Jonathan Stroud - Lockwood & Co. Book Three - The Hollow Boy

I shook my head clear, forced myself to open my eyes.

A blackout curtain hugged the window opposite. White slivers from the summer afternoon showed around its edges; otherwise there was no light anywhere.

No natural light.

Yet a radiance—thin as water, silvery as moonlight—occupied the room.

Even I could sense it, and I’m useless when it comes to death-glows. I usually have to take Lockwood’s word for it that they’re there at all. But not this time. A bed stood in the center of the room: a twin bed, arranged with the headboard flush against the right-hand wall. The legs and frame had been painted white or cream, and there was a pale bedspread draped over the bare mattress, so that the whole thing hung in the dimness like a cloud in a black sky. Superimposed on top of the bed was something else: a roughly oval, egg-shaped glow, tall as a person, blank and bright and coldly shimmering. It was a light without a source—there was nothing at its center—and I couldn’t truly see it. Only, when I looked away, it flared into prominence at the corner of my vision, like one of those spots you see after you’ve looked too closely at the sun.

It was from this faint oval smudge that the psychic energy poured, strong and unceasing. No wonder the strips of iron had been bolted to the door; no wonder the walls of the room shone bright with silver wards. No wonder the ceiling was thick with silver mobiles that stirred now in the breeze caused by the closing door. Their tinkling was softly melodic, like far-off children’s laughter.

“Her name was Jessica,” Lockwood said. He moved past us, and I saw that he had taken the dark glasses out of his pocket—the ones he used to protect himself from the brightest spectral glows. He put them on. “She was six years older than me,” he said. “And fifteen when it happened to her—right here.”

He spoke like it was the most normal thing in the world to be standing with us in the dark, revealing the existence of a long-dead sister, with her death-glow hovering before us, and the psychic aftershock of the event battering our senses. Now he approached the bed; being careful to keep his hand clear of the oval light, he pulled back the bedspread, revealing the mattress below. Halfway along it was a broad, blackened, gaping wound where the surface of the fabric had been burned as if by acid.

I stared at it. No, not acid. I knew ectoplasm burns when I saw them.

I realized I was gripping George’s arm even harder than before.

“I’m not hurting you, am I, George?” I said.

“No more than previously.”

“Good.” I didn’t let go.

“I was only nine,” Lockwood said. “It was a long time back. Ancient history, if you like. But I figure I owe it to you both to show you. You do live in this house, after all.”

I forced myself to speak. “So,” I said. “Jessica.”

“Yes.”

“Your sister?”

“Yes.”

“What happened to her?”

He flicked the bedspread back into position again, tucked the end neatly against the headboard. “Ghost-touched.”

“A ghost? From where?”

“From a pot.” His voice was carefully toneless. The dark glasses that protected his eyes also hid them very successfully. It was impossible to read his expression. “You know my parents’ stuff?” he went on. “All the tribal ghost-catchers on the walls downstairs? They were researchers. They studied the folklore of the supernatural in other cultures. Most of what they collected is junk: ceremonial headdresses, that sort of thing. But it turned out that some pieces did do what was claimed. There was a pot. I think it came from Indonesia someplace. They say my sister was sorting through a crate; she got the pot out and—and she dropped it. When it shattered, a ghost came out. Killed her.”

“Lockwood…I’m so sorry….”

“Yes, well, it’s ancient history. A long time ago.”

It was difficult to focus on anything but Lockwood’s words, on them and on the ferocity of the spectral light. But I could see that the room contained an armoire and two dressers, and there were boxes and tea chests lying about too, mostly stacked against the walls, sometimes as many as three or four high. Resting on top of everything were dozens of vases and jam jars holding bouquets of dried lavender. The room was filled with its sweet, astringent odor. This was so different from the normal smells in our house (particularly on the landing, George’s bedroom being just opposite) that it only added to the feeling of unreality.

I shook my head again. A sister. Lockwood had had a sister . She’d died right here.

“What happened to the ghost?” George said. His voice was indistinct.

“It was disposed of.” Lockwood crossed to the window and pulled the blackout curtains back. Daylight stabbed me; for a moment my eyes recoiled. When I could look again, the room was brightly lit. I could no longer see the glow above the bed, and the sense of psychic assault had been subtly muted. I could still feel its presence, though, and hear the faint crackling in my ears.

The room had once been a pleasant blue, the wallpaper decorated with a child’s pattern of diagonally arranged balloons. There were posters of lions, giraffes, and horses stuck to a bulletin board, and old animal stickers slapped randomly all over the headboard of the bed. Yellowing glow-in-the-dark stars dotted the ceiling. But that wasn’t what drew the eye. On the right-hand wall two great vertical gouges had torn straight through the paper and into the plaster beneath. They were rapier slashes. In one place the cut had gone as deep as the brick.

Lockwood stood quietly by the window, staring out at the blank wall of the house next door. Some dried lavender seeds had dropped onto the sill from the vases that sat there. He brushed them with a finger into his cupped hand.

Something like hysteria was building in my chest. I wanted to cry, to laugh uncontrollably, to shout at Lockwood….

Instead I said quietly, “So what was she like?”

“Oh…that’s hard to say. She was my sister. I liked her, obviously. I can find you a picture sometime. There’ll be one in the drawers here somewhere. It’s where I put all her things. I suppose I should sort through it all one day, but there’s always so much to do….” He leaned back against the window, silhouetted against the light, pushing the seeds slowly around his palm. “She was tall, dark-haired, strong-willed, I guess. There’s once or twice I’ve seen you out of the corner of my eye, Luce, and I almost thought…But you’re nothing like her really. She was a gentle person. Very kind.”

“Okay, you are hurting my arm now, Lucy,” George said.

“Sorry.” I pried my hand free.

“My mistake,” Lockwood said. “It came out wrong. What I was trying to say was—”

“It’s all right,” I said. “I shouldn’t have asked you about her in the first place….It must be difficult to talk about this. We understand. We won’t ask you anything more.”

“So, this pot,” George said, “tell me about it. How did it keep the ghost trapped? Pottery on its own wouldn’t have done the job. There must’ve been some kind of iron lining—or silver, I suppose. Or did they have some other technique, which—ow!” I’d kicked him. “What was that for?”

“For not shutting up.”

He blinked at me over his spectacles. “Why? It’s interesting.”

“We’re talking about his sister! Not the bloody pot!”

George jerked a thumb at Lockwood. “He says it’s ancient history.”

“Yes, but he’s clearly lying. Look at this place! Look at this room and what’s in it! This is so right now.”