Chapter Text
Lucy swallowed, looking up at the townhouse in awe. The windows were bigger than any she had seen in her life, like something out of the Fittes office, rising high into the sky. It would tower over Portland Row, and her bedroom window made her dizzy if she thought about it for too long.
The ghost lamps flickered on, unsure of themselves for a moment, before establishing a sickly blue reflection on the glass.
There was no one else outside now, the last few commuters would rush into their homes long before darkness came, and extinguished any sense of normalcy from the world.
Lucy rolled some tightness out of her neck, and took one last sweeping look around the street. Lockwood was still discussing something with the night cab driver, maybe requesting his return. George was rifling through notes – he’d brought some of his research with him, grumbling as Lockwood distracted him in the cab. It had been a last minute booking, far too much money, and far too little information.
The wealthy were often like that. Like everything else in their lives, ghost evictions had to happen instantly, and without fuss.
As Lucy saw their client step out of the front door, closing it gently behind her, she knew this would be no different.
Norma Fields.
She walked to the gate with the air of a woman unbothered by the Problem, by the gravity of the situation, by the ghost which seemed to have taken up occupancy in her house. Her eyes glanced over George and their bags, flickering to Lockwood, before settling on Lucy.
Norrie had liked magazines. She’d liked the models and the fashion. Lucy had liked it a bit too, if she was honest with herself. It had been easier to pretend she didn’t care, knowing she’d never wear those clothes. She would have been laughed out of her village. All that was for Londoners, and rich folks. Not girls like her.
And then there were the supermodels.
Those were the pages she’d liked. The interviews. The photos of catwalks. The effortless power they seemed to hold. Norrie said they were glorified clothing hangers, and yet… they had always seemed like more. The way they wielded their beauty, used their femininity to make something of themselves…
Lucy blinked.
Norma Fields was in front of her.
She was still just as beautiful. She wore her age a little uncomfortably, tight against high cheekbones and hollowed cheeks. Even on her offtime, there was something striking about the woman. An oversized jumper and tight jeans looked straight off a runway. Lucy couldn’t help rubbing at the lint which collected on her own fuzzy jumper, thinking of how she’d picked her jeans off the floor, deciding they could stand to be worn just one more time.
Besides, drying anything in Portland Row took ages. And they’d only get dusty ghost hunting.
Lucy couldn’t help wondering if her expression was comparable to the woman as she looked down at her, perfectly whitened teeth revealed as she smiled politely.
Lockwood was over in a flash, the cab driving away as he greeted her.
“Ms. Fields,” he greeted her, armed with that charm Lucy always thought everyone could see right through.
Still, no one ever did.
He extended his hand, and she took it with a curious glance at him, shaking it gently. Like he’d forgotten himself.
“We’re Lockwood and Co. he continued, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
It was the first time she’d spoken. Lucy was taken aback. Her voice was deeper than expected, just by a touch, but it oozed with the confidence and seductive self-assuredness she’d always imagined. Lockwood was still speaking.
“These are my colleagues, Lucy Carlyle, and George Karim.”
Norma greeted each of them in turn, and Lucy found herself flushing as she nodded back.
Lucy thought he seemed jumpy, a little too eager. Proximity to stardom seem to bring that out in him, his wide smile stretched even further.
George was evidently unaware of the weight of the situation, if a little flustered to be spoken to directly by a retired supermodel.
A moment of silence settled after the introductions. Lockwood seemed to have forgotten his usual speech. The wind was picking up, growing colder and sweeping away the warm spring air. The house was opposite a walled garden, and the trees behind the iron gates whispered and shook with the wind. Norma glanced up at the noise, and for the first time Lucy saw something approaching distress in Norma’s eyes.
Lucy laid on hand on her rapier, and the concern barely forcing it’s way onto Norma’s forehead flattened again.
“You believe the ghost to be a type two?”
“I’m not sure,” she answered honestly, “it seemed powerful but… I’ve been fortunate enough not to see it.”
“When did the haunting first appear?”
George, clipboard in hand, seemed to have deigned to join the conversation.
“Maybe… two days ago?”
Karim whistled as he confirmed the story with his notes, though the noise came out more as a strangled, sorry kind of thing. Lockwood stifled a laugh at his expense.
