The House of Sorrows

Chapter 8: "Poison"

"Lucy, Lockwood." George called out from behind them as they made their way to Room 7—the room where a man had died twenty years prior.

"The temperature just dropped from 55° to 47°." George stopped, watching Lucy and Lockwood with a tense expression.

Lucy glanced at Lockwood as they continued down the dim hallway, pausing every few feet to check their readings. An uneasy feeling stirred in her stomach, though she tried to dismiss it as nerves; this was her first job in weeks, after all. Cold sweat dripped down her face as a creeping fear arose from nowhere. She tightened her grip on her rapier, loosening the latch on her salt bombs and flares just in case.

"Lockwood, I don't know, but I don't think this is a Type One," she said, giving him a worried look. He shared her concern with a glance to George.

"I know; I feel it too," Lockwood replied, his voice dry.

George and Lucy followed behind Lockwood, taking readings and readying their kits for easy access. They reached Room 7—the second-to-last room on the first floor, and the one most likely to contain the source. The trio entered single file, hands on their rapiers. The room was dark, with only a sliver of moonlight slipping through the frosted window. The temperature had dropped to 39°, and their breath was visible in the air. They turned on their flashlights briefly to get a better sense of the room's layout. The bed was covered in an old, stained quilt, and the gray carpet was torn up in several spots. The room had a bleak, neglected look, with a water-stained popcorn ceiling adding to the dreariness.

They turned off their flashlights and moved toward the bed, where the coldest spot in the room was located—a section of wall where the temperature had dropped to 35°. It was almost 10:00 PM, and the miasma had started to rise. Shadows flickered in the corners of their vision, disappearing whenever they turned to look directly.

George set up iron filings at the door to prevent it from trapping them inside. Meanwhile, Lockwood and Lucy began investigating the room for possible sources, checking for hidden compartments or loose floorboards where something significant might be concealed.

"Lockwood, I think I found something," Lucy called from across the room. "There's a false wall here—hollow."

Sure enough, it was the wall where the temperature had reached its lowest. While Lockwood kept watch, George helped Lucy break open the plaster. Behind it, they found shelves built into the original wall. It was unclear why they'd been sealed off, but they suspected it was related to the man's death here two decades ago. They inspected the shelves, finding little of interest: a few discolored coffee mug stains, an old newspaper clipping, and a small jar. The newspaper was dated from the month the man had died, and the jar, no bigger than Lucy's pinky, contained a murky brown liquid. Lucy inspected them briefly but didn't think much of them.

"I died. I died here. She killed me." A voice suddenly echoed from behind her, and Lucy whipped around to see a tall, thin figure standing there.

It was Mr. Jones, the man said to have died of a heart attack in this room. But, judging by his words, it hadn't been a natural death. George and Lockwood joined Lucy's side, raising their rapiers defensively.

"Wait!" Lucy called, stopping them. "Don't. Not yet. He says someone killed him, but that's not what we heard happened."

She looked at Lockwood and George with a pleading expression. Slowly, they lowered their rapiers, though they kept them at the ready.

"Hello," Lucy addressed the ghost calmly, "Who killed you? I can help you if you tell me."

"I died. I died here. She killed me. She killed ME!" His voice grew louder, distorted, echoing painfully in their ears.

"I know, I know she killed you. But who? I can help—just tell me!" Lucy shouted back, hoping he would recognize her intent.

"She poisoned me. I trusted her. I loved her. And she killed me," the ghost said before fading out.

"Well? What did he say, Lucy?" George asked beside her.

"He said he was poisoned. That he loved her, trusted her, and she killed him," Lucy replied, feeling a pang of sympathy for the man who'd lived and died here.

Poison... The word clicked in her mind as she recalled the small glass jar on the hidden shelf. She grabbed it and opened the lid.

"Lucy?! What are you doing?" George asked in alarm.

"This bottle—it has poison in it!" she said, taking a cautious whiff of the liquid inside. "And what I thought was a discolored coffee stain is actually a wine stain! Wine would cover up the taste of poison."

She pulled out a silver seal from her belt, carefully placing the little jar inside it. As soon as she did, the temperature rose back to normal, and the miasma dissipated, taking the creeping fear with it. Confident that the ghost was contained, they packed up and left for Portland Row.

They arrived home around midnight, exhausted. After bidding each other goodnight, each collapsed into bed, finally able to rest.