Lockwood & Co. Book Three: The Hollow Boy by Jonathan Stroud Page B

a black sky. Superimposed on top of the bed was something else: a roughly oval, egg-shaped glow, tall as a
person, blank and bright and coldly shimmering. It was a light without a source—there was nothing at its center—and I couldn’t truly
see
it. Only, when I looked away, it
flared into prominence at the corner of my vision, like one of those spots you see after you’ve looked too closely at the sun.
    It was from this faint oval smudge that the psychic energy poured, strong and unceasing. No wonder the strips of iron had been bolted to the door; no wonder the walls of the room shone bright
with silver wards. No wonder the ceiling was thick with silver mobiles that stirred now in the breeze caused by the closing door. Their tinkling was softly melodic, like far-off children’s
laughter.
    “Her name was Jessica,” Lockwood said. He moved past us, and I saw that he had taken the dark glasses out of his pocket—the ones he used to protect himself from the brightest
spectral glows. He put them on. “She was six years older than me,” he said. “And fifteen when it happened to her—right here.”
    He spoke like it was the most normal thing in the world to be standing with us in the dark, revealing the existence of a long-dead sister, with her death-glow hovering before us, and the psychic
aftershock of the event battering our senses. Now he approached the bed; being careful to keep his hand clear of the oval light, he pulled back the bedspread, revealing the mattress below. Halfway
along it was a broad, blackened, gaping wound where the surface of the fabric had been burned as if by acid.
    I stared at it. No, not acid. I knew ectoplasm burns when I saw them.
    I realized I was gripping George’s arm even harder than before.
    “I’m not hurting you, am I, George?” I said.
    “No more than previously.”
    “Good.” I didn’t let go.
    “I was only nine,” Lockwood said. “It was a long time back. Ancient history, if you like. But I figure I owe it to you both to show you. You do
live
in this house,
after all.”
    I forced myself to speak. “So,” I said. “Jessica.”
    “Yes.”
    “Your sister?”
    “Yes.”
    “What happened to her?”
    He flicked the bedspread back into position again, tucked the end neatly against the headboard. “Ghost-touched.”
    “A ghost? From where?”
    “From a pot.” His voice was carefully toneless. The dark glasses that protected his eyes also hid them very successfully. It was impossible to read his expression. “You know my
parents’ stuff?” he went on. “All the tribal ghost-catchers on the walls downstairs? They were researchers. They studied the folklore of the supernatural in other cultures. Most
of what they collected is junk: ceremonial headdresses, that sort of thing. But it turned out that some pieces
did
do what was claimed. There was a pot. I think it came from Indonesia
someplace. They say my sister was sorting through a crate; she got the pot out and—and she dropped it. When it shattered, a ghost came out. Killed her.”
    “Lockwood…I’m so sorry….”
    “Yes, well, it’s ancient history. A long time ago.”
    It was difficult to focus on anything but Lockwood’s words, on them and on the ferocity of the spectral light. But I could see that the room contained an armoire and two dressers, and
there were boxes and tea chests lying about too, mostly stacked against the walls, sometimes as many as three or four high. Resting on top of everything were dozens of vases and jam jars holding
bouquets of dried lavender. The room was filled with its sweet, astringent odor. This was so different from the normal smells in our house (particularly on the landing, George’s bedroom being
just opposite) that it only added to the feeling of unreality.
    I shook my head again. A sister. Lockwood had had a
sister
. She’d died right here.
    “What happened to the ghost?” George said. His voice was indistinct.
    “It was disposed of.” Lockwood