“Any suspicious deaths in the property, recent tragedies, historical events that we should know about going in?”
Norma pouted, shaking her head slowly, and exhaled.
“None that I can think of.”
“If there’s nothing else, we’ll head on in!”
The house keys jangled as Norma freed them from her grasp, dangled from one finger in preparation to give them to Lockwood. With a sudden frown, she paused.
“It’s just… I would appreciate if you kept this quiet. I know we’ve discussed quite a high fee, Mr Lockwood, and I do value my privacy. If this were to reach the press…”
“Of course. Discretion is very important to us.”
Lockwood offered her that winning smile, which hid his incredible disappointment at missing the opportunity to get his name in the paper next to a photo of Norma Fields.
There were a multitude of reasons clients wanted their cases kept on the downlow – property value, embarrassment, status. Lockwood loved the cases where he could brag, but he had just enough of a head for numbers to understand that exclusivity and discretion paid their bills.
Fittes couldn’t make the same claim.
It was just a shame he couldn’t brag about it to Kipps.
“Thank you for your understanding,” she smiled, a little bashfully, and Lucy thought she could hear sincere gratitude in Norma’s voice as she finally gave Lockwood a bunch of four shiny house keys.
“These are my spare pair, post them through the letterbox when you’re done.”
Lockwood nodded dutifully, as George lugged one of their kit bags on to his shoulder. Norma’s gaze found Lucy again. She was a touch taller than Lockwood – though Lucy supposed supermodels were all tall – and yet Lockwood rarely intimidated her in the way that Norma did. Nonetheless, she offered her a gentle smile, her hand finding the arm of Lucy’s jumper for just a split second before pulling away again.
It was a slightly awkward gesture, paired with a softly spoken:
“Please, be careful. I’d feel dreadful if anything happened.”
Lucy looked up at her, swallowing as she nodded.
“Of course.”
Norma smiled. It was more natural. Her cheeks plumping and lips pressed together. For a split second, Lucy wondered if she was about to press her lips to the crown of her head. Norrie’s mum used to do that. As Norma stepped away instead, saying goodbye to the boys, Lucy felt her stomach drop.
A night cab had come and gone, and Lockwood had fetched the other kit bag from the pavement before Lucy righted herself.
Stepping through the threshold of Norma Field’s London townhouse, something felt wrong. They were mansions specialists, ready for dust and grime and old, derelict opulence.
This was something else.
The fanciest electric lights Lucy had ever seen illuminated sleek kitchen work surfaces, a huge fruit bowl dominated a kitchen island, and the room extended into a dining room, right back to the garden.
It was like stepping into a magazine.
“Surely no one actually lives here.”
George voiced her thoughts exactly, though Lucy laughed at hearing them aloud.
“If you’ve made as much money as Norma Fields, I suppose you do live here,” she responded, lips parted as she stared around the huge space.
This wasn’t the countryside. This was central London. Each square foot cost more than her family home, she was sure of it. They glanced around the open-plan ground floor, trying to get a sense of the space. Usually they needed torches and careful footing to avoid going through the floorboards. Here, it was like the pale shadows were painted on, perfect flat greys against cool white walls. You could see everything. The countertops were clear of clutter, and George wasn’t coughing up a lung from dust inhalation.
Lucy found herself looking down at her muddied boots, wincing at the footprints they’d left on the polished white floor behind them.
“Looks like it’ll be a warm one, at least!”
Lockwood shucked his wool overcoat with glee, laying it on a chic leather bar stool. Their bags remained on the floor, far away from the polished granite counters. It was so far from their world, from the creaking pipes and cold spots which filled Portland Row.
“No big flares in here, if we can help it,” he continued, with a slight glance to Lucy.
She swallowed, not sure she’d ever be ready to joke about that.
“I’m going to go and have a look around, get a sense of where the source might be,” George said.
Lucy couldn’t agree more, offering a muted:
“I’ll join you,” as she followed him up the stairs.
“We need to make a circle, George!” Lockwood called after them.
“You do it then!”
George was kicking off his shoes as he yelled back, and halfway up the stairs as Lucy heard Lockwood’s petulant sigh in return.
