Up there in the dry, the day is all sunshine and brightness.

Down here in the wet, it’s a dirty sponge grey.

From the riverbank I hear a cry, ‘Kaaa li laaa . . . Kaaa li laaa . . .’

My clothes are like lead, dragging me down, my arms are made of tissue paper, dissolving in the water. Like pale grey ghosts they float away.

Then a silver yellow-eyed beast pulls me down.

I wake up with a start. It is still dark outside. The first thing I do is sit up and reach for the tiny painted bottle on my bedside table. I hold it in both hands.

Slowly my heartbeat eases. The nightmares are changing, becoming more menacing. I wish they would go away, but I know that won’t happen until my birthday. How long do I have? I don’t want to know what the date is. I don’t want to be reminded. My thoughts are like a nest of snakes, coiling and writhing around each other in a black mass.

Mystic climbs up on the bed and licks my hand, whimpering. He worries for me.

I stroke his head. ‘You are my beautiful boy . . .’ I say. Then I stop.

Kalila. The same name from my fainting dream in the classroom. I know I’ve heard it before, from a long time ago. But where?

I lie back, rubbing my thumb over the tiny bottle to help me think.

Then an echo of a memory comes to me.

I’m sitting on Grandpa Truegood’s lap. I’ve been crying. I’m only little and I’ve grazed my knee. Grandpa Truegood is blowing on it to make the stinging go away. His white beard tickles my leg. Then he starts telling me a story. I can’t remember any of it except the word Kalila.

I push back the quilt and stand at the window, Mystic’s tail brushing my thigh. I can hear Momma in the kitchen. She can’t sleep either. The light from the kitchen spreads out in an arc across the garden, falling on the sycamore tree so that its trunk is a pale gold. I haven’t seen another sycamore in all the woods around Dell Hollow. When the wind blows I imagine I can hear it whispering, ‘I dare to grow in a strange place just like you, Ziggy Truegood. I dare to be different too.’

The branches of the sycamore hug my tree house. Papa built it for me when I was six. It’s a quiet place to watch for deer and bear, wolf and fox and other shy creatures that venture to the edge of the woods. Earlier this spring I saw a momma brown bear with her two cubs. They were tiny balls of fluff, no bigger than miniature poodles. She sent them scampering up a tree where they sat looking at me with their little brown curious eyes.

There’s movement at the edge of the dark – furtive and flickery. Then a flash of silver.

Mystic jumps at the window, his paws on the glass, barking furiously. I’m scared he’s going to break it so I pull him back. For a split second I see two yellow eyes blink on and then off.

My heart is frozen. Has the beast walked out of my nightmare and into my world?

I pull down the blind and get into bed, shrugging the blankets up around my neck. But I can’t get warm.

Mystic jumps on the bed and rests his head on my chest, whining softly. He smells of earthy trails, of foggy dew mornings and rain-soaked leaves, of running wild and free. The spirit of the woods is . . . was . . . inside us both.

But now Hushing Wood is a nightmarish beast with yellow flame eyes.

And it is stalking me.

I wake from a deep dreamless sleep to something tapping on the glass.

Mystic growls. I don’t move. I can see strips of light on either side of the blind, so I know it’s morning.

The tapping comes again. This time in Morse code. With relief I realise it’s Big Bobby Little tapping out his name. I pull up the blind and open the window.

‘What’s the matter?’ I ask.

He shakes his head and pulls out his notepad. You need to see something at school.

I get dressed and climb out the window. Big Bobby Little is not the kind of boy who exaggerates a situation, or plays games. It must be something really serious.

It’s too early for school to be open and I wonder how we’re going to get in. Big Bobby leads me around the side of the building to the low cellar window. He takes out a penknife and slips the blade along the bottom of the window and levers it open.

‘Have you done this before?’ I ask.

He writes on his notepad. When I can’t sleep, I come here to work on my paper town.

I imagine him here, all alone, and shake my head. We climb into the cellar, and he motions towards the stairs. They lead to the back of the building, close to the kitchen. I follow Big Bobby through several rooms and along the corridor to the front of the school. He turns on the light in the library. His replica town takes up the whole length of one wall and stands about six inches high. He indicates for me to take a closer look.

I bend down and draw in my breath.

The paper town seems to be darkening and curling at the edges. Like it’s rotting or being eaten by the surrounding woods!

Yesterday, it was perfectly okay. I re-glued some spots where Mr Canon’s blacksmith shop was pulling away from Mr Arnold’s butchery. But I came back this morning . . . and look.

He points to the school library. It’s an exact replica of the room we are standing in, with bookshelves lining three walls and the long table with a tiny Dell Hollow sitting on it.

I see what Big Bobby is pointing at. Some of the books that usually sit in the miniature shelves are scattered all over the floor.

‘What’s going on, Bobby? Who could have done this?’

I don’t know, he writes, but it’s really creepy. His pen pauses for a moment, then he adds in a flurry, I might sound crazy, but I feel like something bad is happening in Dell Hollow.

I stand up, relieved that it’s not just me.

‘Yesterday the town library was closed when it’s usually open, then I saw Mr Arnold and Mr . . . wait, did you say Mr Canon’s shop and Mr Arnold’s butchery were coming unstuck?’

He nods.

‘That’s weird because they almost got into a fight.’

And the eagle, he writes.

‘And the brighter than bright shooting star I saw with Petal. And the new boy,’ I say. I don’t mention the silver beast. I feel like saying it out loud will bring it here, after me.

He writes again, Do you think all the weird stuff going on has to do with Raffi?

I’m quiet for a moment. ‘It does seem like a coincidence that everything’s happening just as he turns up,’ I say. I step away from the table. ‘If all this has to do with the new boy, I’m going to find out.’

How? Big Bobby mouths.

‘I’m going to spy on him.’