Jonathan Stroud - The Creeping Shadow

“Oh…that sounds great. Is there anything else?”

“Just stew.”

“Well,” Lockwood said heartily as the innkeeper hobbled slowly back inside, “I think it’s in all our interests to get this village taken care of as quickly as possible, don’t you?” He smiled around at us. “And for Kipps’s and George’s sake, if there’s a ghost in the Old Sun Inn, that’s as good a place as any to start.”

That afternoon, spurred on by a tasty bar-snack lunch of stale cheese sandwiches, pork rinds, and more lemonade, we got speedily to work. Holly and I interviewed the inhabitants of the inn, and got some useful info from Danny Skinner and his dad. As well as the apparition that Danny had once seen near the old door, they both reported a permanent chill in one area of the hallway, which lingered even when the radiators were on. Mr. Skinner had long ago stopped sitting in the armchairs in the hall, owing to feelings of faint depression and nausea. As for the kid, from his bed he regularly heard a loud hammering on the door as midnight came.

We got nothing worthwhile from old Reverend Skinner. As his grandson had predicted, he couldn’t countenance the existence of ghosts. The cold spot was a draft; the spectral knocking was the drains; as for us, we were shameless hucksters pulling the wool over our clients’ eyes. Despite his contempt, he seemed fascinated by our efforts and hung around like a headache as we carried out our daytime survey.

By and large, what we found backed up the Skinners’ story. Even in the late afternoon, certain primary phenomena—mainly chill and creeping fear—could be detected in the hall of the inn, and also in the kitchen, which was reached through an interconnecting door. Both areas were laid with the original flagstones. Other first floor regions seemed unaffected.

The great front door was black with age. We unlatched it and inspected both sides. There were scratch marks on the external face, but they could have been made by anything. Beyond the dusty porch, a path led to an iron fence that barred the way to the churchyard.

The afternoon wore on. Suppertime came, and stew was served. We sat at the mullioned windows of the public bar looking out over the darkening green. The trees that ringed the village were black now, the old cross glowing with the last light of evening. The atmosphere was dark and sinister. Much the same could be said for the stew.

“I can see a couple of Visitors already,” Lockwood said. “See out there, on the far side of the green? Two faint shapes hovering by the road.”

No one else could see them, but we believed him. He had the best Sight among us—those of us who had any Sight at all.

“Well, this is where I become useless,” Kipps said. He was stirring his stew around and around, as if by some alchemy it might become edible. “I don’t know what I can do to help this evening, short of being tethered by the door like a goat to lure the ghost.”

“That’s actually not a bad idea,” Lockwood said. “We just might do it. Alternatively, George has a suggestion. He’s brought something along for you.”

“Yep,” George said. “You could try these.” His backpack hung on his chair; he ferreted around inside it and, with a flourish, drew out a heavy pair of rubber goggles with thick crystal eyepieces. He handed them to Kipps, who took them wordlessly, turning them over in his pale hands.

“What are they?”

“Rare and expensive items,” George said, “which I stole. Made by the Orpheus Society, used by John William Fairfax, late owner of Fairfax Iron. The lenses are crystal instead of glass. As to what they do—I have a theory. Try them.”

Kipps was hesitant. “Have you put these on? What did you see?”

“I saw nothing. But they’re not for me. I think they’re for old fogies like you. Go on.”

With any amount of grumbling and struggling with the strap, Kipps eased the goggles over his head. The thick rubber hid half his face, which was an immediate improvement.

“Does Penelope Fittes know you’ve got these?”

“Nope. And she’s not going to, either. Quit moaning and look out the window.”

Kipps did so. At once he stiffened; his fingers gripped the sides of the goggles. “I can see three dark figures out on the green….”

“Are they there when you remove the specs?”

Kipps tore them away. “No…no, they’re gone.”

George nodded. “Excellent. That’s because you can’t see ghosts ordinarily. The crystals help your eyes—they refocus the light somehow. It bothered me for ages that I couldn’t figure out what these goggles did—but I was being stupid. The Orpheus Society is full of old codgers who have been searching for ways to join the fight against Visitors. An invention like this gives them that ability. And it will allow you, Kipps, to see psychically again.” He waved a hand. “It’s all right, you don’t have to thank me. At least not with words. Money will do fine.”

Maybe it was the light, maybe it was the stew, but I almost thought Kipps’s eyes had actually filled up. “I—I don’t know what to say….” he said. “This is…” He broke off, frowning. “But—hold on, if somebody’s invented these, why doesn’t everyone have a pair?”

That was what I wanted to know.

“The Orpheus guy implied it was a prototype,” George said. “Maybe it hurts your eyes, maybe it’s not actually that effective on most ghosts. We don’t know. I was hoping you could test it for us, Kipps. We’ve brought a spare sword along, too.”

“Even so,” Holly said, as Kipps placed the goggles reverently beside his plate, “can it be right that people are dreaming up important things like this—and no one knows anything about it?”

Lockwood shook his head. “In truth,” he said, “there’s an awful lot about the Orpheus Society we just don’t understand yet. We’re going to have to look into it. But we’ve got other things to worry about tonight.” He gestured at the darkened hall. “And the biggest of them is what’s going to come knocking on that door.”

After our meal, and bidding the Skinner family go to the safety of their rooms, we gathered our equipment and went into the hallway. Night fell, the evening progressed. We made certain preparations.

As midnight drew near, the atmosphere in the room grew heavy, and our vigil more alert. Lockwood lit the gas lamps. We watched their green flames flicker and dance against the dark-striped wallpaper of the ancient hall.

“This is pretty scary,” Kipps said, “but infinitely preferable to getting in a bed with Cubbins.” He had the goggles on top of his head; every now and then he pulled them down over his eyes and squinted fiercely into every corner of the hall. “Think we’re ready?”

“As ready as we’ll ever be.” Lockwood glanced up at the ceiling, from where the sound of slowly pacing footsteps could be heard. “All we need now is for the batty old fool to go to sleep.”

Unusually for an adult in a haunted house, old Reverend Skinner had reappeared several times during the evening, asking questions and getting in the way. He had finally gone upstairs only after eleven, and was evidently not yet in bed.

“He doesn’t trust us,” Lockwood said. “Just like he didn’t trust his own grandson. Wants to see things with his own eyes, which is ironic for a priest. Temperatures? I’ve got sixty degrees here.”

George was over by the stairs. “Sixty-two.”

“Fifty-three with me.” Holly stood near the fireplace. Kipps, by the kitchen door, had fifty-three, too.