This was actually originally something I did for a writer's workshop. For school. Yup. I got permission to write fanfiction from my teacher. If that isn't a score, I don't know what is. My reading teacher also friggin read Mumbling Nightmares. AND LIKED IT.
YES.
Anyway, enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own Lockwood & Co.
Linwood Manor was just like any other manner of homes nowadays in London. Just like all the others, it didn't look haunted at all. None of them ever did. In fact, Linwood Manor was one of the least haunted-looking houses we had ever come across.
It was a mansion, a fact that was emphasized by the name 'Linwood Manor,' cheerfully painted white, with powder blue trim, and by the vast gardens which snaked around the recess of the enormous house. There were vines clinging to the walls like green fingers and—visible through the windows, past the floral curtains- elegant rooms filled with brightly colored furniture. In a courtyard, there was a large stone fountain ornamented with a statue of a woman in a Grecian gown, holding an urn, from which the water flowed.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. My name is Lucy Carlyle; I'm a field agent at A.J. Lockwood & Co. Investigators. We take care of all sorts of ghostly haunts. All of us do.
Many agencies like ours have popped up all over England since the beginning of the Problem fifty years ago. The Problem is the biggest unexplained mystery of our time, as nobody could explain the random appearances of ghosts, or as we call them 'Visitors' in every place imaginable. The nights are barren, ghost lights send their light throughout the streets to keep roaming spirits at bay, and people place iron wards above everything from their doorsteps to baby cribs. People pretty much leave the ghost fighting to the agents so they can avoid Ghost touch. Ghost touch is deadly unless treated, and causes you to swell up blue, and well, die. And that is that. You cannot be revived.
Mr. Henry Linwood, the owner of the house, was also the owner of Linwood and Sons, a vast department store in Kensington, which he ran with his twin sons. Lockwood and I had visited the department store; it was as elegant as his home, if not more, lined with marble carvings, fake plants, and vast grand staircase. Cheery shop attendants with cherry red lipstick and neatly combed hair, and men in smart suits tended to all the booths and shops.
Our first encounter with Mr. Linwood was on the porch of the mansion, where he sat waiting for us in a white wicker chair.
"I'm so glad you could come at such short notice, Mr. Lockwood." Mr. Linwood said. He stood to shake hands: he was a tall man, with greying hair, great broad shoulders, and enormous hands. His eyes were wide, and intensely dark. He was dressed in a smart pinstriped suit, a pair of rectangular glasses resting on his great hooked nose. His face was weather worn, creased deeply with smile lines.
Lockwood have him a megawatt smile. "But of course. We are more than happy to oblige. These are my colleagues, George Cubbins, and Lucy Carlyle."
Mr. Linwood's brow furrowed for a moment. "And where is your supervisor?"
Lockwood simply smiled brightly again. This question was asked often.
"We are independent, and do not have any supervisors. That is the way we like it, and if you have a problem with this, there are plenty of other agencies out there."
Mr. Linwood's smile wavered. "Of course not. Your reputation precedes you; you and your colleagues have my full trust."
He rose from the wicker chair, opening the grand double doors. He gestured inside. "Come. I will show you where you will be working."
The house was even grander on the inside. It had high ceilings with intricate carvings, and scarlet wallpaper with a beautiful floral pattern blooming across it. The floor was marble tiled, and a great, intricate rug lay across the floor. Great oak doors were on either side of the room, a grand staircase trailing up the center of the room, and to the second floor.
He led us through one of the pairs of double doors and into a brightly lit parlor. The room had two powder blue sofas situated on either side of an oak coffee table. George, Lockwood and I sat down on one of the sofas, Mr. Linwood on the other. He rang a bell that sat on the arm of the sofa he was situated on, and a young woman in a maid's uniform bustled in with a tray of tea. Neatly placed cookies lay beside the teapot. She set the tray down, and poured four cups of tea, setting the delicate cups on saucers, and placing them in front of each one of us.
"Now," began Lockwood, taking a sip of his tea, "Perhaps we can begin. Can you describe the nature of the haunting?"
"Oh, yes, of course," he took a small sip of his tea, "Matilda here has seen this visitor on countless occasions."
Matilda, the maid, bowed her head. "Yes."
"Can you describe anything? Anything at all?"
Again, Matilda bowed her head. "Yes. The Visitor is a girl. She... she's very young. Wispy form, and her face is shaded. She hasn't said a word to me... But Alison... Alison is another servant here. She.. she was attacked just last night, she was. Ghost-touched. She didn't die, but I found her just in time."
She raised her head, looking at Lockwood shyly. "Oh, Mr. Lockwood, please. Do get rid of it."
Lockwood regarded her, and George bordley munched away at the cookies. Something lurched in my chest.
"We will dispose of the Specter as of tonight, I can assure you, miss." I said curtly. I gulped down the rest of my tea, and glanced quickly at Mr. Linwood. "Is it possible to have some more tea?"
Mr. Linwood smiled. "Certainly! Matilda, if you please, would you pour Miss Carlyle some more tea?"
Matilda nodded; stepped away from Lockwood, and picked up the teapot, filling my cup again. She stationed herself beside Mr. Linwood's sofa again, but her gaze was cold as she regarded me.
"Now, I trust you have everything you need?" Mr. Linwood asked, draining his teacup and putting it on the table before him
"Yes, sir." Lockwood said, switching on his beaming smile.
"Right then," Mr. Linwood rose, and walked towards the door. Matilda followed him.
"The house is yours until morning. My wife and sons have already left the premises for the hotel, as has the rest of the staff. I will see you tomorrow."
With that, he turned and walked away; we heard the click of the door as he and Matilda left the house.
The light that had been dancing across the floor was beginning to fade to a golden yellow, wispy, and nearly gone.
