Lockwood & Co. Book Three: The Hollow Boy Read Free Page A

dropped eight degrees since the foot of the
stairs.”
    “Yes. That fire door acts as a barrier.” The pencil beam of Lockwood’s flashlight speared downward and picked out the ridged gray surface of the door. “Look, it’s
got iron bands on it. That keeps our nice little old couple safe in their living quarters on the ground floor. But anyone who rents a room up here falls victim to something lurking in the
dark….”
    He turned the flashlight beam wide and circled it slowly around us. We were standing just below a shabby landing—neat enough, but cheaply furnished with purple curtains and an old cream
carpet. Several numbered plywood doors gleamed dully in the shadows. A few dog-eared magazines lay in a pile on an ugly bureau, near where a further flight of stairs led to the top floor. It was
supernaturally cold, and there was ghost-fog stirring. Faint wreaths of pale green mist were rising from the carpet and winding slowly around our ankles. The flashlight began to flicker, as if its
(fresh) battery were failing and would soon wink out altogether. A feeling of unquantifiable dread deepened in us. I shivered. Something wicked was very close.
    Lockwood adjusted his gloves. His face glowed in the flashlight beam, his dark eyes shone. As always, peril suited him. “All right,” he said softly. “Listen to me. We keep
calm, we take care of whatever’s up here, then we find a way to tackle Evans. George, rig up an iron circle here. Lucy, see what else the skull has to say. I’ll check out the nearest
room.”
    With that he lifted his rapier, pushed open a door, and disappeared inside, long coat swirling behind him.
    We got to work. George took out a lantern and set it on low; by its light, he busied himself with the iron chains, creating a decent circle in the center of the carpet. I opened my backpack
and—with some difficulty—took out a large, faintly luminous glass jar. Its top was secured by a complex plastic seal and, inside it, floating in green liquid, was a leering face. And I
don’t mean
nicely
leering. This was more the kind you get behind bars in a high-security prison. It was the face of a ghost—a Phantasm or Specter—tied to the skull that
rested in the jar. It was godless and disreputable and had no known name.
    I glared at it. “Are you going to be sensible now?”
    The toothless lips grinned awfully.
“I’m always sensible! What do you want to know?”
    “What are we dealing with up here?”
    “A cluster of spirits. They’re restless and unhappy and…Hold on, I’m getting something else—”
The face contorted suddenly.
“Ooh, that’s
bad. That’s real bad. If I were you, Lucy, I’d find a window and jump out. So what if you break both legs in several places? It’s better than staying in here.”
    “Why? What have you found?”
    “Another entity. Can’t tell what it is yet. But it’s strong and hungry, and…”
The bulging eyes looked sidelong at me.
“No, sorry, there’s a
limit to what I can sense, imprisoned in this cruel jar. Now, if you let me out, on the other hand…”
    I snorted. “That’s not going to happen, as well you know.”
    “But I’m an invaluable member of the team!”
    “Says who? You spend most of the time cheering when we nearly die.”
    The rubbery lips screwed tight in outrage.
“I hardly ever do that now! Things have changed between us. You know that’s true!”
    Well, it was sort of right. Things
had
changed between us and the skull. When it had first begun talking to me, some months before, we’d viewed it with suspicion, irritation, and
distaste. However, as the weeks passed and we’d gotten to know it properly, we’d learned to really despise it, too.
    George had long ago stolen the ghost-jar from a rival agency, but it was only when I’d accidently twisted a lever in the lid that I realized that the spirit trapped there could actually
speak to me. At first it was simply hostile; gradually, however, perhaps out of