*
Lucy and George had enjoyed a gleeful lap of the house by the time Lockwood ventured upstairs, socked-feet against the white carpet and rapier drawn, but hanging by his side.
They’d reconvened in the kitchen, puzzled over how to use Norma’s fancy kettle, before finally settling in with three matching Denby mug of tea, steaming between their hands.
“I can’t imagine it’ll be a bad one,” Lockwood mused, with an arrogance only he could possess when faced with the emergency removal of a type two.
“There’s not a lot of house to haunt,” George added, a little more cautious as he glanced to each corner of the fully lit room.
Their torches remained in their pockets, unused.
“I don’t like that she thought it was a type two.”
Lucy was less sure. She had her back to the oven, clear eyeline to both doors.
“Could be something less sinister, you know what these showbiz types are like,” George countered, eyes flickering to Lockwood, “dramatic.”
Lucy hid a smile behind her tea.
“Might be a Lurker. Or a Stalker,” Lockwood added.
She shook her head.
“She said Malaise. That’s a strong reaction to a Lurker. And I haven’t heard a Stalker.”
The slow grinding sound of moving foot bones on rock was hard to miss. And hard to forget. Lucy would have heard it.
“Hear anything else?” Lockwood added.
With a last glance around the room, and a deep inhale, Lucy closed her eyes. She Listened, tuning out the boys’ breathing, the distant road noise outside, the howl of the wind.
Nothing.
There was nothing that stood out as a relic, nothing that seemed out of place, no cold spots that George could find.
And so, the waiting resumed.
George wandered off alone at one point, only to return with (thankfully) wet hands and a one-liner ready to go.
“We should clear houses with working toilets more often!”
Lucy exhaled a laugh, and Lockwood groaned.
They went back to waiting.
There was a worst case scenario where nothing terrifying happened, and they would have to wait until dawn to clear the house.
Lucy almost wanted to hear something.
When she opened her eyes, Lockwood and George were staring at the framed magazine spreads on the wall. And talking.
“She looked good, I thought she’d be ancient by now.”
Lucy rolled her eyes, reaching for her mug and pulling it close.
“She’s only like, forty George!”
“She’s a lot younger in those though!”
“Duh, that’s how time works,” she chided, staring down at the pale brown dregs of tea in her cup.
“Still, definitely past peak modelling age. That can’t be easy,” Lockwood added flippantly.
He was playing with the tie of a salt bomb he’d pulled from his pocket.
Lucy felt something thick settle in her throat, her tongue heavy in her mouth. She turned to face the huge glass windows, faced with her reflection in the darkness outside.
“She’s still beautiful, guys. Don’t be such dicks.”
The words were choked out. Lucy realised she wasn’t sure what she was upset about. But her cheeks were growing hot.
“I’m not saying she’s not!” George protested. “Do you think she still works?”
Lucy shrugged, suddenly feeling the need to be somewhere else.
“Maybe adverts and stuff,” Lockwood suggested, eyes finding the magazine front covers where they subtly graced the walls.
Lucy hadn’t noticed it before, but they were hidden everywhere, printed in black and white and encased in slim, unobtrusive white frames.
George and Lockwood were saying something else, about short careers, managing to miss every opportunity to have even a brief moment of introspection. Lucy stood, stumbling a bit as she tried to extricate herself from the tall barstool.
“I’m going to do another sweep,” she murmured, batting away offers of help.
She stepped across the iron chains Lockwood had begrudgingly laid out, careful not to disturb the circle, rapier drawn.
It was unnerving, the way the floors didn’t bend, the stairs didn’t creak beneath her feet. Just a nice, fancy, house.
It was hard to imagine herself anywhere other than living at the agency, Lockwood’s childhood home had become theirs, now. Despite how long she’d lived with her mum, it had never felt right in quite the way Portland Row’s attic room did.
But it wouldn’t be that way forever. Time felt like it slipped by impossibly fast, sometimes, each night without work felt wasted. No matter how badly they all needed a break.
She’d never gotten to be a teenager, and her teen years felt like they were behind her.
