Bad Dreams

I couldn't have felt more sorry for her. After all, I read more than my fair share of books that make me keep the light on all night long. And lots of books that make me sad, or anxious, till things work out right. But I don't end up in a state like her, halfway to fainting because of three or four grisly pages, and not even able to look at the cover of that book again without wanting to shudder.

‘A gift', her mother called it. But, the more Imogen told me about it, the more I thought that that was totally the wrong word.

‘Curse' was more like it.

Yes. Not ‘gift', but ‘curse'. . .

Contents

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Epub ISBN: 9781409012924

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CHAPTER ONE

I
t's only been bothering me a tiny bit. But still, Mr Hooper saw my uneasy look.

‘What ho, Mel!' he offered. ‘A trouble shared is a trouble halved?'

I shook my head. ‘No, thanks. It's too private.' ‘Write it down, then,' he told me. ‘If something's gnawing at you, shove it on paper.'

I waved at the books round us, shelf upon shelf of them, up to the ceiling.

‘Is tha t what the writers of some of these were doing?'

‘Quite a few, I should think,' he said. ‘False names, true stories, and they make a mint. You try it. I'll buy a copy.'

He went off chuckling and I sat down to think. Why not? I'm good at stories. I could call it
Bad Dreams
. Or even,
Imogen Imagines
, since it would be about her, and how she came to our school and spooked all of us – especially me – with her weirdness, and all of her horrible imaginings.

This is how it started. She turned up halfway through one morning in summer term. She came through the doorway behind Mrs Trent, who simply handed her over and left in a hurry.

Mr Hooper had only the briefest of chats with her at the desk before turning to the rest of us. ‘Class, this is Imogen Tate, who's joining us from another school.'

She looked embarrassed, and we stared. She was already dressed in our boring old school uniform, with her hair in plain bunches. There was absolutely nothing special about her, but in spite of that everyone wanted to be her first-week minder. Almost all of them put their hands up.

But Mr Hooper said, ‘And I pick – Melanie!'

I was astonished. ‘
Me?
'

‘Well,' he said, ‘why not?'

‘I didn't put my hand up.'

‘That doesn't matter,' he said. ‘It'll be nice for you to have someone in that empty seat.'

I didn't think so, but I couldn't say. Maybe I should explain. I'm the class bookworm. I don't mix much with the others because I like reading better. All the way up the school it's bothered my teachers. One after another, they've tried to prise the books out of my hands, and get me to join in more.

Yet I still prefer reading.

But you can't be rude to someone who's new, and standing there trembling. So I just patted the spare chair at my side, and she came over. And as she was busy unpacking her pens and pencils into the desk, I finally thought of something friendly to say.

‘I like that necklace you're wearing. Is it gold?'

She nodded shyly.

‘
Real
gold?'

‘Yes,' she said. ‘My granny gave it to my mother, and now it's been passed down to me.'

I peered at it more closely. It had strange little scratchy markings, and looked fine and slinky enough to be spilled into a teaspoon.

‘You're so lucky,' I told her, still trying to be nice. ‘I'm sure no-one will ever pass anything special down to me.'

As if I'd suddenly reminded her of something, she stopped in the middle of her unpacking and gave me a look. ‘Then maybe you're the lucky one,' she told me.

I stared at her. ‘What do you mean?'

She wouldn't say. In fact, she hardly said anything at all after that, except things like, ‘Should I write this in the red book?' and, ‘Do I use pen or pencil to do this?' and, ‘Can I borrow your ruler?'

I bet she didn't even realize that what she'd said stuck in my mind. But it was like the first clue in a book. It just stuck out. And it was
strange
.

CHAPTER TWO

S
he was no good at schoolwork. You could tell Mr Hooper was amazed how badly she did in all the tests he set her. But he still made her book monitor, along with me.

‘Since Melly's looking after you,' he explained.

‘Must I?' she asked him. ‘I hate books.'

I was astonished. ‘Hate them? Actually
hate
them?'

She blushed. ‘Well,' she said, ‘I just don't get on with them very well.'

What can you say? I love books more than anything. Left to myself, I wouldn't come to school at all. I'd spend my whole life reading. ‘Go out,' my mother tells me. ‘It's lovely today. Go and play in the fresh air.' But I'd rather stay in my bedroom, and read about other children going out to play.