The Ghost Box

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 followed 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.