A house like this? This was success. Being an adult. An independent, adult woman, with her own goals. Independence. Some traitorous part of her wondered if she’d be lonely, in a big house like this.
There were pictures everywhere, marks of success. A stack of jewellery boxes which Lucy couldn’t help flipping open, each seeming to contain more elaborate and beautiful pieces than the last. She hadn’t dared to touch them, terrified to smudge the extravagant diamonds and sapphires set into the metal. Awards lined a discreet shelf on the office wall, as white as the rest of the house. More magazine covers, runways. Only one part of the room seemed familiar, messy and disorganised and fun. A huge, freestanding pin board, leant against the wall above the desk. It was covered in post-its, receipts, to do lists. Most of all, it was covered in photos.
They weren’t like the magazine pictures. These were like hers, the ones Norrie had taken when a moment had overwhelmed them, and they’d never wanted it to end. Polaroid photos of glossy parties, impossibly beautiful women with drinks in hand, and bright lights against the night sky in the background.
She thought of Norrie. She’d love this house. She’d love the glamour. Norrie would have her rummaging through the numerous wardrobes, pulling designer garments, tottering around in heels.
Lucy wanted to do that.
The people at those parties seemed nothing like them, famous models and actors mixed throughout the frames, and yet the companionship seemed so genuine. So real. A bigger world than Lucy could ever hope for.
A young woman appeared throughout them, blonde and pretty, arched eyebrows and pouted lips, not a million miles from Norma’s effortless beauty, with their arms slung around one another. The must have been in her early twenties. Not that much older than them.
Lucy was inspecting a family photo when she heard it.
The barest whisper. Like someone standing behind her.
In the bright light, Lucy almost missed her. The edges of the ghost were visible if Lucy focussed, stood completely still. She was so close Lucy could almost make out her features. The barest shimmer, off a high cheekbone, then the scream of rage.
Lucy swung her rapier, muscles cold and surroundings unfamiliar, and her wrist glanced painfully off the wall as she missed her target. Another swipe, and the phantasm whispered again, eyes murderous as she stared straight at Lucy.
Her outstretched arm was perilously close before a third swipe of Lucy’s rapier sent her flying.
Sprinting from the room, Lucy heard two very-real people bounding up the stairs, the dull thuds of frantic socked feet on carpet.
Lockwood’s rapier was drawn, and George was armed with a silver blanket as their wild eyes met Lucy’s.
“Phantasm,” she choked out, body shocked by the sudden adrenaline.
Her wrist hurt. Her chest hurt. She had a stitch.
The pain registered vaguely, but it wasn’t important now.
“Where was she?”
Collided with: “Are you okay?”
First George, then Lockwood spoke.
“The office,” Lucy answered breathlessly, crossing to the stairs and pressing her back to the banister as she stared back into the room.
“So it’s a type two, then?” George muttered, and Lucy could see him glancing at the dropping temperature on his thermometer.
“Duh,” Lucy returned, “I guess she was right after all.”
Lockwood called a swift end to their bickering, voice serious as he stepped in front of both of them, rapier extended towards the open office door.
“Can you hear anything?” Lockwood asked her, voice quiet, waiting.
“I think she’ll be easier to see with the lights off.”
“Ah great,” George groaned, “the one time we get to see what we’re doing!”
Before he’d even finished complaining, Lockwood had approached the office doorway on light feet, flicking the light off before stepping evenly back to the landing. Lucy pulled her torch, set the beam at their feet, and turned off the landing light.
In unison, they inhaled, a moment of weakness as their senses adjusted.
Then Lucy closed her eyes.
Laughter. Thumping music. Footsteps.
A slamming door.
Silence.
Nothing, for a beat. Just the trepidation, the nervousness, of waiting for something to come.
There was a rush of fear in her chest, pressure behind her eyes, and she stumbled where she stood at the scream which seemed to batter the inside of her eardrums.
“No! Please, no.”
Lucy gasped. Felt a hand against her back.
“I’ll do whatever you want!”
A scream.
Her eyes snapped open. Lockwood was watching her. She was back, a glimmer behind him, mouth open in rage.
Lucy could still hear it.
“No! Please, no.”
“Lockwood!”
