Lockwood nodded slowly. "That's not a bad point, Luce," he said. "We'll take a peek in the library on the way to the classroom. Do some readings there. Speaking of which – what's the temperature now?"
George, who'd been grumbling under his breath because we'd ignored his advice, unclipped his belt thermometer and checked the luminous display. "Sixteen degrees."
"Okay. Keep watch on it. Let me know if it starts changing."
A sudden, unexpected fall in temperature is one sure sign of upcoming supernatural activity. Sometimes it's a hint that saves your life. In the case of the Bay House Horror I saw the temp plunge ten degrees when I walked inside that attic bathroom. It gave me just enough time to draw my sword before the Wraith stepped through the tiles.
But sixteen degrees seemed safe enough. Adjusting our bags, keeping our hands close to our belts, we set off up the corridor.
It was clearly an original part of the school, with oak panelling covering the lower half of the plastered walls. Ranks of notice-boards and photographs rose almost to the ceiling. There were sports teams, prize winners and whole-school photos, with massed ranks of pupils and teachers staring at the camera. It was too dark to make out the details. To keep our senses sharp, we mostly kept our torches off – flicking them on occasionally to check the signs outside each door.
"Class 1A, IB…" Lockwood murmured. "1C… the Science Lab…. Where is this library, anyway?"
A sound echoed in the darkness – a deep, harsh creaking, instantly cut off.
I stopped short. "Was that your stomach, George?"
He looked at me blankly. "Was what my stomach? I didn't hear anything."
"Nor me," Lockwood said. "What did you get, Lucy?"
That's my Talent, you see. I hear things other people don't. "A horrid, wrenching creak. Sort of like a rusted door hinge, or a coffin lid opening."
"What?" George said. "And you thought that was me?"
"Your belly makes weird sounds when you're hungry."
He paused. "Fair enough. I suppose it does."
"Where was this noise?" Lockwood said.
"Somewhere up ahead, maybe. I don't know."
"Good. So we're going in the right direction."
We continued steadily, our boots ringing faintly on the wooden flooring, and soon came to the end of the main corridor. Side passages branched out left and right. Ahead of us was a prominent glazed door, somehow more modern than the ones we'd passed. There was an engraved wooden sign on the wall. Lockwood shone his torch on it.
"Ernest Potts Memorial Library," he read. "Here we are, then."
As he spoke, a cool breeze flowed over us, a stirring of the air. We swung our torches wildly up and down the passages, but saw nothing.
"Temperature's down," George said. "Eleven degrees now."
"Rapiers at the ready," Lockwood said. He opened the door.
Nothing jumped out at us, which is always nice. The library was large and airy, with pleasant, trendy shelves of light-coloured pine. It smelled new. Rows of neatly ordered books covered the walls. Tall windows looked out over a small, drab playing field. There was a half-moon in the sky over London, lighting the room with a feeble light.
Without words George opened his bag, took out a length of iron chain, and began laying out a protective circle in the centre of the floor. Lockwood didn't protest. He looked and I listened for danger. We didn't get anything.
A small plinth sat on the wall between the central windows. On it was a marble bust of a stern, well-fed, Victorian-looking man sporting an enormous pair of mutton-chop whiskers. I went to take a look.
"Ernest Potts," I said, reading the plaque below it. "Headmaster, 1925 – 1957. He looks a dreadful old grump."
"What side-burns!" Lockwood said, marvelling. "You could stuff a cushion with the hair on them. I wonder if –"
"Hold it!" I said. "I hear something."
Silence in the library. We listened. We stood dead still.
Out in the corridor, beyond the half-closed door, there came a soft, intermittent, chinking sound. Not far off, and coming closer. And with it now: the sound of footsteps, limping footsteps – a firm step, then a drawn-out drag, as if a lame leg was being laboriously swung along the floor…
"Got it," Lockwood whispered suddenly. "I hear it too. Get inside the chains."
We stepped inside the circle.
"Temperature's dropping," George muttered. "Seven degrees… Now six…"
We took our rapiers from our belts.
Closer, closer came the horrid dragging footsteps. Closer came the clinking sound.
"Keys," I breathed. "It sounds like keys."
"Five degrees," George said calmly. His breath was pluming in the air.
We stood and faced the door.
The footsteps stopped. Thin threads of ghost-fog came trickling round the side of the door. Cold blistered my skin.
Something struck the door on the outside, making the wood reverberate. It struck the wood again.
"Lockwood," I hissed. "What do we do?"
