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The haunting in the mansion had just recently begun.
George had told them it had passed into possession of the Wellingtons a mere two years ago when the couple had inherited it from a distant relative. It made the search for the Source all the more difficult, considering it had to be an item that was either hidden somewhere remote in the large building, or one that was resting in plain sight, easily overlooked.
Either way, there was no more research to be done for this particular case since the history of the building was rather dull — no tragedies nor deaths connected with it — and George had offered to stay out of this one, focusing his resources on a more interesting mystery entrusted to them. There was a rather gruesome hunting reported to take place in a private school, which endeared him greatly.
Suffice to say, Lucy and Lockwood had not endeavored to research further. They entered the mansion a few minutes after curfew.
“I bet there’s a Type One here, at most,” Lockwood said, looking around the entrance hall, “this place feels cozy. No chills, not even an eerie feeling. How often do we have that?”
Lucy hummed, closing her eyes to Listen. She registered a faint pull of psychic energy, too weak to know from where exactly it had come. “The Visitor is weak, maybe because it’s still early,” she mused, following Lockwood into an adjoining room. It was the kitchen, newly furnished and with dishes that were long dried set next to the sink.
Lockwood hummed, locking around a moment before checking the temperature. “How strong can this Visitor be? No disappearance, no violent deaths — it seems unusual that this place should be haunted at all.” He turned to face Lucy. “We should split up. The mansion is fairly large. That way we can cover more ground in a shorter time and be done with this quickly. I’ll take the ground floor, you go upstairs. Let’s see what we should find.”
As it turned out, the first floor consisted of mostly empty rooms, either unused bedrooms or storage chambers, where boxes covered with a thick layer of dust were strewn about haphazardly. It was in one of those rooms with the old boxes that Lucy picked up a sudden surge of psychic energy. She eyed an ancient-looking wooden box in the corner wearily, her intuition telling her that its content could very well be the source they were looking for.
The air in the room turned chilling in a second, and an uncomfortable wave of anxiety washed over her. Turning on her heels to make for the door and yell out for Lockwood, she froze.
In the doorway stood a figure blocking her path. The long hair and wide, brown eyes of Norrie bore into Lucy’s own and she gasped, suddenly feeling as if the floor had been pulled out from under her feet. Norrie was as beautiful as the day she lost her and it took all of Lucy’s self-control not to run towards her and entangle her in a crushing hug.
She was dead, or ghost-locked, which was as close to death as someone could get without the finality that came with it.
The agent’s uniform of Jacob’s & Co. was unblemished, her rapier still at her side, clasped loosely by her hand with black nail polish. The other was painted brown, as Norrie always loved to do. “Shake it up a little,” she had told Lucy when she asked about it, before resuming to paint Lucy’s nails black.
Her touch had been so soft, her hands so kind that Lucy used to melt under her. The reminder of their time spent together — the endless laughter on the days they had to themselves, their stroll around town, the chaste kisses Norrie pressed to her lips in the privacy of their room — brought fresh tears to Lucy’s eyes and she suppressed a sob, taking a few steps backward and drawing her rapier.
Norrie — no, the Fetch — took a step forward, not bothered by the metal unsteadily clutched in Lucy’s hand. “I love you,” she said into the thick silence of the room, eyes wide and earnest just as Norrie’s had been on that day.
The memory was almost physically painful to relive. Lucy, tucked safely between Norrie’s arms, so full of love that she had felt ready to burst, and Norrie, smiling down at her softly as her fingers threaded gently through Lucy’s hair. “I love you,” she had whispered to Lucy then and, unable to articulate the emotions dancing in her chest and drowning her in a sea of indescribable contentment, she had simply looked at Norrie for a moment and risen to meet her lips.
Lucy cried out, flinching backward and bumping into some of the old boxes piled up behind her. They fell to the ground with a loud thump, raising a cloud of dust.
“I love you, Lucy,” Norrie said again, reaching out her hands as if inviting Lucy in for an embrace.
The raised rapier fell from her grasp. Lucy buried her face in her hands, choking tears escaping her. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed, falling to her knees, “I failed you. I couldn’t save you, I—”
“I love you, Lucy.”
“I—” Lucy stammered, raising her eyes to look up at Norrie. She was as radiant as she had always been, so beautiful, so kind. “I—” And Lucy was still a coward, unable to say what was in her heart.
With the hiss of air splitting, Norrie vanished, and Lockwood’s wide eyes and heaving chest stood in her place. “Lucy!” he said out of breath, “Are you alright?”
The Visitor began to manifest again in the far corner of the room. This time it was not Norrie.
“The source, Lucy!” Lockwood said hastily, not looking towards the Fetch “Where is it? Did you—?”
Her gaze fixed on the new figure materializing before her eyes, Lucy pointed her still shaking hands at the ancient box she had felt the psychic energy coming from. The woman who stood in the corner of the room had dark brown hair and the same chocolate-colored eyes as Lockwood.
“Anthony,” she said in a sorrowful tone, her voice carrying through the room like a whisper about to reveal a tragedy, “I’m so sorry” — her voice was thick with tears — “they aren’t coming back.”
In an instant, the Visitor vanished and Lucy turned her head around to look at the iron net Lockwood had thrown over the box. Lockwood was facing away from her, staring at the wall before him as if in deep contemplation. His hands were balled into fists at his side. Lucy could see them shaking.
She wiped her tears away and stood, walking over to him and placing a hand on his shoulder. Lockwood tensed but did not brush her away. Instead, he took a shaky breath before clearing his throat and said, “The source is sealed. Let’s call DEPRAC so they can take it away. Then we are done here.”
“Lockwood—” Lucy began, tightening her grip when she felt him move away.
“I don’t want to talk about it, Luce. Let’s just— let’s leave the past in the past, shall we?” he said hoarsely, wiping at his eyes.
Lucy nodded, but instead of letting go of Lockwood, she pulled him into a tight embrace. Her arms wound around him tightly, holding onto him like a lifeline. After a moment, Lockwood returned the hug, a hand rising to bury itself in Lucy’s hair.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, hiding his face on her shoulder.
“Me too,” Lucy said lightly, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.