Lockwood stood. "The sun is sinking. Has everyone eaten their fill?"
I nodded, though George grabbed another cookie before standing.
"Right. Let's begin." Lockwood declared, smile lighting up the dimming room. "George, any information on the nature of the case?"
George removes his glasses, rubbing them on his sweater, and placed them back on his chubby face. "I thought you'd never ask. There was a murder in this house in 1922. The victim was a girl named Eleanor Spalding. She was eleven years old. Her body was never found, but her killer was caught. His name was Edward Long; he was her stepfather. He confessed he killed her because she was 'an annoying brat.' Which is hardly a reason if you ask me. He eventually went into a panic attack, and told everything after she body was buried, but obviously that wasn't the end of it."
Lockwood nodded, regarding this. He then turned to me. The house was now so dim that the only light came from the glowing thermometers clipped to our belts.
"Lucy, how about you take the room near the back. It's just past those doors." Lockwood pointed a gloved hand through the open doors, and to the doors on the opposite side of the front room, adjacent to the room we'd entered.
"I'll take upstairs, and George, you stay in here."
I nodded.
"If either of you need help, call for me on the walkie talkies." And with another gigawatt grin, Lockwood strode away, and up the grand staircase. I nodded curtly at George, and turned, duffle bag in tow, to trudge off to the room I had been assigned.
The room I arrived in was grand, just like the others, with a large red fainting couch pushed adjacent to the door, intricately sewn cushions placed neatly upon it. Stuffed bookshelves lined the walls, and an empty marble fireplace was inset into one wall, firewood stacked neatly beside it. A large red rug lay in the center of the room, a wooden table in front of the sofa with a lovely vase of roses. Behind the couch was a bay window, floral curtains drawn shut over it.
I dropped my duffle bag, allowed the backpack to slide from my shoulders, and pushed the wooden table until it was touching the sofa. I pulled my iron chains from my bag, laying them in a neat circle. I then piled my bags inside the chains.
As soon as the sun's rays had sunk completely below the horizon, the room began to get cold. I checked my thermometer. In glowing letters, the thermometer read: 34°.
I drew my rapier, pulling my gloves onto my hands, settled my hat onto my head, and zipped my parka up to my chin.
I focused my inner ear. Listening. Listening for anything.
But it was dead silent.
But then...
Crying?
It was faint. Almost nonexistent. To took a deep breath, and tightened my grip on my rapier.
"Daddy! I'm sorry!"
I perked up. It was a young girl's voice.
I steadied myself; taking a deep breath, and listened harder.
"No! Daddy please! I'll be good!"
I stiffened, my fingers traveling to a salt bomb.
The temperature dropped hard. My breath hung in front of my face, hanging in the air before fading.
The room stayed dark, lit by the rising moon. And suddenly... A shape. In the corner of the room. Small, and curled, but appearing slowly. The crying from before made a sudden crescendo, and then dropped to a whisper.
She shape had solidified, more or less. It was of a girl.
The girl looked no older than eleven, and she had blonde hair, which fell down her back in a shower of ringlets. Her thin, frail arms were wrapped around her scabbed knees, her feet bare. She seemed to be wearing a dress.
I drew my rapier.
The sobbing stopped abruptly, replaced by shallow breathing, small whimpers scattered here and there.
The girl stood, her motions slow, like she was immersed in molasses.
She drifted to the center of the room; facing me.
Now I could see that she was wearing a dress, canary yellow, the hem adorned by embroidered flowers, with cap sleeves. She had a yellow ribbon tied in her hair like a headband. I could not see her face, as it was obscured by a solid wedge of darkness. Her body was wispy, and frail, and I could tell she had been quite petite in life. Her arms and legs were spindly, her body willowy. Her limbs looked-solid until they reached the end of the bony fingers and toes, at which point they became nearly invisible.
She raised her face to me.
Her face was what I could describe as hollow cheeked. It was thin and delicate, with a straight nose and very thin lips. Her eyes at first glance seemed to be milk colored, but looking closer, they were actually extremely light blue.
The crying began again.
I stood my ground, trying not to let any emotion show, as Visitors feed off of emotion. She turned abruptly, and drifted straight through the door.
I cautiously followed, opening the door slowly, rapier still clutched in my hand.
She was in the hall, facing me again, pale eyes on me. As soon as I exited the room, she drifted out into the foyer, and up the stairs. I had to run to catch up with her now.
Stopping periodically, she rushed forward a few times, a couple feet from me, causing me to tense, then drifting away again. She passed through another door, at the end of the upstairs hall.
I flung it open. She was kneeling this time at the corner of the room.
Then she vanished.
The room we were in was an office.
It had tall bookshelves lining the walls, and a great oak desk in the back of the room. Framed photographs sat atop the polished surface, an expensive looking computer as well. Moonlight spilled in through the tall windows.
I rushed over to the spot where she'd vanished, and knelt down.
I pressed my palm to the surface on the hardwood floor.
Sadness and fear overcame my senses, and I had to pull my hand away abruptly. I felt tears prickling my eyes.
Reaching with shaking hands to the crowbar at my belt, I looked down at the floor.
A board was loose.
It came off with no resistance, and underneath was a dagger.
It was stained with red, and wrapped in a cloth. It was radiating cold.
I pulled a small chain link silver bag from my belt, and dropped the dagger inside.
The pressure dissipated in my head.
The haunting was over.
But this was all in a day's work for me. Risking my life, and facing terrifying haunts of all shapes and sizes. And I love it.
Lockwood, George and I were paid handsomely for disposing of the Specter. It even made it to the paper.
Yeah, I know the ending was rushed, but oh well.
I hope you enjoyed! Review!
~Starry