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

boredom or a desire for companionship, it had begun offering help in supernatural matters. Sometimes this was useful,
but the ghost was untrustworthy. It had no morals worth speaking of, and more vices than you would think possible for a disembodied head floating in a jar. Its evil nature affected me more than the
others, for I was the one who actually talked to it, who had to put up with the gleeful voice echoing in my mind.
    I tapped the glass, making the face squint in surprise. “Concentrate on this powerful spirit. I want you to locate its Source—find where it’s hidden.” With that, I stood
up. George had finished the circle around me. A moment later Lockwood emerged onto the landing and joined us both inside the chains.
    He was as calm and composed as ever. “Well, that was horrible.”
    “What was?”
    “The decor in that bedroom. Lilac, green, and what I can only describe as a kind of bilious off-yellow. None of the colors went at all.”
    “So there’s no ghost there?”
    “Ah, there
is
, as it happens. I’ve fixed it in position with salt and iron, so it’s safe enough for now. Go and look, if you like. I’ll replenish supplies
here.”
    George and I took our flashlights but didn’t switch them on. We didn’t need to. We were in a paltry little bedroom. It had a single bed, a narrow dresser, and a tiny window, black
and studded with rain. All this was illuminated by a horizontal orb of other-light that hung above the bed, merging into the pillows and bedsheets. In its center reclined the ghost of a man in
striped pajamas. He lay on his back, as if asleep, his limbs hovering slightly above the sheets. He had a small mustache and rumpled hair. His eyes were closed; his toothless mouth sagged against a
stubble-dusted chin.
    Cold air streamed from the apparition. Twin circles of salt and iron-filings, emptied by Lockwood from the canisters on his belt, encircled the bed. Whenever the pulsing aura drew too close, the
particles of salt ignited, spitting out green fire.
    “Whatever they charge for a room in this place,” George said, “it’s way too much.”
    We withdrew to the landing.
    Lockwood had refilled his canisters and was reattaching them to his belt. “See him, did you?”
    “Yes,” I said. “Think that’s one of the missing men?”
    “Definitely. The question is, what killed him?”
    “The skull says there’s a powerful spirit here. Says it’s a bad one.”
    “That’ll be on the prowl at midnight. Well, we can’t wait till then. Let’s see if we can hunt it down.”
    We checked the next bedroom, and the bathroom next to that. Both were clear. But when I opened the fourth door, I found
two
ghosts within. One man lay on the single bed, much as the
Visitor had in the other room, only curled on his side, with one arm bent beneath his head. He was older, thickset, with sandy hair cut very short, and dark blue pajamas. His eyes were open,
staring into nothing. Close by—so close that their auras of other-light nearly touched—stood another man. He wore pajama bottoms and a white T-shirt. He looked as if he had just gotten
out of bed, clothes rumpled, straggle-bearded, long black hair all tangled. I could see the carpet showing through his feet. He gazed up at the ceiling as if in mortal fear.
    “There are two death-glows,” Lockwood said. “One’s much brighter than the other. Different dates, different incidents. Something killed both these men while they were
sleeping.”
    “I’m just glad neither of them slept naked,” George said. “Particularly that hairy one. Let’s pen them in. They look passive, but you never know. Got your iron,
Lucy?”
    I didn’t answer him. Spectral cold was beating upon me, and with it came echoes of emotion: of loneliness and fright and sorrow, as experienced by the lost men in these rooms. I opened
myself up to it. Out of the past I heard the sound of breathing—the steady breathing of a person heavily asleep. Then came a