Disclaimer: I do not own Lockwood and Co. Jonathan Stroud does.

A/N: This isn't much in terms of action, I know. But this is my first fanfic, so I want to go slowly. And I apologize if some of the characters seem OOC or if the writing's not up to par. Constructive criticism would be really appreciated. Oh, and I'm not British, I'm American. I'll try to keep obvious Americanisms out of my writing (ex: biscuits not cookies), but I'll probably mess up. A lot. So if you notice a term or something that you think I should change, please let me know. I'd be really grateful.

Prologue

A haunted house is never a good place to pick a fight. Any agent worth her iron knows that. Visitors feed off of negative energy. They love anger especially; it's such a powerful emotion. You could sit there in the dark and yell yourself hoarse and never notice that something else is softly, stealthily growing, that something else is gathering force and rising—not, at least, until it comes crashing down upon your head. Lose control on a case at the Fittes or Rotwell agencies and you'd find yourself out on the streets and out of a job quicker than you could draw your rapier. It's a rule no agent ever breaks. It's just as vital to our well being as the cookie rule

And yet we at Lockwood and Co. managed to do just that. Break it, I mean.

Mind you, it wasn't quite as bad as the time Lockwood forgot the iron chains, or that time George made our tea with the kettle that was the Source.

No, it was almost certainly worse.

Although, we did come out of it alive. And it does make for a spectacular story.

Would you like to hear it?

Chapter 1

The house was small, smaller than its neighbors, and dwarfed by the great hills that rose up behind it. The walls were painted white and the shutters pink, and, if I squinted, I could just see lacy curtains hanging in the upstairs windows, shrouding the insides from view. Exuding an aura of prim and feminine propriety, it was the sort of house where one might expect to find either a young woman or little old spinster resident.

It was not the sort of house that one would expect to hold a Visitor.

But in my months at Lockwood and Co., I'd learned to expect the unexpected. Take George, for example. On any given afternoon, he'd be slouched neck deep in the plushest sofa, face squashed in another one of his comics, unmoving as a corpse in rigor mortis. Threats of eating the last biscuit only elicit the smallest of grunts. You'd be justified in mistaking him for a sloth, or in thinking he was only capable of movement about once every century. But bring a jelly donut within a mile radius of him, and he'd move faster than the most vengeful Type Two.

So it was not without some trepidation that I regarded the house. Our client had left for a motel a week ago, claiming it impossible to stay another night there. And, according to George's research, the place was not quite so innocent as its appearance would have us believe.

"Alright," Lockwood said, pushing open the gate, "Are you two good to go? Got everything?"

"Everything except a bit of decent sleep," George muttered. This was true. We'd barely slept the past week on account of all the cases coming in, and exhaustion was beginning to take its toll.

Lockwood pretended not to hear. "Excellent." We had reached the porch. He extracted a key from one of his jacket pockets and held it out to me. "Luce, care to do the honors?"

It was my turn, so I took it, shouldered my duffel bag, and turned it in the lock. The door opened with a soft click; we filed inside. I set my duffel bag on the floor, shut the door behind me, and looked around.

The soft gray light of the fast fading afternoon illuminated the front hall. A bare coatrack bade us welcome from one corner; quaint landscapes winked from the walls. There was a little round table in front of the short stretch of wall directly across from us, where the hallway split into two smaller corridors. A vase sat upon the table, resplendent with a bunch of wilting yellow flowers. Small knickknacks surrounded it. A thin coating of dust overlay everything. The air was musty and warm and very still. It all looked very ordinary, but I thought I could detect a faint…something—an out-of-place emotion…anger? Sadness? I couldn't identify it, but it made me edgy.

That would only get stronger once night fell, I was sure.

George was already moving in search of the kitchen, opening doors down one of the two corridors. Lockwood stood next to me. He, too, was looking around—but for an entirely different reason.

"See anything?" I said.

He shrugged. "No. But I'm hardly likely to here, am I? Our client said she saw it in the basement."

"Mm." I was straining to listen, but the distant din coming from George's direction was slightly distracting. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and tried my best to block it all out—block out the sounds of George cursing and knocking things about in the next room, block out the sound of Lockwood breathing softly next to me—and listen

Nothing. Only silence, deep as a well and oppressively opaque. And that feeling, picking away at my senses.

I opened my eyes.

Lockwood was looking at me. "Hear anything?"

I shook my head. "It's all quiet for now, but that'll change soon. But listen, Lockwood, did you feel—"

"Lockwood! Lucy!" George called, "I've found the kitchen!"

Lockwood smiled at me. "C'mon. Let's go help George."

I nodded, feeling foolish. The faint emotion had faded. I must've imagined it. I had been up late last night.

Tea would make me feel better, I decided. Absolutely.

So, keeping silent, I hefted my bag and followed Lockwood into the kitchen.