The House of Sorrows

Chapter 7: "Back in the game"

It had been three weeks since Lucy's injury, and she had mostly healed. She'd been doing light training in the basement with Floating Joe and Esmeralda, and she was finally back in her own room, which she was grateful for. She hadn't gone on another job yet, mostly because there hadn't been many to begin with. And whenever there was work, either Lockwood or Holly would insist she rest while they "handled it." It was mildly infuriating; all Lucy wanted was to work again, for things to get back to normal.

And, in a way, they finally did.

"Luce? We have someone here who wants to talk to us about a job," Lockwood called from the kitchen below.

Lucy hurried down and saw an older man, somewhere between sixty and seventy, sitting on their couch, after being invited in by Holly.

"Hello, sir. I'm Lockwood of Lockwood and Co. How can we help you?" Lockwood said with his usual energy.

"Hello, I'm Mr. Scott. I'm here regarding a visitor that's been seen around my motel. It's a small place, only two floors, but it's been spotted by four different people on separate occasions. I need it to be rid of," the man said, his tone carrying a hint of begrudging frustration.

Lockwood asked for more details, though solid information was sparse. Still, he agreed to take on the job, and Mr. Scott left shortly after. The man lived at the motel, which was located in a smaller town about twenty-five minutes away by cab. George had gone off to the archives to research the motel and its history, and Lockwood had gone to the store to get more salt bombs and iron filings, while Holly and Lucy stayed back at Portland Row.

"Hey, Holly, this case sounds relatively easy. And I really want to get back to work. Do you think Lockwood would let me come along? I'm losing my mind being stuck at home," Lucy asked, hoping Holly would encourage the idea.

"Maybe. We just don't want you to overexert yourself," Holly replied.

There went Lucy's hope.

It had been three hours since George left for the archives, and Lockwood had returned from his errands about an hour ago. It was now 5:30 p.m., and they were hoping George would be back soon so they'd have time to canvas the place before dark.

"Hey, Lockwood, do you think I could come with you? It seems to be a relatively small case, and I want to get back out there," Lucy said. Lockwood looked uneasy but, after a moment of hesitation, agreed.

Finally, at 6:00 p.m., George returned from the archives.

"So? Anything we should know? Cults? Bombs?" Lockwood joked, though given past experiences, sometimes those things really were a possibility.

Like Chelsea. Or Combe Carey Hall. Those had been very interesting hauntings. But George only shook his head, saying this seemed to be a dull motel case. The only death he could find was from twenty years ago, when a man died of a heart attack in one of the rooms.

"Nothing out of the ordinary. Simple job, it seems," George said, sounding somewhat unenthused.

"Perfect. I'm coming with," Lucy declared, heading to the kitchen to grab a snack.

George and Holly exchanged a look, one that Lucy couldn't quite interpret. She assumed they were both thinking it was somewhat of a bad idea, and probably Lockwood would have agreed if they'd voiced their concerns aloud.

Within fifteen minutes, they were off, catching a night cab to take them to the motel. They arrived around 6:45 and received a quick tour of the property, including the room where the man had died. They set up iron circles and their equipment bags in the main hallway on the first floor.

"The motel has twenty rooms. The first eight are on the ground floor and can be accessed from the outside. The second floor has twelve rooms, accessible via stairs on the left side of the building," Lockwood said, giving the group a moment to orient themselves before they headed into each room, inspecting for psychic activity.

So far, they hadn't found anything, even after finishing with the eighteenth room. It was only 8:00, though, so they returned to their iron circle and waited for another hour before starting another round. Apart from a five-degree temperature drop, they found nothing.

Until—