Lockwood and co: fan fiction

The spirit in the attic

Smoke poured from the fissures in the wall, pooling onto the floor, coiling around our feet like snakes. It was more solid than mist, less liquid than water.
My sight grew foggy, and I strained to see what shape evil took, advantaged by the cloudy haze that surrounded us. The handle of my rapier was cold as I pulled it out, so cold that it blistered my skin. I was alert, ready, poised to strike. Our breath rose up in puffs, and the warmth of Lockwood's presence was the only source of comfort in the freezing cold of the room. Somewhere I could hear George's wheezing breaths.

"Luce, can you hear anything?"

I tried to focus, clear my mind of daily clutterings and listen using my inner ear. The building pressure behind my temples made the task increasingly difficult. I could hear static, growing louder and then dying down, like a badly tuned in radio station. Then came the whispers, the voices of the restless dead.
"Please...please....."
"It hurts........please"

"Lucy?" Lockwood's voice was laced with desperation. Smoke had started pouring in from the ceiling now. George's clothes had been singed, and Lockwood pushed to a corner of the room.

I forced my voice to be steady. "There are a lot of voices, but they aren't very clearly distinguishable from each other. I think the smoke is the visitor, a combination of them" My heart had grown heavy with the sorrow and hurt of the voices, the visitor's pain blasting through my body. I wanted to curl up into a ball, to give up, to sleep.

"Alright. Let's end this now" Lockwood was brisk and business like. He swung his rapier in a semi circle, swishing through the smoke, sparks erupting wherever the cool metal of the blade touched other worldly mist. "George get the canisters out. Lucy, fling the salt bombs. And I'll use the iron fillings. Let's take this thing down together"

George launched into action first. He seemed to be the worst affected, his bulky figure the prime target of the tentacles of smoke encircling us. Canisters of Greek fire were flung onto the ceiling, where they erupted into flames. The wooden beams on the ceiling also burst into flames, as the mist dissolved into green liquid, dripping down the walls. I threw the salt bombs and a thousand tiny white crystals sliced through the fog, splattering ectoplasm all over the floor. The iron fillings were inky black powder obscuring the green liquid and yellow flames now being spit out by the entity, unable to stand our combined attack.

The beams on the ceiling came crashing down, wooden splinters raining down. A gaping hole opened up on the ceiling, as the roof came crashing down on our heads. Dust coated my cloak, as blocks of wood hit my bent head. I held up my rapier, like a pathetic little umbrella, trying to minimise the damage as much as I could. I could hear George's
yelps of pain, presumably being hit by the giant chunks of wood. Greek fire lapped the ceiling and the walls, squirting liquidified visitor everywhere. It was harmless to mortals, but the physical damage it caused could easily bury us alive.

Suddenly I felt my vision obstructed by fabric, something warm covering my crouching self. I lifted up my head to see Lockwood, his cloak spread around me, head bent, shielding me from the raining rubble. Through the smell of smoke, wood and charcoal, I could still make out the fresh, minty scent that followed him, adding to his allure. For a moment, my heart sang, despite the possibly that I could be buried alive in a lofty old attic in an ugly apartment in the cheapest parts of London.

At last the crackling of the flames stopped. The room was quiet, but not deathly quiet. Just the normal silence that occupied a room with silent inhabitants. Lockwood's cloak lifted and my sight was clear. The fog was clearing, and the ceiling was pretty much non existent, so sunlight poured in, illuminating the dusty, old room. Nothing moved, except for the lump that was George, sprawled out on the floor.

"Well that was a successful mission" Lockwood rose, dusting his long coat. "Our hosts can once again have a happy life, except of course, they might not have a roof. But hey, who could complain about a little more sunlight and fresh air?"