and there was no ghost present now. Still, George seemed to be improving. The food was fast reviving him. He shook his head at Lockwood. ‘It wasn’t the body,’ he said slowly. ‘I’ve seen worse things in our fridge. It was the mirror that he held.’

‘You thought it was a mirror, then?’ I said. When I closed my eyes, I still saw that piece of glass, glinting, flashing, darker than dark.

‘I don’t know what it was. But my eyes were drawn to it. I saw in it . . . I don’t know what I saw. It was all black, basically, but there was something in that blackness, and it was awful. It made me scream – I felt like someone was sucking my insides out through my chest.’ George shuddered. ‘But at the same time, it was fascinating too – I couldn’t take my eyes away. I just wanted to gaze at it, even though it was doing me harm.’ He gave a long, heartfelt sigh. ‘I’d probably still be staring at it now, if Lucy hadn’t covered it with the net.’

‘Good job you’re not, by the sounds of it,’ Lockwood said. He too had been watching George closely. ‘Funny sort of mirror. No wonder they kept it in an iron coffin.’

‘Did they know about the properties of iron in Bickerstaff’s time?’ I asked. It was only with the start of the Problem, fifty years before, that mass production of ghost-proof materials made of iron and silver had begun. And this burial dated from a generation or two earlier than that.

‘Most people didn’t,’ Lockwood said. ‘But silver, salt and iron have always been used against ghosts, and evil spirits in general. So it can’t be a coincidence that we’ve got iron here.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Either of you notice anything odd about Dr Bickerstaff himself, incidentally?’

‘Aside from the general mummified-corpse angle, you mean?’ I said.

‘That’s just it. According to Joplin’s newspaper, Bickerstaff was eaten by rats, wasn’t he? That fellow was all in one piece. And did you see the hole in his—’ He broke off as Saunders and Joplin approached. The excavator had been barking orders at the night-watch kids, while the archivist lingered by the iron chains, staring at the coffin. Both had big smiles for us; there was a round of back-slapping and congratulations.

‘Excellent work, Mr Lockwood!’ Saunders cried. ‘Very efficiently done. Perhaps we can get on with our proper business here, now all that nonsense is over.’ He took a swig from a steaming mug of coffee. ‘People are saying old Bickerstaff held a crystal or some such . . . Something from one of his weird rituals, maybe. But you’ve covered it with your net of course.’

Lockwood laughed. ‘You’ll want to keep that net in position, believe me. There’s certainly some kind of powerful Source in there. We’ll need to contact DEPRAC straight away, so they can arrange for safe disposal.’

‘First thing tomorrow!’ Saunders said. ‘Right now we need to get on with ordinary business. We’ve lost half a night’s work already. Well, I suppose you’ll want me to sign papers for the work done, Mr Lockwood. Come back to the office, and we’ll get that sorted for you.’

‘Can we move the coffin into the chapel tonight?’ Joplin asked. ‘I don’t like leaving it out here. There’s the danger of thieves and relic-men . . . you know.’

Lockwood frowned. ‘Well, be sure to keep the net in position. Replace the chains round it when it’s moved, and don’t let anyone go near.’

Lockwood and Saunders departed. George leaned against a box-tomb and began an animated conversation with Joplin. I busied myself gathering our equipment, taking my time. It was early yet, not even midnight; definitely a better evening than the previous one. Strange, though. A very strange burial, and impossible to fathom. George had seen something, but there’d been no tangible ghost at all. Yet anything that could create so much psychic disturbance despite all that iron was formidable indeed.

‘Miss?’

It was the workman named Norris, the biggest and brawniest of the excavators. His skin was leathery. Whitish stubble extended up to the buzz-cut on his scalp. The tattoo on his neck was a wakeful skull with extended wings. ‘Excuse me, miss,’ he said. ‘Did I hear correctly? No one’s to go near the coffin?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Better stop your friend, then. Look at him go.’

I turned. George and Joplin had crossed the iron chains. They’d approached the coffin. They were talking excitedly, Joplin bunching his papers tighter under his arm.

‘George!’ I called. ‘What on earth are you—?’

Then I realized.

The lid. The inscription.

Still chattering blithely, George and Joplin stooped beside the coffin, and began chipping mud away from the lid. George had his penknife; he raised the lid slightly to aid his work. The silver net beneath was dislodged. It slipped to one side.

Norris said something to me, but I didn’t hear him, because at that moment I’d become aware that a third figure was standing alongside Joplin and George.