George beat her to it, a salt bomb thrown past the boy to startle the ghost. Lockwood turned on the spot, sword parallel to his shoulders as he drew it high, ready to fend her off.
He stepped back, towards Lucy and George, and Lucy heard her scream of anger as she tried to follow.
“The source has to be in that room,” Lucy theorised, regretting shouting as the ghost’s attention turned to her.
Her shimmering, silver eyes were translucent, and yet they seemed to hold the intensity of any living person. Lucy felt her muscles resist as she tried to move, forcing herself to blink as the ghost started to fixate on her.
Her mouth was moving, as softly as if she was whispering, and yet the words were screamed into Lucy’s mind.
“I’ll do whatever you want!”
“Luce!”
Lockwood swung at the ghost, catching her attention and her rage.
George was scanning the room, torch dancing across the walls, fixed to the spot with the silver net ready to throw.
She wracked her brain for what could be the source. Something drew her to the photos, and yet that seemed so impossible. They looked new, barely touched.
Something else.
What else?
As Lockwood engaged the ghost, taking her in a circle as she hovered at his eye height, Lucy saw her gown, flowing in and out of existence. It would have been something stunning, in life. Long and extravagant.
Like you’d wear to a party.
Lockwood jabbed forwards, making her scream in rage as the blade passed through her shoulder. Lucy stepped closer with her own blade, ready to make a run for the room. The ghost’s body still covered the doorway.
Her hair looked wet, it didn’t flow around her like Annabelle Ward’s had. It made female ghosts scarier, often, the mane of hair which was unfettered by gravity.
This ghost looked sleek.
There was a murmur of something, at the base of her neck. Hard to make out as her form shimmered and moved, glimpses of light making up her image like the sun reflecting off glass.
She was wearing chandelier diamond earrings.
And Lucy would bet there was a matching necklace.
Backing herself towards George, she stretched an arm out, tracing
“George… give me the net,” she hissed.
It was pressed into her palm in an instant, and she pulled it close as she approached the phantasm.
The ghost was still covering the doorway, but she was high up. Lucy would fit through the gap below it.
It would be a close thing, centimetres from being ghost touched. The moment the phantasm’s attention was caught, Lucy would be defenceless.
She was sure of it. That had to be the necklace.
The ghost surged forwards, hands outstretched for Lockwood. She heard George cry out.
Lucy threw herself to the ground, hitting the carpet hard, pulling herself on her arms until she was through the doorway and scrambling to her feet.
A high-pitched scream.
“No! Please, no.”
She could feel the cold behind her, that growing sense of dread in her stomach.
It was a stupid thing to do.
And yet, Lucy didn’t think about it.
“I’ll do whatever you want!”
She dropped her rapier. She swept the contents of the shelf into the silver net, bundling the mess of boxes and awards to her chest and fighting to cover everything in the material.
When Lucy spun around, she let out a noise of fear, the kind they all made subconsciously on scarier cases – and had a silent agreement not to tease each other about.
She was met with empty, unmoving darkness.
Lucy pulled the bundle closer to her chest. She wasn’t sure what to do.
When George flicked on the hall light, she blinked against the brightness of it, drawn towards it in a daze.
George had hair plastered to his forehead in sweat. Lockwood as downright dishevelled, slumped against the wall, and Lucy had a moment of cold fear that he’d been ghost locked before his tired eyes flickered up to meet hers.
None of them spoke.
No quips.
No comfort.
They traipsed downstairs in silence.
First Lucy, then George. Several long moments later, Lockwood emerged.
This rapier was still in hand, and he set it roughly on the kitchen counter, metal ringing against the polished stone loud enough to make all of them jump and Lockwood mutter an apology.
The backup silver nets were pulled out, an extra circle established, before Lucy and George began the silent process of establishing which of the various things Lucy had caught in her net were the source.
Lucy had her suspicions. After a few false guesses (which she knew were useless before she dared to touch them) Lucy opened all the jewellery boxes – and quickly rewrapped the diamond necklace and earring set.
She didn’t want to use her Touch. Not today. George didn’t need telling as such. A quick temperature check (and the gathering of a spirit which happened the instant the net was removed) told them everything they needed to know.
