The Ghost Box by Catherine Fisher

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.
    â€œHey, waitress. Is that for me?” Matt took the Coke out of her hand and slurped it.
    Sarah glared at him. “No. It wasn’t.”
    â€œTough. 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.
    â€œMove, Matt. I’m working.”
    â€œHave 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.
    â€œWho 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.