The professor moved feebly amongst the remains of his bookcase, with cylinders rolling around and multicoloured liquids forming pools on the floor. He struggled to raise one arm, attempting to signal to me, but after the shock he seemed unable to speak. I rushed forward to help, and as I did so I felt a familiar chill running down my spine. I had seen already that the red stain had departed the professor's person, and somewhere in this room, somewhere close, the phantasm now roamed free.
I saw the professor trying to point at the weapon lying nearby. He was far too weak to wield the thing, and so I sprang forward and snatched it up, discovering as I did so that the grip had a trigger mechanism. The tines at the end of the sword were buckled from its heavy landing, but when I squeezed the trigger a healthy spark crackled at the forked tip.
I whirled around, brandishing the sword like a sailor repelling boarders, but of course there was no enemy to be seen.
"Glasses," wheezed the professor. "Need glasses."
I saw them near the workbench, and I skirted the area I imagined the spirit was occupying, waving the sword ahead of me for all I was worth. Then, with a rapid crouching motion, I swept up the glasses and pressed them into place.
Immediately, my world turned inside-out. Through the ruby lens I could see the professor's prostrate form, only now it flickered and wavered with energy. Through the midnight lens I saw only darkness… total, all-encompassing darkness. Then, without warning, two ghostly hands loomed before my very face, with greenish, transparent fingers, flayed skin and tatters of cloth. It was as though I were looking into a deep, dark pool, and someone within had just pushed their hands through the surface.
I barely had time to jump back, and the grasping hands missed me by the merest fraction of an inch. I felt an icy breath on my face as the clawed fingers swept by, and they were coming back for a second attempt when I remembered the sword. I raised it quickly, jabbing at the phantasm, and there was a crackle of power as the tip made contact. A foul, distorted face loomed towards me, with blank holes for eyes, the mouth wide open in a soundless scream, and I jabbed again and again as I tried to drive the horror back.
As the dark cloud retreated towards the professor, I realised he was in danger once more. I had to herd the spirit away from him, and quickly.
I circled the pulsating, pitch-black cloud, sliding my shoes across the floorboards instead of raising them, to avoid treading on the metal cylinders. All the while I kept the sword raised, and to my relief the occasional jabbing motion was enough to keep the spirit at bay.
But how was I to trap it?
– — Ω — –
I kept my sword up, feinting this way and that as the spirit tried to find a gap in my defences. Unfortunately, the glasses only showed me the closest portion of the phantasm, for anything further away than a pace or two was hidden inside the dark cloud. Thus, its hands would dart towards me out of thin air, attacking from all sides, and it was all I could do to ward them off. I knew the professor would be no help if the spirit took hold of me, and once it had drained my life force I imagined it would take his next. So, two lives lay in my hands, and my sword-arm was beginning to ache from the effort.
I should have cried out for help, bringing Roberta downstairs with a trap or a weapon of her own, but I feared she would be distracted by the sight of her injured father. If I had to protect the two of them, as well as myself, the ghostly apparition would likely feast on three souls rather than two.
I jabbed at the ghostly face, and as it retreated once more I took a second to glance about me. There! Through the red portion of the glasses I saw the outline of the workbench, and upon it the open cylinder. The professor had been driving the spirit in that direction, and I decided there must have been reason behind his efforts. I did likewise, advancing on the phantasm step by step, jabbing at it repeatedly with the forked tip of my sword.
As it backed away from me, getting closer and closer to the open cylinder, I became aware of a new vision in my right eye. There was a faint conical shape, like a large funnel spun from the clearest glass, the open end facing me and the neck directly above the cylinder. It was turning gently, in the manner of a whirlpool, and through the jet-black lens I saw a wisp of the phantasm's ghostly form drawn out from its body like a strand of wool. It quivered and struggled, but slowly it was sucked into the mouth of the funnel, and gradually the rest of the spirit's body was pulled in after it. I had one final view of its tortured face, the eye sockets wide and pleading, the hands like the desperate grasping claws of a drowning man.
Then it was gone.
Shaken to my core, I ripped off the spectacles, tossed the weapon aside and leapt towards the bench. Here I found a sharp fragment of bronze that matched the jagged hole in the cylinder, and I took the piece up and plugged the hole as quickly as I could. A lit green candle stood on the workbench, the wick swimming in wax, and I took the candle and poured molten wax over the end of the cylinder, sealing it. Then, at last, I took a ragged, drawn-out breath.
I was still filling my lungs when I heard a thunder of footsteps in the hall. I spun, expecting to see some
