The Ghost Box Read Free Page A

But not oak.”
    It meant nothing to her. Perhaps the boy sensed that, because he shrank back and leaned against the wall, his head dropped as if in misery. Locking his long dirty fingers together, he said, “I’m trapped here.”
    â€œTrapped?”
    He turned his eyes sideways. They were dark and bitter. “I was a thief once. I picked pockets, stole purses, snatched watches. Do people still do that?”
    â€œCell phones,” she said, thinking of Matt’s anger when his had been stolen.
    The boy’s gaze flickered. “This is what happened to me. I stole a package from a man in the street. I pushed him and he fell, and I ran away with it. I felt gleeful, and proud. But he called after me, strange words in a foreign language, and I looked back and saw he was pointing at me, a long bony finger. He was calling down a curse on me.”
    He rubbed his hands together. She saw how the thin wrists stuck out from the ragged sleeves, how his shoes were a web of holes.
    â€œHe killed me,” he said in a whisper.
    Sarah’s lips were dry, so she licked them and murmured, “How?”
    â€œSickness. The town was always full of sickness. I opened the package but it only contained a box. This box. And it was empty. Weakness came over me. I hadn’t eaten for days. I felt feverish and hot. So I slipped away, out here into the hills. It was a freezing night and I knew I wouldn’t see the end of it. I lay down in the leaves at the foot of the tree, made a hollow in them, curled up shivering. And I died, holding the box.”
    Sarah didn’t want to think about that. So she said, “But the box isn’t empty.”
    â€œNot now.” He turned his dark gaze on her. “Don’t you see? He cursed me for all time. He has locked my soul into the box.”
    She stared at him. Outside the wind was rising. She heard it thrash in the bare branches, heard it whip along the corner of the house.
    â€œI know your name,” he said, suddenly sly. “Your name is Sarah. I’ve heard them call you, your mother, your brother ...”
    â€œHe’s not my brother.”
    â€œFind it for me, Sarah. Find me the key! Help me. I’ve been here for so long … and I’m so cold.”
    His misery was making her shiver – that and the cold that seeped from him, the flakes of dried mud on the bed.
    â€œWhat’s
your
name?” she asked.
    He turned to her and smiled, and shook his head. “I’ve forgotten,” he said.
    *********
    The shop had a sign outside saying
Morgan Rees – Fine Antiques
. Sarah stopped at the door, the silver box in a plastic bag under her arm.
    She was nervous about going in, and she was tired. After the boy had vanished she had jumped up and turned on every light and lamp in the room. She had left them on all night, lying wide-eyed, her mind racing in terror through every ghost story and film she knew. Only when she’d heard Gareth getting up for work had she fallen asleep again.
    Now she took a deep breath and looked up and down the alley with its pretty stream where two swans glided along. She would get him the key. And then he would go.
    The shop was old. Chairs and cabinets were set out in the window. It looked expensive, but she turned the handle and went in, down one step.
    A bell jangled somewhere far off in the building. Sarah stood in a slant of dusty sunlight and gazed around.
    A great doll’s house stood on a table, all the tiny furniture taken out for cleaning. Behind it a gold bird cage hung, with a small stuffed bird that stared over her head. There were paintings on the walls. A shelf of musty leather-bound books stood opposite a small fireplace glowing red from the heat of the coals.
    A man came up to her. “Can I help you?”
    He wore a black coat and his hair was white. He had a pair of glasses on his sharp nose. He was tall, and very thin.
    â€œI don’t know. I need a key for an