The House of Sorrows

Chapter 12: "Hal"

Lucy tried to keep her voice calm as she spoke. "So? I'm not Marissa Fittes. I can't talk to ghosts. And even if I could, I wouldn't do anything for you."

"Maybe. Maybe not," Hal replied, shifting his chair closer to her. He placed his hand on her knee, the rough texture of his skin making her feel queasy. His touch felt like sandpaper, and the sensation of him hovering so close was deeply unsettling. He pulled out a heavy bag, and from within, Lucy heard the clanking of metal tools knocking against each other.

"I bet I can make you talk. I bet I can make you scream," he sneered, and suddenly Lucy recognized him. The Winkmans. She remembered him from the time she and Lockwood's team had broken into the underground market to steal back the skull. Hal had been there, Adelaide's right-hand man back then, though Lucy had heard from Flo that he and Adelaide had since parted ways.

"So who do you work for now? Adelaide? Leopold?" she said, hoping to unsettle him with the knowledge she had of his past.

But Hal didn't flinch. "No. I don't work for scum anymore. I'm working for Mr. Creed, same as you."

Then, it all fell into place for Lucy—why there were no cold spots, no malaise, no creeping fear. None of the deaths had seemed out of place because there was no ghost. It had all been a trap for them—for her. Hal lifted the heavy bag again, unzipping it to reveal a long metal pole, a cattle prod.

"So, here's how this is gonna go," he drawled, his accent strange, foreign. "You tell me what I want to know, and you don't get shocked."

Lucy leaned forward, allowing her face to fall, her brows tilting in a way that made her look tired, weak. She wanted him to see her that way on purpose.

"Go. To. Hell!" she screamed in his face, laughing afterward.

Hal's face twisted in anger, his eyes narrowed. "You little— Aghh!" He grabbed the cattle prod, turning it on and jabbing it into her shoulder. Pain shot through her, muscles seizing up as the electric current ran through her body. She couldn't breathe. After a few seconds, he pulled the prod away, and Lucy gasped, her chest heaving. Tears filled her eyes, but she bit them back. She wouldn't cry—not here, not in front of him.

"Tell me! Are you able to speak with ghosts? Is that skull a Type Three?" he demanded, his face inches from hers.

"Again. I'll tell you," Lucy's voice wavered, her lips trembling, but her words were defiant. "Go to hell!"

"Fine." Hal switched on the cattle prod once more, jabbing it into her stomach this time. Lucy screamed—a raw, pain-filled cry.

They went back and forth for what felt like fifteen minutes, each shock weakening her resolve. Eventually, Hal changed tactics. He untied her, but Lucy was too exhausted to resist. She could barely keep her eyes open, let alone fight back. He gripped her arm and dragged her down a bleak, gray hallway with no other people in sight. She was definitely no longer in the factory. He brought her into a large, empty room with towering concrete walls. Three chairs were set up in the center of the room, and a thick rope hung from the ceiling. Hal tied her hands to the rope, leaving her suspended with her feet barely touching the ground. Lucy's head drooped against her chest; she was too worn out to lift it.

"We're trying something different," Hal said as his voice grew fainter, footsteps receding across the room. "If you won't talk, maybe your friends will."

Lucy heard a door open and the sound of several pairs of shoes scuffling against the floor.

"Lucy! Oh, God," a familiar voice called out, panic lacing every syllable.

It was Lockwood. Lucy forced herself to lift her head, and there he was, along with George and Holly. They looked battered but alive, with cuts and bruises visible on their faces. Relief flooded her, mixed with fear for what might happen next.

"Sit down," barked another voice—one of Hal's accomplices.

Lockwood, George, and Holly lowered themselves into the three chairs in front of her. Lucy knew she probably looked half-dead, with burns marking her skin where the cattle prod had been used and sweat matting her hair to her face.

"Don't—don't tell them anything. No matter what," she whispered, barely able to get the words out.