The Ghost Box

by Catherine Fisher

  The Ghost Box

  by

  Catherine Fisher

  Visit Catherine’s website:

  www.catherine-fisher.com

  First American edition published in 2012 by Stoke Books,

  an imprint of Barrington Stoke Ltd

  18 Walker Street, Edinburgh, United Kingdom, EH3 7LP

  www.stokebooks.com

  Copyright © 2008 Catherine Fisher

  Illustrations © Julie-ann Murray

  All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of

  this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

  transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic,

  mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise – without the

  prior written permission of Barrington Stoke Ltd, except for

  inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

  A catalog record for this book is available from

  the US Library of Congress

  Distributed in the United States and Canada by Lerner Publisher

  Services, a division of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  241 First Avenue North, Minneapolis, MN 55401

  www.lernerbooks.com.

  ISBN 978-1-78112-017-0

  Printed in China

  eISBN: 978-1-78112-057-6

  Contents

  1 The Face in the Tree

  2 The Silver Box

  3 A Shadow

  4 Broken Nails

  5 The Shop by the Stream

  6 A Terrible Secret

  7 You’ve Made Me Angry

  8 Alone

  9 A Soul for a Soul

  10 Together

  Chapter 1

  The Face in the Tree

  Sarah was carrying a tray of wine-glasses in one hand and a Coke in the other hand when she saw the painting.

  It was on the wall of the gallery. Between the chatting groups of people, the surprise of seeing the painting stopped her dead. She stared at the green fields, the hillside – they were the same as she could see from her house.

  “Hey, waitress. Is that for me?” Matt took the Coke out of her hand and slurped it.

  Sarah glared at him. “No. It wasn’t.”

  “Tough. You’ll have to get another one.” He grinned, his black Goth hair falling into his black-lined Goth eyes. She thought he looked stupid.

  “Move, Matt. I’m working.”

  “Have to make sure Mommy’s little party goes well, do you?” he said. He didn’t move, so she pushed past him and started handing around the drinks to the guests.

  Sarah’s mom was a sculptor, and the party was for her new exhibition. Her friends were mostly other artists and painters and gallery owners. They all wore bright clothes and talked loudly. Sarah saw her mom now, having a photograph taken in front of the big bronze sculpture called Man in the Rain. Mom looked flushed and excited. She winked at Sarah.

  Then the photographer said, “Look this way please.”

  Sarah dumped the tray behind a sofa as soon as it was empty. She was fed up with helping. From now on she’d swan around being the sculptor’s daughter. Keeping away from Matt.

  And his dad, Gareth.

  Gareth was getting into all the photographs too. He and Mom had their arms around each other, and Mom was grinning like a kid.

  From behind a bronze figure, Sarah watched them. She liked Gareth. He was a little up-tight, a little like a teacher in his old brown suit, but now that he and Mom were married she would soon fix him up. Gareth was OK, but Matt was his son, and having Matt in the house was a pain. He was messy and rude. He always left his music blaring really loud and left his stupid black clothes lying around everywhere.

  Annoyed just by thinking about him, she went back to look at the painting.

  No one was near it. It was old, and it hung in the dim part of the gallery where the rain trickled down the windows outside. Sarah stood in front of it, seeing the fine brush strokes, the dust on the gold frame.

  It was a painting of the barn before it had been turned into a house.

  Her house.

  Now there was a modern part built onto it and huge glass windows, but in the painting the barn was old, the thatch falling off its roof. The big doors stood open, and a dog was running under the wheels of a hay cart standing where Mom parked her car. It was strange to see their house like this, as it must have looked a hundred years ago. The round window in the stone wall was the same, but everything else had changed.

  And there was a tree.

  Sarah stepped nearer, to take a closer look. There was a huge oak tree in the painting. It stood near the end of the barn, right where her bedroom was now.

  She had no idea a tree had once grown there. There was no tree now. It looked very old, its trunk enormous, its branches reaching out like green powdery fingers.

  She came so close to the glass that her breath misted it. She wiped the damp away and saw that the tree in the painting was full of birds – small strange birds she’d never seen before. Their bright eyes peeped from the leaves. They were blue and gold birds with long tails and flashes of scarlet on their wings.

  And then she saw a face.

  It was among the leaves. Or perhaps made out of leaves. A narrow, dirty face, its eyes glints of sun-light, its smile a slant of shadow. As if someone was hiding in the green canopy, someone holding something bright in a thin hand.

  She looked at him, sure he was there.

  “Who are you?” she said under her breath.

  For a moment she almost thought he would answer. But he didn’t.

  He winked at her.

  Sarah jumped back. Her heart thumped.

  A shadow fell across the painting, and Gareth came up behind her. “So here you are!”

  He put his glasses on and stared at the old barn with interest. “Oh look! Our house. Pretty good, isn’t it?”

  Sarah couldn’t answer. She stared at the tree but there was nothing in its leaves now, no birds, no face, no sly eye that closed.

  Only the reflection of the room behind her, with its tinkle of glasses, its glitter and chat.

