The Ghost Box Read Free

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.
    A wet, cloying smell, like something rotten.
    And the bottom drawer of her wardrobe had been opened, because a trail of purple shirt hung out of it, the old purple shirt she didn’t wear any more, that she had used to wrap the silver box in.
    With a gasp of anger she knelt and tugged at it. If he’d ...
    But the box was still there, still locked.
    Still rattling when she shook it.
    *********
    Later, after dinner, Matt was lying on the couch watching TV. She walked in and stood in front of the screen.
    He twisted his neck to look around at her. “What’s up now?”
    â€œDon’t you even try that again. Or I’ll speak to Gareth.”
    â€œTry what, drama queen?” Matt said.
    â€œThat box is mine. Stay out of my things, creep.”
    One black-lined eye flickered at her. “Don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”
    â€œYeah. Right.”
    In the kitchen she said to Gareth, “Where do you get keys made?”
    â€œYou need a key?”
    â€œOh, not for a door or anything big. Just ... I have an old jewelry box and I’d like to be able to lock it. My dad gave it to me.”
    She knew he wouldn’t ask any more questions about it if she said that, and he didn’t. “Oh, right. Well, a cobbler, I suppose, or a jewelers if it’s really old. There’s a shop in Marston, down that little side street by the stream. I could take it for you, if you – ”
    â€œNo.” She shook her head. “That’s OK. I’ll take it myself.”
    *********
    She woke up late in the night.
    She was lying on her side, with her face to the wall. All she could see were the blurred, close-up sneakers of a band on a poster that she was already bored with. But her eyes were wide, her back prickling with sweat.
    Someone was sitting on her bed.
    It wasn’t a dream.
    She could feel a weight dipping the mattress, smell that odd, leafy smell.
    She kept very still, listening to the rattle of the box in his hands, feeling terror ice her skin. Then she sat up and turned her head.
    A boy was sitting next to her.
    He was small and had dirty, tangled dark hair and a thin, frail face. He had one earring, and when he looked up his eyes were lit with a faint green glimmer. For a moment he just looked at her, and then he turned back to the box.
    She stared at his hands.
    He was tugging at the box, trying to force it open with his broken nails, smearing it with dirt. He worked at it, getting more and more desperate. Then he said, “I can’t do it. I just can’t.”
    There was a sadness in his voice that chilled her. She sat up, slowly.
    â€œWho are you?”
    He shot her a glance. “I need the key. Do you have the key?”
    She shook her head. He wasn’t real. He couldn’t be real, because his was the face she had seen in the painting, and in her dream.
    â€œI gave the box to you,” he said. “Because I knew you could bring it out.”
    â€œOut?”
    â€œOf the tree.”
    She drew her knees up under her. “How did you get in here?”
    He threw the box on the bed in despair and looked at her. Then he lifted his hand and pushed it through her, through the poster, through the wall.
    â€œIt was easy,” he said in a whisper.

Chapter 5
    The Shop by the Stream
    Sarah almost screamed.
    But the boy just shrugged. He tapped the box with one dirty finger. “I need the key. I need you to get me the key.”
    She huddled herself up, pulling the bedclothes tight around her. She wanted to shiver and shiver, to back away from those fingers that had moved right into her skin. She asked in a hushed voice, “Where is it?”
    â€œLost.” He looked at her. “Some trees grow keys. Ash does.