Like a Knife Through Butter

If the ground floor had been deadly and the second floor relatively safe (I'm not counting the ancient cough sweets Winston was sucking as entirely safe) then the staircase leading to the attic was a different situation again. Only by the light of Winston's dwarf sun could we see the tendrils of spirit vine curled around each step and wavering in the still air, dust motes clinging to each leaf and curling stem.

"Well spotted, old bean," I said. "Those thing would have whipped out your soul and fed it to goodness knows what."

"How do we get past?" asked Meinwen, "And do we really want to?"

"Of course we want to," said Winston. "That's the whole point, innit? To get the bad guy and send his arse to Hell in a handcart?"

"But with the amount of violence here," said Meinwen, "couldn't we just call in the police?"

"We could," I said, "but what would happen when they charged up these steps?"

"They'd all die," said Winston.

"Exactly." I nodded to Winston who took a silver blade from inside his jacket. "Fortunately, we know a way to deal with spirit vines." I frowned. "Wait, isn't that the butter knife from Harold's best tea service?"