Jonathan Stroud - The Creeping Shadow

Unlike many apparitions, it conjured no other-light; it did not glow as the Shining Boy had, or radiate darkness like the ghost out on the green. It was not solid-seeming like a Specter, or grotesque like a Wraith. In many ways it was scarcely there at all. It was formed of a translucent gauzy grayness, and you could see right through its body to the jumble of stones and crosses in the yard beyond. Its extremities—the hands and feet, even the details of the head, were faint to the point of vanishing; you picked them out only by a twist or reflux in the air. But at its edges the shadow’s substance seemed to dart and flicker, like quivering points of fire. It was as if the thing were continually, silently, coldly aflame. And from its back flowed a serpent of smoke that unwound across the graveyard like a magician’s cloak, steadily dispersing, flexing ever outward across the stones.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” I whispered. “What is it?”

Lockwood didn’t answer; he was staring at the spreading trail of mist that the Shadow left behind it. He motioned with his head; without looking at me, his fingers stole out and gripped mine.

I looked where he directed. My lips parted; my mouth was dry as sand. Because the shape that crossed the churchyard was no longer alone. Other figures stood there now, rising in its wake from grass and mound. They stood beside crosses and carved angels, they hovered over tilted slabs. You could see the grave-clothes hanging off their bony forms. At a glance you could make out Shades and Specters there, Wraiths and Wisps and Tom O’Shadows. There were dozens of them. It was a congregation of the dead. The inhabitants of the churchyard rose and stood and looked toward the Creeping Shadow as it moved away, entirely disregarding them, out through the lych-gate at the far end of the churchyard and up the lane in the direction of the woods.

Everything was still.

Then the ghosts moved. First one, and then another; now the whole pack was rushing toward the lane as if summoned by a voice we could not hear. Some came surging up the bank. We could see their hollow faces, their wild and empty eyes. I believe I heard the creaking of their bones. It happened too fast; we had no time to react. Another second, and they would have been on us. But all at once the hellish company veered away, out over the hedge and through the air, to swoop down into the road and away after the Shadow. The creaking and clattering faded. A tail of cold air sucked and pulled at us as it withdrew along the lane.

We stood there. The churchyard was quiet, empty, lit by nothing but the moon.

A blackbird in the tree behind us let out a sudden full-throated song, loud and sad and beautiful. It fell silent. Lockwood and I stood transfixed at the top of the bank.

Then I realized he was still holding my hand.

He realized it at the same instant. Our fingers kind of fell away, swinging back into vigilant positions at our work belts, ready to seize a salt-bomb or rapier at a moment’s notice. Lockwood cleared his throat; I pushed my hair out of my eyes. Our boots did small, intricate shuffles on the frosty ground.

“What the heck was that?” I said.

“The Shadow?” Lockwood glanced at me from under his bangs. “Of course the Shadow…” He shook his head. “I have no idea. That was definitely the thing that Danny Skinner said would come. It had the size and shape, and it was burning—or seemed to be. But—but did you see behind it? The ghosts—?”

“Yeah, and Lockwood, it’s just like he said. It’s the thing from the carving on the cross—the Gatherer of Souls. It was gathering them up from their graves!”

“I don’t believe that.”

“What was it, then? You saw them rise up!”

He didn’t answer me.

“You saw them, Lockwood.”

“We need to get back to the others. This isn’t the place to discuss it.”

Over in the woods, a storm of birds rose shrieking into the night. They wheeled once and with a crack of wings flew off over the brow of Gunner’s Top. We stumbled down the embankment and in silence hurried back to the inn.

In the depths of the night the others returned, having had great success with the eyeless ghost and several other Visitors around the village. Their raised voices preceded them, echoing outside the taproom door; then they bustled in, George and Kipps bickering contentedly about some minor detail on the map, Holly Munro in the middle of wiping her sword clean with a pretty blade cloth. They found Lockwood and me sitting in near darkness, lit a dull, dark, glowing red by the dying embers of the fire.

“There’s no doubt about it,” Lockwood said, once we’d told them. “We saw the infamous Creeping Shadow. That’s about the only thing we can tell you for certain.”

“Other than it definitely stirs up the other ghosts,” I said. “Don’t forget that. Its cloak of mist was like a ladle stirring soup; they just came floating to the top as it passed by. Spirits came bursting out of the ground, before following it into the woods!”

“I wish I’d seen that,” George said. “That’s unique! That’s fascinating !” His spectacles shone; he sat on a table, swinging his legs under him.

“ All the bodies in the churchyard rose up?” Kipps asked. “A spirit for every grave? Or just some?”

“Lots,” I said, “but not all. Maybe that’s how it works, when souls are gathered….Lockwood won’t like me saying that,” I added. We hadn’t just been sitting by the dying fire. We’d been arguing.

“Because it’s not gathering souls,” Lockwood said irritably. “I don’t know what the Shadow is, but it’s not some demon or angel visiting on the Day of Judgment. It comes back every night of the week, for heaven’s sake! I wish you’d get that stupid cross thing out of your mind.”

“It draws the dead out of their graves, Lockwood!”

“Oh, give it a rest.”

“Hot chocolate, anyone?” Holly said brightly. “Nice and soothing? Mr. Skinner’s got a stash of packets behind the bar. Tell you what, I’ll just go and put the kettle on.”

“Must have been something seriously weird about it,” Kipps said. He’d taken off his goggles and now tossed them stylishly across the room to hang from a coat peg. His swashbuckling finesse was only slightly undermined by the red rings they’d left around his eyes. “Must have been weird to have freaked you out, Lockwood. I never thought I’d see the day.”

“I’m not freaked out!” Lockwood crossed his arms. “Do I look freaked out to you, George?”

“A triple helping of yes. I’m with Kipps on this one.” George blinked and shook his head in unfeigned wonder. “This is a night of firsts.”

“Well, maybe Lucy and I are right to be a little unsettled,” Lockwood said after a grouchy pause. “Because its raising of the dead is only one of several strange things about this ghost. The kid was correct in everything he said. The Shadow does trail some kind of smoke, and there do seem to be weird flames licking around its form. It moves oddly, too.” He sighed. “You ever read about anything like this, Kipps?”

“Never. It’s not in any of the histories. Could be something about it in the Black Library at Fittes House. There’s all sorts of stuff there….” Kipps stretched back in his chair. “I must say I’m surprised that the Rotwell Institute hasn’t caught on to this Shadow. They’re missing a trick here.”