Jonathan Stroud - The Creeping Shadow

But here this kid was. Sitting on our sofa. Alone.

Or not exactly alone. He soon had Holly on one side, plying him with tea, and George on the other, offering him a hefty chunk of cake. If there’d been room, I probably would have been on him as well, plumping up his cushions or massaging his toes or something. There was a quality about him—fragile, but at the same time steely and undaunted—that managed to awaken your sense of pity without irritating you at the same time. In a world where no kid can really afford to be helpless, where most of us risk our lives as a matter of course, that was quite a hard balance to achieve.

He had the gaunt waif thing going on, that was the main reason for our sympathy: pale skin, unhealthily big eyes, and a pair of ears that would have carried him some distance in a strong wind. His light brown hair was untidily cropped. His Irish sweater looked several sizes too big for him; his head and neck protruded from it like a stork chick peering from a nest. It was all very disarming. Take it from me, if you had to choose between him and a basketful of supercute puppies to toss out of a sinking hot-air balloon, it would have been the pups sent spiraling down to earth.

George and Holly drew back; the kid, now heavily laden with tea and cake, blinked around at us.

Lockwood flourished a hand encouragingly. “Well…er, Mr. Skinner,” he said. “I’m Anthony Lockwood; these are my friends. What can we do for you?”

Danny Skinner’s voice was unexpectedly strong and deep. “You got my message, sir?”

“I did. Something about a”—Lockwood consulted a crumpled letter—“a cursed village, I understand?”

“That’s right. Aldbury Castle. I was hoping you might come take a look at it.”

“Aldbury Castle is the name of the village? I see. Where is Aldbury Castle?”

“Hampshire, sir. Hour’s train ride south-west from Waterloo, and then a mile east along Aldbury Way. There’s a Southampton train going at one thirty, so if you shift your backsides, we can just catch it.” The boy made an adjustment to his dirty, tattered coat. “Don’t worry, you won’t have to sleep under a hedge. The Old Sun Inn still has a few habitable rooms.”

Lockwood opened his mouth and shut it again. He cleared his throat. “Um, we don’t want to get ahead of ourselves, Mr. Skinner. We haven’t accepted the commission yet, or even discussed it.”

“Oh, you’re sure to want this case when you hear about it,” the boy said. He took a loud sip of tea. “I’m just trying to save you time. I could always fill you in on the train.”

“Tell you what,” George said, “perhaps you can fill us in now. What’s the nature of the curse?”

Danny Skinner set down his plates. “Ghosts, spirits, and whatnot. We have a lot of them.”

Lockwood leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Forgive me, but the whole country suffers from that affliction. What makes Aldbury Castle so special that we have to drop everything and come down now?”

“Our village has it worse than most.” The kid’s shoulders twitched in what might have been a shudder. “There’ve been killings.”

Lockwood’s smile faded. “That’s bad. You’ve had cases of ghost-touch, then?”

“Sixteen this year.”

Lockwood sat back; Holly looked up from her notepad. “What? Sixteen? Since January? You’re not serious.”

“Might be seventeen now. Molly Suter was sinking fast when I left this morning. Coming back from seeing her sick sister last night, she was surrounded. They caught her in the fields. The kids arrived with iron sticks, but it was too late. And when I set out first thing this morning”—the boy pointed ruefully at the plasm burns on his coat—“you can see that they nearly got me, too. Even though the sun was up, they were waiting in the woods for me. I only just made the train.”

“ They? You mean Visitors?”

“Of course.”

“It certainly sounds bad. Tell me, why didn’t an adult come to see us? Your father or your mother?” Lockwood hesitated in sudden doubt. “Or, forgive me, are they—?”

Danny Skinner sniffed; it was a short, sharp, angry sound. “If you’re worried about payment, Pops has money. He’s still above ground, just. He’s not well, though—can’t leave the inn. Mum’s dead.”

“I’m sorry,” Lockwood said.

A shrug of bony shoulders. “The good news is, she hasn’t risen again. So far.”

There was a silence. “Try the cake,” George said. “It’s good.”

“Actually, I’ll pass,” the kid replied. “I’m not a cakey person. But I’m serious about leaving, you know. You need to help us, and there’s only one train we can take.”

Was it just me, or did he seem marginally less cute than he had a few moments before? Stork chicks aren’t usually quite so pushy.

A combination of discomfort and mounting irritation had made Lockwood’s expression darken as well. He flicked an imaginary speck of dust off his knee. “Like I say,” he said, “that’s not going to happen until we’ve had many more details from you. Even then, we’re unlikely to come down today. Tell us about these Visitors. What kind of ghosts does Aldbury Castle have?”

“Depends where you’re looking,” Danny Skinner said. He had a sulky expression; you could see he could barely contain his frustration that we weren’t already out of the door. “There are Specters on the green, and Lurkers by the church. Got a Cold Maiden in the new estate, and that’s just for starters. Where I live—the Old Sun Inn—there’s a ghost that comes knocking on the door at night. I saw it once. Like a tiny glowing child. It’s very small and puny and…it’s evil, I think. Had a nasty, furtive look. Slunk across the flagstones and disappeared.”

“Shining Boy,” Holly said.

The kid shrugged. “Maybe. Best not to go downstairs in the inn after midnight, that’s all I’m saying. The ghosts out in the woods are mostly Phantasms and Wraiths—as far as I can tell. I’m not an expert, like you agents . See how close they got to touching me? Old dead, they are, slain warriors most like. Quiet all these centuries, and now rising from the cornfields. And they’re not the worst things walking in the dark at Aldbury Castle.” He swigged his tea back with an almost violent flourish, and set the cup on its saucer with a crack . “Like I say, it’s taking its toll. Half the village is gone. Mostly adults; the ones who can’t see the Visitors coming. Those of us who are young enough to fight are doing our best, but we can’t do it on our own, as I keep telling you.” He glanced ostentatiously at his watch.

Lockwood ignored him. “Does DEPRAC know about this?”

“We’ve told them. They’ve done nothing.”

“Other agencies?”

“Worse than useless.” Danny Skinner looked around him in disgust. “Can I spit here?”

“We’d rather you didn’t.”

“Pity. Yeah, the Rotwell Agency has their institute just up the road. We’ve asked them to help; they even sent guys out to assess the situation. Said they couldn’t help. Said it wasn’t any worse than anywhere else these days—which is a lie .” A vein stood out on the kid’s neck; he seemed convulsed with an inner rage.

“You mentioned warriors, Mr. Skinner,” George said. “You mean there was a battle once at Aldbury Castle?”

“Yeah, there was a battle,” the kid said. “Vikings or some such. Long time ago.”

“That might be part of it, then,” Lockwood said. “Battle sites can be hot spots, can’t they, George?”

“Sure…” George tapped his notebook absently. “But the country’s pockmarked with sites of battles, plagues, and skirmishes, and they don’t all flare up like this. And I don’t know…Vikings? That’s so ancient. You wouldn’t expect them to stir up so much trouble.”