Jonathan Stroud - The Creeping Shadow

And there it was. The ghost, swinging shockingly into view.

I’d been expecting her, yet I almost dropped the mirror.

A bone-thin figure, white drapes falling from it like a shroud. A livid face hanging in a cradle of smoke-plume hair. Black eyes staring, white skin clinging to the skull like melting wax. You could see the skeletal neck, the stains on the dress, the jaw unnaturally agape. Her hands were raised, the fingers bent toward me.

The nails were very long.

I swallowed. Without the mirror or the skull to guide me, I might have wandered unaware into those clutching arms.

“Got her,” I said.

“Have you, Lucy? Good. Now, do you want to live or die?”

“Live, please.”

“Call the others.”

“Not yet.” My hand was shaking again, the mirror wobbling. I kept losing sight of the pale form. I cleared my mind. I needed a moment’s peace for what I had to do.

“I know you’re annoyed with them,” the skull went on, “but this isn’t something to tackle on your own. You need to get over your little tiff.”

“I have gotten over it.”

“Just because Lockwood—”

“I’m not worrying about Lockwood. Now, will you shut up? You know I need absolute silence for this.” I took a deep breath, and double-checked the mirror. Yes, there was the face: a ragged smear haloed by a cotton-candy swirl of hair.

Had it stolen closer to me? Maybe. It seemed a tad bigger. I shook the notion away.

The skull stirred again. “Tell me you’re not going to do your silly thing? She was an evil old biddy whose spirit only wishes you harm. There’s no need to reach out to her.”

“I am doing my thing, and it’s not at all silly.” I raised my voice. “Emma?” I called. “Emma Marchment? I see you. I hear you. What do you want? Tell me. I can help you.”

That was how I always did it. Everything boiled down to basics. The Lucy Carlyle Formula™—tried and tested many times over the long dark nights of the Black Winter. Use their name. Ask the question. Keep it simple. It was the best strategy I’d devised so far for getting the dead to speak.

Didn’t mean it always worked, though. Or worked the way you wanted it to.

I watched the white face in the center of the mirror. I listened with my inner ear, blocking out the skeptical snorting of the skull.

Soft sounds drifted across the bedroom, through an abyss of time and space.

Were they words?

No. Just the flap of a bloodied nightgown and some shallow, rasping death sighs.

Same old, same old.

I opened my mouth to try once more. Then—

“ I STILL HAVE IT…. ”

“Skull, did you hear that?”

“Only just. Sounded a bit husky. Still, I have to give her credit. It’s amazing she can say anything at all with her throat torn open. What does she still have? That’s the question….Blisters? Bad breath? Who can tell?”

“Shh!” I made a grand and welcoming gesture. “Emma Marchment—I hear you! If you desire to take your rest, you must first trust me! What is it that you have? ”

A voice spoke close behind me. “Lucy?”

I cried out, ripping my rapier clear of its Velcro clasp. I spun around, sword held ready, heart throbbing against my chest. The door to the bedroom had opened. A tall, slim figure stood there, silhouetted by swirling flashlight beams and clouds of magnesium smoke. One hand was on his hip; the other rested on his sword hilt, his long coat rippling around him.

“Lucy, what are you doing?”

I snatched a glance back, stabilizing the mirror just in time to see the faint, pale shape, like a breath-smudge in the air, pass through the paneling behind the bureau and disappear.

So the ghost had retreated into the wall…. That was interesting.

“Lucy?”

“All right, all right, you can come in.” I sheathed my sword and beckoned—and into the room strode Ted Daley, team leader (second class) at the Rotwell Agency.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining. There were many advantages to my new life as a freelance psychic operative. I could choose my jobs. I worked whenever I wanted. I could build up a little reputation of my own. But one definite drawback was that I could never pick my fellow agents. Each case I took on, I had to fit in with whoever worked for the company that had hired me. Of course, some were okay—decent, professional, and competent. Others…well, they were more like Ted.

Seen at a distance, in a soft light, with his back turned, Ted was tolerable; closer inspection was invariably disappointing. He was a gangly, sad-eyed youth, long in all the wrong places, with a permanently semi-open mouth hanging above a scrawny neck. Somehow he always gave the impression of having just swallowed his chin. He had a reedy voice, and a tight and nitpicking manner. As team leader, he had nominal authority over me that evening, but since he ran with his arms flapping like a goose, had the personality of a limp stick of celery, and, crucially, didn’t seem particularly psychic, I more or less ignored him.

“Mr. Farnaby wants a word,” he said.

“Again?”

“Wants an update on how we’re doing.”

“Not a chance. I’ve cornered the ghost; we deal with it now. Bring the others in.”

“No, Mr. Farnaby says—” But it was too late for Ted; I knew they’d be loitering at the door. Sure enough, in an instant two nervous shapes had slipped into the room, and presto, our team was complete in all its glory.

It wasn’t exactly a breathtaking line-up. Tina Lane, Rotwell field agent (third class), was a wan girl, peculiarly colorless in a way that suggested all her warmth and vibrancy had drained out through a hole in one of her toes. She had hair like bleached straw, bone-white skin, and a slow, faint way of talking that made you lean ever closer to her in an effort to catch what she said. When you realized it wasn’t worth listening to, you leaned slowly back again and, if possible, continued in the same direction until you’d left the room.

Next up: Dave Eason, Rotwell field agent (third class). Dave had slightly more to him, in a damaged-goods sort of way. He was a dark-skinned kid, squat, burly, and belligerent, like an angry tree stump. I guessed he had strong natural abilities, but his experiences with Visitors had left him skittish and too free with his rapier. Tina had a scar where Dave had struck her on a previous occasion; and twice that very evening I’d almost been skewered when he’d caught sight of me in his mirror out of the corner of his eye.

Wan Tina, mediocre Ted, and jumpy Dave. Yeah, that was my team; that’s what I had to work with. It’s a wonder the ghost didn’t just evaporate in fear.

Dave was pumped up, tensed. A nerve twitched in his neck. “Where’ve you been, Carlyle? It’s a dangerous Type Two we’re dealing with here, and Mr. Farnaby—”

“Says we have to stick together,” Ted interrupted. “Yes, we’ve got to keep in strict formation. It’s no good you arguing with me and waltzing off. You have to listen to me now, Lucy. We’ve got to report back to him straightaway or—”

“Or,” I said, “we could just get on with the job.” I’d been kneeling, closing up my backpack; the others didn’t know about the skull, and I wanted it to stay that way. Now I got to my feet, put my hand on my rapier hilt, and addressed them. “Listen, there’s no use wasting time with the supervisor. He’s an adult. He can’t help us, can he? So we use our own initiative. I’ve found the probable location of the Source. The ghost disappeared into the wall just over there on the far side. Didn’t the old story say that after she was stabbed Emma Marchment fled from her husband into a secret room? Then they broke in and found her lying dead among all her pots and poisons? So my guess is we’ll find her room behind that wall somewhere. Join me, and we’ll put an end to this. Okay?”