THIS IS MY OWN MADE-UP VERSION OF THE NEXT BOOK FOLLOWING THE SCREAMING STAIRCASE, WHISPERING SKULL, SUMMARY OF BOOK 3, AND MADE-UP FACTS. PLEASE R&R!

LOCKWOOD & CO.: THE HOLLOW BOY

1: A Bad Case

Our case didn't start out well.

"The telephone's broke," George said promptly, two hours before we were due to investigate Mary Blake's ghost.

"Yes, well, we need more tea," Lockwood remarked helpfully.

I did the thinking. "The telephone's broken, we usually call Pitkins Brothers to get more…So who's going?"

The two boys studiously avoided my eye.

"That's women's work," George pointed out.

I eyed a cup on the kitchen counter, calculating how long I have to throw the thing at George's head before Lockwood intervened.

Not long.

"All right, Luce," Lockwood bargained. "We have to check our supplies and what-nots, and all you have to do is get out in the sunshine and take a walk. How hard can it be?"

"Very," George agreed.

And it wasn't that I wasn't willing. Not under "normal" circumstances anyway. It was because George, as always, never wanted to do it and had to point it out, making me feel grouchy because I felt like I'm always the one pointed at to do it.

So it was with ill-grace that I jammed on my flip-flops, tossed on my navy-blue jacket, and stomped out the door.

Bond street wasn't far, but it required me to pass through the main street, (unless I wanted to take the tube, which would be packed at this hour of day with commuters hurrying home) composing of Regent Street, where DEPRAC and Scotland Yard headquarters lay, besides the Fittes and Rotwell's massive buildings.

These days, I was feeling proud of my status as an agent, and as Lucy Joan Carlyle of Lockwood & Co., so I no longer slouched and walked through London with my head down, eyes cast at the sidewalk in front. I walked with my chin up, eyes straight ahead, and people parted for me much more respectfully. Despite what I'd said to Lockwood and George, I was actually enjoying the walk.

Then a movement behind me caught my eye. I slowed down, glancing behind me, but there were so many people around me that I couldn't tell who it had been. Plus, I was an agent, so there were a lot of eye-staring by the people around me. Yet I couldn't shake off the unease, a feeling that someone wanted to hurt me.

That's nonsense, I thought, a hysterical laugh bubbling out, but I wasn't getting very good lately at blocking out my instincts (except for the occasional ones about hitting George over the head with the ghost jar).

And when my eyes caught a man, slightly out of place with his distasteful, dandy clothes and disgusting flair, I shuddered involuntarily and tried to catch him again, sure that a glimpse could save my life. There had been something eerily familiar about his eyes.

And so that's how I was, glancing behind me like a demented owl, that I crashed into someone.

"Watch where you're going!" I spat while I resentfully offered my hand to help the person up.

That was, before I noticed who it was and snatch my hand back hastily, leaving Quill Kipps stupidly grasping at air.

"Ms. Carlyle," Kipps said in greeting, a little mournfully as he heaved himself up while I goggled at him. It wasn't the politest meeting we'd had, but then, there was nothing polite when it came to Kipps.

"Quill Kipps," I said warily, taking in note of the people accompanying him.

There was Kat Godwin, Kipps right-hand woman, who cut quite a figure with her amazingly sharp chin and blond-flick hair. The only thing we have in common is the talent of Listening, creative sarcasm, and the ability to annoy each other's guts out.

Bobby Vernon was there too, a short guy who helped Kipps with research. I almost missed him behind Kipps—he'd fit in more with the iron gnomes in someone's front yard than with a bunch of Fittes rats.

Ned Shaw and his unruly mop of hair stood behind them, an imposing figure if Lockwood hadn't beat his butt a few months ago. His hand was clenching and reclenching his rapier hilt, making me think wistfully that I had brought my own rapier.

They were all staring at me like I was a specimen in the London Museum, which wasn't unusual but bothered me.

"What are you guys doing?" Talking to them always left a bad taste in my mouth, but I could always rinse it out later.

"Scotland Yard needs help…with a case," Kipps answered hesitantly.

"Ah, so you guys can be bothered to waste time," I jeered knowingly, bobbing my head up and down, then hurriedly walking away, trying not to trip over my flip-flops.

I thought that maybe it was Kipps who'd stared at me. But I'd felt it behind me, not in front, and when I'd collided with Kipps, there'd been genuine surprise on his face.

But there was no incident the rest of the trip, leaving behind only a sense of dark insecurity.

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We stood in front of a towering building that looked more like a mansion than a small home someone might live in frequently. The last rays of sunlight streaked across the gray autumn sky, making the place more forlorn and sinister.

"That's a lot of rooms to check," I commented.

Lockwood glanced at me, but said nothing. Maybe both him and George felt the vibes of unease radiating from me. That wasn't good for ghost-hunting because they'd feed off of any strong emotion—fear, anger, etc.—and grow stronger and more aggressive. Lockwood and George both knew that. So should I.

"You okay, Luce?" Lockwood asked slowly.

"Yeah, because if you're still angry with us," George said, hitching up his pants as he shifted a duffel bag from one hand to another, "then we'll be fried in there. Maybe you can stay here and we'll go in."

