The Empty Grave (Lockwood & Co., #5)

by Jonathan Stroud

For some reason it’s the lights I remember most: the crystal skull lamp in the hall; the tasseled lantern on the living room cabinet; most of all the striplights crossing the ceiling in the hospital waiting room like a row of minus signs, like center markings on a road to nowhere, with the iron ghost-wards dangling beside them, moving in the air-conditioned breeze. Lights, always lights; strong, weak, harsh, or warm, but always indifferent and always on. It was a night without darkness; you couldn’t switch off or look away.