  Chapter 2

  The Silver Box

  It was late when the four of them drove home. Curled in the back of the car, Sarah tried to ignore the tinny music from Matt’s ear-phones. In the front seat Mom was half asleep. Gareth was driving.

  The car was quiet and smelled of leather. Bottles of left-over wine clinked in the trunk.

  Sarah gazed out at the dark fields. A purple glimmer still hung in the sky, and the woods were tangled shadows along the road, flashing into sudden gold when the head-lights brushed them.

  Gareth said, “I thought it all went very well.”

  Mom nodded, half asleep. “Thanks for all the help. You were great, Sarah.”

  “Now you can take a well-earned rest.” He grinned at her, as the car bumped over the gravel and slurred to a stop outside the house. But Mom was staring up at the windows in surprise. “Who left all the lights on?” she said.

  Stepping out, Sarah saw that the house blazed with light. The huge glass windows sent slanting oblongs over the smooth lawns.

  Gareth turned to Matt. “You were last out,” he said to Matt.

  “I switched them off.” Matt said with a shrug. “I know I did.”

  “You don’t think there’s been a break-in, do you?” Mom’s voice was quiet.

  “The door’s not broken. But stay here. I’ll check.”

  Gareth let himself in and after a second Matt went after him. Sarah leaned on the car, a little bit scared, but after a while Gareth’s head came out of the upstairs window. “No one here. Just Matt being forgetful, I suppose.”

  Mom smiled.

  But as Sarah follo
wed her in, a tiny sound came from behind. She turned quickly, looking up. For a moment she was sure she had heard the rustle of leaves. Just there, by her window.

  When she went to bed she remembered, and stood for a moment looking out. It was raining again now, and the countryside was black, hidden by slashes of rain on the glass. All she could see was herself.

  Jumping into bed, she flicked the lamp off. All at once, she lay in a black space. Her room was quiet, at the end of the corridor, in the part of the house built onto the barn.

  Her bed was right next to the window. She liked it there. She could lie back and stare up into the sky, seeing the stars. Sometimes she could hear the owl hunting in Holtom Wood, or a fox barking. Once she had sat up and seen a badger in the moonlight, crossing the lawn. But tonight there was only the rattle of rain running down the glass, its soft tap-tap on the roof.

  She turned over. The bedroom was still, her wardrobe a black mass with her coat hanging from it, arms out. The wind chime turned without a sound. A faint smell of perfume drifted from her cluttered vanity table.

  She closed her eyes.

  She must be asleep, she thought, because she was dreaming about a creaking in the room. It was soft at first, and then it grew, a harsh, struggling sound, as if something was trapped, trying to get out.

  She didn’t move, gripping the pillow.

  The sound grew. It ripped open the darkness. It burst into the room.

  Sarah snapped her eyes open wide. She saw that a split was tearing in the carpet next to her bed. Something began to slither through. As she sat up with a gasp of fear, she saw that it was a tiny green shoot, with two leaves. It pushed its way up, growing fast. Branches burst out from it. Buds exploded into golden leaves.

  The tree grew quickly, rustling upwards. Young leaves opened all around her, cool on her lips and face. As she stared in wonder, the room filled with a damp earthy smell of soil and worms. The tree soared high into the roof. A branch punched through a window. Tiny tinkles of glass fell in splinters.

  How could this be a dream?

  She could feel the cold rain, taste pollen. As she put her hands out she caught leaves, falling all around her, on the bed, on her pillow, on the bedside lamp.

  With one last mighty effort the tree smashed through the roof, and now the birds rushed out of it, blue and gold birds, flying around her, soaring into the sky.

  Sarah stared up.

  In the top of the trunk, wedged between two branches, she saw something small and bright.

  She stood quickly, gripping the wet trunk to keep her footing on the bed.

  Yes. There it was. Just as it had been in the picture, though now no one held it.

  “Hello?” she said quietly. “Are you up there?”

  No answer.

  She put her foot on a bent branch, pulled herself up, and began to climb. After all, it was safe. You couldn’t fall and hurt yourself in a dream. And if she did she would only land on the bed.

  It wasn’t easy. Soon she was out of breath and her arms were hurting. Twice she slipped, scratching the palms of her hands. Leaves fell on her face, and she had to blink pollen out of her eyes. But still she dragged herself upwards until her reaching hand could slither around the branch and touch the box.

  It was icy cold. Her fingers slid along the damp metal, feeling a key-hole. She could only just reach it. She tipped it out and it fell down. She grabbed it, quickly, gasping for breath, her hair in her eyes.

  Then, very softly, someone tapped her on the back.

  Chapter 3

  A Shadow

  Sarah screamed and sat up in bed.

  Matt jumped back. “Whoa! What’s wrong with you?”

  For a moment she had no idea where she was. Then she saw her bedroom, quiet and normal, the windows full of morning sun-light.

  “What are you doing in my room?” she snapped.

  Matt shrugged. “Waking you up. Your mom called, but you were dead to the world. It’s nearly 9 o’clock.”

  He wore black jeans and a black t-shirt. He was always in black, she thought, a creeping shadow in the bright house. Now he said, “I won’t bother next time.”

  “No. Don’t. Get lost.”