"No, thanks," I said sharply.

To prove my point, I squared my shoulders, walked up the stone steps, pushed the door open (already unlocked), and stepped inside.

It was musty and cold, with a gloomy feeling of deadness to it. There were cobwebs everywhere, making it hard to tell where exactly the Source lay. A hallway stretched out in front of us, with closed doors to either side. We'd entered into an enormous atrium, with a massive spiraling staircase reaching up into the inky darkness.

I heard the scuffing of boots on wood, then Lockwood and George stepped up beside me, setting the duffel bags of iron chains, seals, and cans of magnesium fire down onto the floor.

There was a silence.

"Right!" Lockwood said briskly, clapping his gloved hands together. A pair of sunglasses were clipped to the flap of his long coat. A lock of dark hair hung across Lockwood's brow elegantly, making him look like a very handsome photo model in the London Society. "Let's get ourselves a ghost."

I wasn't very motivated.

"Where shall we start first?" I asked lamely. If they hadn't noticed, there must be dozens of rooms in this house. Then, I notice, if Mary Blake had lived her like she'd claimed over the phone, then the house would've been cleaner and less cold. But I decided, after a series of plausible and improbable excuses, not to tell Lockwood and George, who would have a smart-butt comment in which I wasn't in the mood to hear.

"Ground floor, then first landing," Lockwood said, unperturbed.

"Should we split up?"

Lockwood and George gave me stares that made me feel super self-conscious of how independent—and stupid—I was acting. And a little defensive, too.

"What?" I demanded. "There're so many bloody rooms, it might take Annie Ward's ghost to return before we finish it all!"

Lockwood shook his head. "We don't split up," he said firmly.

That reminded me of the new-found feeling back at Portland Row after Lockwood told us his childhood story. His sister had died as an agent when Lockwood had been training with Gravedigger Sykes. That had been the news that had kept Lockwood from continuing in the Fittes Annual Fencing competition. Lockwood's parents had disappeared when he was young, and after his sister had died under the care of Lockwood's parents' relatives, Lockwood no longer trusted them. Gravedigger Sykes, a friend of Lockwood's parents, had then taken him in, and when he died, it had been a big blow to Lockwood. Soon after kicking his relatives out of his parents' home while keeping the secret of his sister's spirit close, with his parents' leftover money, Lockwood had put together Lockwood & Co. agency, and here he was today, our charismatic leader defying all odds to continue a lifelong dream.

Hearing his story made mine seem childish in comparison.

We found the kitchen halfway down the hall. It was small compared to the rest of the house, and the stove didn't work, so we ended up not having our tea after all.

But George insisted on the cookies.

We were in the hallway checking the rooms with varying levels of excitement and boredom when I heard it. A low tapping, like a hammer on a nail.

I grabbed Lockwood's sleeve and stuck out a foot to stop George's advancement.

"You guys hear that?" And the moment I said it, the knocking stopped dead, leaving an eerily empty silence behind.

I frowned.

"I don't hear anything," George declared.

"That's because you're not a Listener," I pointed out.

"All right," Lockwood said slowly. "We'll go more carefully now, while..."

And whatever else he said I didn't hear, because the knocking had started again, and with everything going on, I didn't want to shout a false alarm. I glanced back at them. Lockwood, still talking, and George had drifted into another room. I took a step away.

Just a quick peek, I thought, feeling more courageous than usual. And I briskly turned my back and walked towards the noise.

Down one hallway, and another, then I realized I was lost.

Just as I realized that the sound I'd been hearing hadn't been with my inner, psychic ear. This was a trap.

I turned to go back, my heart starting to beat a desperate rhythm inside my chest, telling me, Run, run, run!

And I run into a strong, broad chest.

I gasped and then he pushed me hard. I stumbled back into a door frame and crumpled there. I blink back tears of pain and frustration, then cry out as I see the same familiar eyes that had haunted me since the Annie Ward case.

"Maybe this will teach you not to mess with me," Hugo Blake rasped.

"You're crazy," I gasped. This was even worse than when we were caught by Winkman in his shop trying to find that bone mirror. That time it was we. This time it was me.

And I was all alone with a maniac and his equally crazy sister and sidekicks behind him in my peripheral vision. I should've known.

I opened my mouth to cry out for Lockwood, George, anyone, feeling my heartbeat accelerating, my chest constricting. I try to stand up and grabbed my rapier hilt, but then Hugo Blake wrapped his massive hand around my throat.

"This time I truly will be a convicted murderer," he said, his yellow teeth gleaming sickly as he smiled, a dangerous gleam in his pale blue eyes. "And this time, I'll enjoy it."

I choked and tried to get his hands off me. Stars were forming, darkness loomed, and soon, there'd be nothing left.

I was dying.

Hugo shoved his repulsive face near mine while I gasped and cursed. "What can you sense now?"

"Lucy! Lucy! Curse you, where are you? Luce!" Lockwood's voice echoed down the corridor, frantic and growing closer. But I didn't hear it. He was too slow. I was fading.

Hugo Blake sneered. "To be continued, Ms. Carlisle," he said, then he threw me painfully to the ground and I blacked out.

End of Chapter 1