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.
