Lockwood & Co. The Creeping Shadow

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I knew at once, when I slipped into the moonlit office and eased the door shut behind me, that I was in the presence of the dead. I could feel it in the prickling of my scalp, in the way the hairs stirred on my arms, in the coldness of the air I breathed. I could tell it from the clots of spiderwebs that hung against the window, thick and dusty and glittering with frost. There were the sounds, too, centuries old; the ones I’d traced up the empty stairs and hallways of the house. The rustling linen, the crack of broken glass, the weeping of the dying woman: all were louder now. And there was the sudden intuition, felt deep in the pit of my gut, that something wicked had fixed its gaze on me.

Mind you, if none of that had worked, the shrill voice coming from my backpack might also have given me a clue.

“Eek!” it cried. “Help! Ghost!”

I glared over my shoulder. “Cut it out. So we’ve found the phantom. There’s no need for you to get hysterical.”

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