Lockwood sat at the other end of the kitchen island, hand hovering over his rapier, and his face stony and sickly pale.
When the source was identified they all waited in silence for a moment, staring at the mess of awards and jewellery on the table, waiting to see if Lucy had chosen wrong.
A fox in the garden made the security lights flicker on, and the three of them jump out of their skins.
Nothing else had happened.
Lockwood put his face in his hands, stifling a groan, as George and Lucy slumped into their seats. (Lucy struggled a little more to slump, but still managed it once she’d climbed on to the barstool).
“Thank god that’s over,” George added dryly.
Lucy felt it would be unkind to point out that he hadn’t actually done anything, and so she didn’t.
Lockwood was looking at her.
“Maybe posh houses aren’t any less scary,” Lucy tried to joke, though the break in her voice gave her away.
Lockwood kept looking at her. He didn’t say anything.
Their emptied mugs sat on the table, in a cluster where they’d been pushed aside. They were mixed up, in the rush to identify the source. Lucy found herself craving a cuppa.
“Tea?”
George was halfway to agreeing when he was interrupted.
“Let’s just get out of here,” Lockwood rumbled.
Lucy thought she might understand. The bags beneath his eyes looked a little heavier today.
“Okay.”
The boys didn’t move, and Lucy found herself alone in gathering up the awards and boxes cluttering the table, carefully avoiding the netted source.
When everything was set as the edge of the granite island, she reached for their mugs, letting them clink gently together as she collected them and moved them to the sink.
George stood.
She knew a lot about George. She knew that George liked talking, and he hated hugging. Lucy found herself pulled into a silent bear hug, before he wordlessly scurried away upstairs.
She heard the flip of every light switch he passed.
Then there was Lockwood. Slumped against the counter. Gazed fixed on the silver net in front of him.
“I thought I’d lost you,” he murmured. “Just for a second. It was… I should tell you off. For doing that.”
He stood, curled fingers beneath her jaw, lightly guiding her head up. Lucy felt like she had stopped breathing, his thumb gently brushing across her chin. Lucy was startled to realise it hurt, pulling away from him instinctively.
She regretted it in an instant, as his hand dropped to his side.
“You couldn’t tell me off if you tried, Lockwood,” she managed, and he offered her that winning smile.
“Please be careful.”
“Pot, kettle, black, Lockwood,” Lucy tried to smile, but that made her jaw hurt.
She kept her expression neutral. Touched the base of her chin. Wondered why she could still feel the ghost of his fingers there.
“You're hurt. That was unnecessary,” he added gently, “I could have fought her off. Then we could have found the source afterwards.”
“I didn’t see,” Lucy admitted, “you looked pretty cornered to me.”
From his downward glance as Lockwood looked away from her gaze, Lucy reckoned she was right.
“Let’s get out of here,” she echoed his words from earlier, passing him the keys where they sat on the countertop.
He held them, laced the keyring between his fingers, as she gathered up the not-sources and took them upstairs.
*
They went to great lengths to set the house to rights, George going so far as to wash up the mugs they’d used.
Lucy restacked the jewellery boxes she’d found, straightening up the office. The photos caught her eye again, and those ghostly features seemed to stare back at her. It was like Lucy could still hear her.
“No! Please, no.”
There was a gouge out of the doorframe from Lockwood’s rapier which couldn’t be helped, but otherwise everything looked as she’d found it.
“I’ll do whatever you want!”
She turned back to the polaroid. And with a guilty swallow, took it from its pin.
*
They waited by the door until the cab showed up, pulling onto the single yellow line outside, the driver glancing nervously at the dark park opposite the house.
“Finally, let’s get out of here.”
Kit bags on their shoulders, they filed out of the townhouse, watching the darkness of the street before opening the iron front gate.
“Well done, guys. Another case closed.”
Lucy said nothing, wishing she could examine Norma’s expression again for truthfulness, or something. Lockwood posted the keys through the door.
“Best in the biz’,” George grumbled, making Lockwood exhale at his sarcasm.
As she clambered into the cab, Lucy felt the polaroid bend in her back pocket. It was only in her memory, but muffled echo of desperate begging wasn’t getting any quieter as they drove away from the house.