Bad Dreams Read Online Free PDF Page A

wasn’t an inch of herself, said Imogen, that wasn’t twinkling or flashing or jangling.

    â€˜Aren’t you the Sparkling Lady!’ her mother had said admiringly. ‘Now come over here, both of you, and take a look at all these Christmas photos.’
    Shedding ornaments over the carpet, Imogen rushed to look. Eddie pointed at one of the photographs. ‘Look at Aunt Beth, asleep with her mouth open!’
    Imogen ran her fingers across the photos on the screen and giggled at Uncle Ted in his paper hat.
    Then she said sadly, ‘No Aunty Dora.’
    Her mother pointed. ‘Yes, she’s there, sweetheart. Under your finger. And here. And sitting next to the tree in this one.’
    But Imogen still looked forlorn, and said again, ‘No. No Aunty Dora.’
    Now her cousin was getting impatient. ‘Don’t be silly, Immy.’ He stabbed at the screen with his finger. ‘She’s in this one. And this one.’
    Imogen’s woolly jangled as she tossed her head. ‘Aunty Dora’s gone.’
    â€˜Gone where, sweetheart?’
    But there was no way Imogen could explain. And her mother had stopped trying to listen even before the phone rang with the terrible news.
    â€˜That’s awful,’ I said. ‘So did your mother guess?’
    â€˜Not then,’ said Imogen. ‘It was only when it happened a second time, ages later, that she thought back and remembered that morning with the Christmas photos.’
    â€˜Why? Was the second time the same sort of thing?’
    â€˜No. It was different. But it was just as strange . I’d had a horrible day. I’d lost the toss in my ballet class, and couldn’t be the princess in the show.’ She grinned, embarrassed. ‘I came home in floods . Mum did her best. “You be a princess for me ,” she said. So I dressed up and started dancing. But it was stupid, so I ended up in tears again. Mum pulled me onto her lap, and read me a story about a little pit pony called Patch. And suddenly I was going mad, struggling and screaming about water closing over Patch’s head. And when we got further into the story—’
    â€˜I know,’ I told her. ‘I had that book, too. That’s a horrible bit, when he falls in the water.’

    â€œAnd it seemed to poor Patch that he would never
again reach firm ground . . .”
    Imogen shivered. ‘Well, next day, when I was calm again, and we reached that part in the story, Mum stopped and gave me a funny look. “You knew this, didn’t you?” And that’s when she guessed.’
    â€˜My mum would just have thought I’d had the book read to me in school.’
    â€˜I think mine would have thought that, except that she says she’s always had a bit of a gift that way herself.’
    â€˜I’m not sure why she’d call it a “gift”,’ I said.
    Imogen looked blank.
    I tried to explain. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but most of the time your work is terrible , and half of the books in the school give you the frights. On top of that, it seems that if you don’t watch out where you’re putting your fingers, you know in advance when terrible things are going to happen – in books and in real life.’ I spread my hands. ‘Hardly a gift,’ I continued. ‘More like some sort of blight .’
    From the look on her face you’d have thought that I’d said she had some mangy disease, or something. She looked so upset I had to change the subject quickly.
    â€˜So how does it work, then, this strange gift of yours?’
    â€˜Work?’ The question puzzled her a little. ‘Well, it’s a sort of imagining. Like in a dream.’
    â€˜What sort of dream?’
    â€˜Depends. If the book that I’m touching is happy, then it’s lovely. Like being there, but on a cloud. In things, but not quite.’
    â€˜Like reading,’ I said. ‘Like