The Ghost Box by Catherine Fisher Page B

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.
    â€œHello?” 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.
    â€œWhat 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.”
    â€œNo. 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