Jonathan Stroud - The Creeping Shadow

Into the empty haze at the middle of the circle appeared a lurching shadow—faint at first, then darkening. It grew bigger and bigger. It had a creeping, rolling gait; a monstrous body; around its vast and shapeless head snapped leaping flames. Closer and closer it came, hand over hand, and the psychic hum from the circle suddenly cut out. In absolute silence the shape reached the barrier of iron. It did not hesitate.

Lockwood gasped; I cried out. One instant it was not there. Then the Creeping Shadow stepped straight over the chains with a sudden roar of noise and fire.

In those first seconds, the figure could barely be seen. Pale fire ran across it, leaping from its smooth sides, darting and crackling above it like a living crown. Ice encrusted its surface, thick and veined with blue. To my horror, it seemed to have no face, just two narrow slits for eyes. Its size was huge; it was a head taller than the Rotwell attendants who now stepped near, spraying it with their salt guns, dousing it with jets of liquid that enveloped it in clouds of roaring steam. Joints screamed and ground together as, hand over hand, the figure moved slowly along the iron chain. Ice broke off of it and shattered on the ground. Flames died back, went out. And now I saw that the limbs beneath the ice were made of sheets of iron, hinged and riveted; the feet, the monstrous fingers—all were iron-clad. Concentric bands of iron encircled the lower torso, while vast oval plates sat atop the breast, with chain mail links showing between the cracks. The head was encased in a thick, ungainly helmet. Bolts attached this to the neck; it had no decoration. Like the rest of the armor, it was ugly, heavy, brutally functional.

The burning figure came to a stop, not far from the metal post. It stood there, swaying. A metal cart was wheeled close, and scientists in protective garb rushed forward. Hands in thick gloves snapped locks, twisted levers. A visor at the front of the helmet sprang up and a face, deathly pale, could be seen within.

Until that moment I had not been sure. Now there could be no doubt. This was the Creeping Shadow, the thing of flame and smoke glimpsed at the churchyard. And it was not a spirit, but a man. An ordinary, living man inside an iron suit.

A man at the end of his strength, who staggered and seemed about to fall. Attendants thronged around him like ants beside an ailing queen; his giant metal arms were held, his sides supported. In painful looking stages, he sank back onto the cart. Electric motors whirred; the cart was driven off, down the nearby passageway, with the Rotwell team hurrying behind.

Steve Rotwell had been standing a few feet away, impassively observing the whole procedure. He put the cap back on his flask, rubbed his nose, and strode after them.

The door clanged. The hall was empty.

All that time I’d been motionless. I felt I’d almost forgotten how to speak. “Lockwood,” I croaked, “that man in armor…You really think—?”

He shook his head. “Not now. Got your spirit-cape?”

“Yes.”

“Put it on.”

I opened my bag, did as I was told. Lockwood was doing the same with his cape, unfurling the iridescent feathers. “I’m not going near the circle without protection,” he said. “This is our only chance to examine their setup. We have to take a closer look.”

We came out from our place of safety, headed into the center of the room. Behind the chains, the gray shapes flowed back and forth in the column of milky air. The psychic noise beat against my head. It was very cold. We put on our gloves.

Even close-up, it was impossible to see the other end of the hanging chain. It was as if a fog hung over the circle; the chain went into it and disappeared from view.

“A man steps into the circle,” Lockwood murmured. “He puts on the protective armor, and he goes inside this massive Source. Once there, what does he do? What does he find?”

“You remember George’s trousers analogy?” I said. “How Sources are places where the fabric of the world has worn thin? Put enough Sources together, he said, and the hole becomes a window to the Other Side. If that’s right, this window must be huge. They’re trying to see through to…” The concept was so incomprehensible—and so dangerous—that I couldn’t bring myself to finish.

Lockwood was staring calmly at the circle. “Yes. If a window is all it is.”

He added something else, but I didn’t hear him. Over and above the horrendous psychic roaring, something had called my name.

“Lucy…”

“The skull!” I said. “I hear it!”

I stepped closer to the chains, peering at the swirling silhouettes within. Which of the gray and rushing forms was it? Impossible to tell.

“Are you sure you hear it?” Even Lockwood, whose Listening abilities were practically nil, could sense the ferocious noise coming from the circle. To be honest, I was surprised, too. It was strange that I could pick out that one voice.

And yet there it was again. “Lucy…”

I shrugged. “I guess my psychic powers are getting stronger all the time. I must be tuned in to it on some special wavelength.”

“Well, that’s one possibility,” the voice said. “The other is, I’m just over here.”

I blinked around. To my left, piled against the wall, were stacks of empty silver-glass cases, open ghost-jars, and other discarded debris—plus one intact jar I recognized very well. It was on its side, as if hurled there; the hideous translucent face inside lay horizontal, too, nostrils flaring, bug-eyes glaring up at me.

“I know, I know,” it said. “Every last stupid Source in the county got put into that circle, and they didn’t bother with me. Bloodied hankies, socks, false teeth, bits of old rope; you name it, it all went in. I even saw them tossing in a couple of haunted buttons. But I’m not worthy.”

“Skull!” I ran over to the jar, pulled it upright. The top of the lid showed scuffs and other signs of damage. “What have they done to you?” I cleared my throat and scowled. “Not that I care, obviously.”

“I admit I’m surprised to see you, too,” the skull said. “’Course, I knew you’d look for me. I just didn’t think you’d have the brains to track me down.”

“It’s actually a complete coincidence. We’re on another mission entirely. Still, since I’m here…” I swung my backpack down and made a space inside. “But I don’t understand—why didn’t they use you? You’re a Type Three.”

The ghost spoke in tones of cold outrage. “They don’t know that, do they? They’re idiots. Plus, they couldn’t get the top off my jar. It’s corroded shut, or something. Tried to force it like I was a jar of pickled onions. In the end, they just lost patience. Ah, it’s so embarrassing! Even that moldy, beardy mummified head we found—he went in. That witch’s ghost is in there, too, shrieking around and around. But not me. What’s that you’re wearing, by the way? You look like a stuffed goose.”

“It’s a spirit-cape. Shut up.” I was busy shoving the jar into the backpack, looking over my shoulder as I did so. Lockwood was near the circle, studying the chain where it crossed into the column of haze. “Lockwood,” I called, “the skull’s here. We ought to go.”

“In a minute, Luce…” He was staring into the swirling haze, fingering the feathers on his cape.

“I see you brought Lockwood along as cannon fodder,” the skull. “Good thinking. Look, now’s your chance, while he’s distracted. Let’s slip away.”