To protect our clients' sanity, and my own peace and quiet, the skull in the ghost-jar ordinarily resided in a remote corner of our basement office, concealed beneath a tea cozy.  Occasionally it was brought up to the living room and the lever in its lid opened, so that it could communicate eerie secrets of the dead - or exchange childish insults with me, whichever it felt like doing.  It so happened that it was sitting on the sideboard late that afternoon, when I came in to gather equipment for the evening.

As arranged earlier, we were splitting forces.  George had already departed for the Whitechapel public restrooms in search of the reported Shade.  Lockwood was readying himself for his expedition in search of the veiled woman.  My visit had been canceled; I'd just been gearing up for the block of apartments when I'd had a call from my client, postponing the visit due to illness.  That meant I had a swift choice: stay at home and sort the laundry or accompany Lockwood instead.  You can guess which one I picked.

I gathered my rapier from where I'd chucked it the night before, and also a few scattered salt-bombs that had been dumped beside the sofa.  As I made for the door, a hoarse voice spoke from the shadows.  "Lucy!  Lucy..."

"What now?"  With the onset of evening, dim flecks were swirling in the glass.  The hunched mass of the battered skull faded from view.  The flecks congealed to form a malicious face, glowing green and soft in the darkness.

"Going out?" the ghost said agreeably.  "I'll come along."

"No, you won't.  You're staying here."

"Oh, do a skull a favor.  I'll get bored."

"So dematerialize.  Rotate.  Turn inside out.  Stick around and enjoy the view.  Do whatever it is ghosts do.  I'm sure you can find ways to amuse yourself."  I turned to go.

"Enjoy the view?  In this hellhole?"  The face swiveled in the jar, the tip of its nose dragging against the inside of the glass.  "I've been in mortuaries with better standards of housekeeping.  I wish I didn't have to see the squalor I'm surrounded by."

I paused with my hand on the door.  "I could help you with that.  I could bury you in a hole and solve your problem altogether."

Not that I was truly likely to do this.  Of all the Visitors we'd encountered - of all the Visitors anyone had encountered in recent times - the skull was the only one capable of true communication.  Other ghosts could moan, knock, and utter snippets of coherent sound; and agents such as me, who were skilled at psychic Listening, were able to detect them.  But that was a long way from the skull's ability to engage in proper sustained conversation.  It was a Type Three Visitor, and very rare - which was why, despite great provocation, we hadn't thrown it in the trash.

The Ghost snorted.  "Burying requires digging, and digging requires work.  And that's plainly something none of you is capable of.  Let me guess... I bet it's Whitechapel again tonight?  Those dark streets... those winding alleys...  Take me!  You need a companion."