  Half-way to the door he said, “Where did that come from?”

  She looked where he was looking.

  The silver box stood on the bedside table, next to the lamp. It looked heavy and expensive. She stared at it, astonished, and the dream of the tree came back to her in all its brilliant color.

  Matt reached out his hand to it but she snapped, “Don’t touch it! It’s mine!”

  The cry was so sharp she even shocked herself. Matt stood very still. She could sense his anger. His eyes were dark and bitter.

  Suddenly he said, “Look, Sarah, l didn’t want our parents to get together either. Dad and I had a good place of our own – we didn’t need to come to this classy dump. But don’t worry. I won’t be sticking around to mess up your pretty life. Next year, when I go to college, you won’t see me here ever again.”

  He slammed the door as he went out and her bathrobe fell off the hook on the back.

  Sarah stared at it lying in a heap on the floor. Just for a moment she felt bad about being spiteful to him. Then she swung her legs out of bed and picked up the box.

  It was real. Silver, by the look of it, and very old, its lid made of silver leaves overlapping each other. Oak leaves. Around its rim were words in a strange language. She couldn’t read them.

  She ran her fingers over them, feeling the cold metal. How could she have brought the box out of a dream? Or had Mom put it here last night, perhaps from the gallery, and forgotten about it, and Sarah had dreamed of it? It didn’t seem possible.

  There was a key-hole but no key. She tried to open the lid but the box was firmly locked. Feeling let down, she shook it.

  Something rolled and rattled inside.

  She held it still, afraid what was inside it might break. From downstairs her mother called “Sarah! Breakfast!”

  There was no school because it was fall break. Gareth had gone to work and she didn’t know about Matt. In the kitchen the dogs, Jack and Jess, lay sprawled on the mat by the door, looking in hope at their empty food bowls. They sat up as Sarah came in but she shook her head at them. “You’ve already been fed.”

  “Let them out, will you?” her mom said.

  As she opened the door a gust of wind blew wet leaves against her feet. Drops of rain spattered from the gutter. “It’s autumn,” she said, surprised, because the storm of the night had stripped the trees, and a new carpet of leaves clotted the lawn.

  Mom smiled, and turned as the phone rang.

  “Go on,” Sarah said to the dogs.

  Jack growled. The sound came from deep inside him. He bared his teeth, and Jess barked, two sharp, worried barks. They were looking at the corner of the barn towards her bedroom, but there was nothing there apart from the leaves, whipping up in the wind.

  “Oh go on!” Sarah pushed them out.

  Then, after a moment, she walked down the path and stared at the glassy corner of the building. The windows here were floor-toceiling. Through them she could see Mom on the phone, talking and laughing. She could see her own reflection too, looking cold and puzzled.

  And there was a shadow.

  It lay on the grass behind her, and it wasn’t hers.

  It was small, and close, and for a moment she felt a chill at her back, and turned quickly.

  The lawn was empty.

  Inside, Mom said, “I have to run over to Marston. Will you be all right?”

  “Fine. No problem.”

  “I don’t know where Matt’s gone.”

  Sarah plugged her ear-phones in. “Who cares!”

  She read and then went on-line, and then phoned her friend Olly and ate some cheese and apples and chips, but by the afternoon she was bored and fed up with being on her own. At two Mom rang.

  “I’ll be another hour. Has Matt come back?”

&
nbsp; Sarah shrugged. “No.”

  “Well, you’re not scared there, all on your own, are you?”

  “Of course not.”

  Putting the phone down, she wished her mother hadn’t said that. She hadn’t been scared, but now the house seemed dim and gloomy, with the rain pattering on the windows and the early October gloom closing in. She went around turning all the lights on. Then she stopped.

  A door had closed upstairs.

  Standing still, she listened, her heart thudding.

  A floor-board creaked.

  Then she was sure.

  Someone was walking across the floor of her room.

  Chapter 4

  Broken Nails

  “Matt?” she said.

  The foot-steps stopped.

  The silence was worse than anything. “Matt? Are you up there?”

  The silence waited for her. The silence listened to her fear.

  Slowly, she began to climb the stairs. They were old, and they went up in a long curve. She could see rain on the sky-light in the roof. It made strange rippling shadows down the walls.

  Her foot crunched something and she leaned down and picked it up, its wetness a shock. A dead leaf. She turned and looked down at the front door, but it was closed firmly. Had Matt come in? She hadn’t heard him.

  She dropped the leaf and climbed another three steps. As she came closer to the landing her heart-beat seemed louder. She was sweating and her hand on the rail was cold.

  All the bedroom doors were closed, apart from hers.

  Her door was ajar.

  She could see the corner of her bed, the side of her wardrobe.

  He was in there. It had to be Matt. He had to be looking for the silver box.

  She crept closer. There were wind chimes hanging from her ceiling, small metal chimes of elephants and tigers. She could see them spinning, hear the faint silvery tinkle they made in the breeze.

  She grabbed the door handle and took a deep breath. Then she flung the door open and stormed in.

  No one was there.

  The curtains moved in the stillness. The belt of her bathrobe swung softly to and fro.

  She let out her breath.

  There was a smell.